It’s, like, eleven o’clock already, roysh, and I don’t know why we’re all still standing around outside, freezing our nuts off, but Ronan says everyone’s waiting to see Arrecife arrive and I ask him who Arrecife is, roysh, and he says her old man is the Eliminator and I ask him who the Eliminator is and he says he’s a mate of the Viper and I’m there, ‘Is he a criminal?’ and Ronan goes, ‘A shut mouth catches no flies.’
So all of a sudden, roysh – and I am NOT joking here – this focking horse-drawn carriage pulls up and out gets this goy, roysh, with the shortest neck I’ve ever seen, which is saying something considering I played rugby. He’s obviously, like, a minder. He holds open the door and out comes a girl, who I presume is Arrecife, and she’s, like, orange as well and she’s wearing a dress that Sorcha reckons cost about three Ks. Then out gets the man himself, the Eliminator, and he’s a seriously scary-looking dude, and you know from just looking at him, roysh, that he didn’t have to go to the Credit Union for the bread for this. Then out gets what I presume is his wife and she’s dressed like she’s going to a focking movie premiere, even though you can tell, roysh, underneath it all, that she’s still pure focking skobe.
Everyone just bursts into applause, roysh, as if this is, like their day and we’re just on the guestlist. Ronan turns around to me and, out of the side of his mouth, goes, ‘We had this Show and Tell week couple of months back. A few of the mudders and faaders came up to talk to us about what they did for a living. He came in to us. Didn’t the fooken Special Branch bug the classroom. They’d fooken listeners in the room next door,’ and I’m actually a bit worried, roysh, because he’s looking at him in total awe and everyone’s, like, shaking hands with the goy and telling him that Arrecife looks like a little angel and I swear to God, roysh, I am not making this up, he spots Ronan, gives him a little wink and goes, ‘Howiya, Ro?’
Then, roysh, like a herd of focking sheep, we follow into the church behind them, but then all of a sudden we hear this, like, car horn blaring behind us and everyone spins around, roysh, and the horse is, like, rearing up, I suppose out of fright. A lot of people scream, which actually makes the horse worse. Sorcha puts her hands to her mouth and goes, ‘Oh my God!’ more than once let’s say.
Some other kid has arrived late, in a stretch limo, and the driver beeped the horn to say, basically, shift that focking horse’s orse, I need to pork. So of course while the coach-driver is, like, calming the animal down, roysh, the Eliminator steps out of the crowd, with his minder beside him and when they see him coming, the limo-driver and whoever the fock they are in the back totally kack themselves.
The driver’s like, ‘Jaysus, I’m sorry… very sorry… didn’t know it was you…’ and he doesn’t know it, roysh, but he’s actually bowing and so are the parents of this little boy, who’s crying now and doesn’t want to get out of the cor. The Eliminator – or whatever his real name is – he’s unbelievable, roysh, he puts his orm around the old man and old dear and tells them that everything’s okay, then he reaches into the back of the cor and he picks up the little boy in his orms and, like, carries him into the church and everyone’s, like, clapping and cheering.
Of course the limo-driver’s following after him, roysh, still apologizing to him and the Eliminator’s telling him that it’s mustard, no damage done, let’s not let it ruin the big day, but then I see him giving the man with no neck the nod, roysh, and when I turn around a few seconds later the goy’s writing down the registration of the limo.
There’s a bit of a bottleneck in the aisle while everyone’s, like, finding their seats. Behind me, I hear one of Tina’s friends – they’re called Livia, Shadden, Marteeenah and ‘Cinta – turn around to her and go, ‘Much is he givin’ ye a week?’ obviously talking about me. Tina’s there, ‘Two hundrit,’ and one of the other birds – I’m pretty sure it’s Shadden – is there, ‘Two hundrit? Jaysus, what solicitor are you usin’?’ and Tina goes, ‘Didn’t even need to,’ and this must seriously impress them, roysh, because I can actually sense them checking me out and generally giving me the big-time mince pies.
Because I’m basically Ronan’s old man, roysh, I have to actually leave the residents of Carrickstown and sit with him and Tina up at the front of the church and, to be honest, roysh, it’s all pretty boring stuff and I’m not really sure what I should be doing, although Sorcha mentioned earlier that I should check whether he understands the real importance of making your Communion, so I turn around to him and I go, ‘What are you going to do with the moolah?’ and he reaches into the pocket of his denim jacket – I don’t believe it, his focking lighter falls out – then he unfolds this sheet of paper and it’s a picture of this, like, naked bird draped across a Harley. He goes, ‘I’m getting her tattooed across me back. There’s a place off Capel Street does them,’ and I just ignore him, roysh, thinking he’s just trying to wind me up, like he does.
Our Father, who Art in Heaven, blahdy blahdy blah. Everyone gets their bit of bread and before we know it the whole family, neighbours, relatives and basic hangers-on are all sitting in McDonald’s, we’re talking the one on O’Connell Street. Sorcha’s doing her best to blend in, roysh, but there’s, like, a couple of times I have to actually tell her to close her mouth. She already stunned the entire restaurant into silence asking for a decaf latté with cinnamon, not chocolate, and I don’t even know if she’s been this side of the Liffey before. At one point she squeezes my hand and tells me that she is SO going to get a direct debit with St Vincent de Paul when this is all over. She actually says the words, ‘when this is all over,’ like it’s a hostage drama or something.
Anyway, roysh, where all this is going is that Tina and her family decide that they’re all going to go off and get shit-faced for the day and they ask me and Sorcha if we’ll take Ronan to the flicks for the afternoon and we’re like, ‘Kool and the Gang,’ because Sorcha and Ronan are getting along like a Northsider and a batter burger salesman. So we hit the Savoy, roysh, and I grab three Wilsons for Scooby Doo and then I hit the can because, as usual, I need to drop a plop badly.
I’m in there maybe five minutes, roysh, and when I come back, Sorcha’s standing there like a focking Toblerone, basically on her own, as in no Ronan, and I’m there, ‘Where is he?’ and she’s like, ‘You mean he’s not with you? He said he was going to the toilet,’ and I go, ‘HELLO? I’ve just left the toilet? He’s, like, not in there,’ and Sorcha storts, like filling up, roysh, and I have to tell her that everything’s going to be okay.
I’m there, ‘Let’s just think. Where would he go? Sorcha’s like, ‘He did say he’d prefer to go and spend his money rather than go to the pictures,’ and suddenly it hits me, roysh, and it’s like, OH FOCK!
I grab Sorcha’s hand, roysh, and we peg it across O’Connell Street, then down this other street which I think is called Henry Street and we’re passing by all these cheap clothes shops and skobes selling sports socks and for the first time, roysh, I feel really protective of my son, like I’d basically deck anyone who tried to tattoo him. We ask for directions, then we turn left at the end of Mary Street and onto Capel Street, then down this little, like, laneway, roysh, and we see this door with the word TATTOO over it. I let go of Sorcha’s hand and I take the steps two at a time and I can hear Ronan’s voice inside, roysh, and I put my shoulder to the door, like I’m tackling Martin focking Johnson, and I just go, ‘DON’T FOCKING TATTOO MY KID!’ and there’s, like, total silence in the place.
Ronan’s standing there, leaning against the window, talking to, like, the tattooist, who’s working away on some other dude’s orm. When he sees me, Ronan cracks his hole laughing. He goes, ‘You didn’t really think I was getting one, did ye?’ and I’m there, ‘You can’t just wander off like that,’ and he’s like, ‘Had to see a mate of mine. Rosser, this is Buckets of Blood. Buckets of Blood, this is Rosser,’ and the tattooist, who must be, like, eighteen or nineteen, goes, ‘How’s it goin’, mate?’ and I’m there, ‘Wrecked, actually. I’ve jus
t focking run here all the way from O’Connell Street,’ and I’m wondering how a seven-year-old becomes friends with an eighteen-year-old and then I’m wondering why he’s called Buckets of Blood.
‘This is only a sideline for him,’ Ronan goes as we’re going back downstairs to Sorcha. ‘His real job is debt-collection,’ and I go, ‘And you owed him money?’ and he laughs and he’s like, ‘Nah, he owed me. He’s not very good at debt-collecting. We call him Buckets of Blood, but sure, the blood is usually his,’ and I laugh.
He goes, ‘In anyhow, relax. I’m not getting a tattoo. Don’t like them,’ and then he turns to Sorcha and goes, ‘I’m sorry for taking off like that. I must have given you a fright,’ and she says it’s fine and Ronan goes, ‘So, what’s it to be, then? Will we go and see Scooby Doo, or will we hit Grafton Street and see all the boords coming out of work?’
I’m in Lillie’s, roysh, standing at the bor, getting my round in, when behind me I hear someone going, ‘Psssssss…’ making basically a pissing sound. When I turn around, roysh, it stops and I’m, like, eyeballing everyone, basically saying, whatever, don’t push it, but then when I turn back to the bor, roysh, it storts again, it’s like, ‘Psssssss…’
Emer’s giving Chloë a seriously hord time for eating a blueberry muffin three days ago. Even Sorcha’s, like, throwing her eyes up to heaven and she and Amie with an ie head off for a Jack Palance. I’m bored out of my tree waiting for Christian to come back from the bor.
Emer’s there, ‘I’m just saying, you were wondering why your Dolce e Gabbana jeans wouldn’t close and I’m just telling you,’ and Chloë’s going, ‘But how was it eighteen points?’ and Emer’s like, ‘HELLO? I worked it out from the nutritional information on the packet,’ and Chloë’s there, ‘It couldn’t have been eighteen, is all I’m saying. It’s only, like, bread,’ and Emer’s giving it, ‘Oh my God, I told you I worked it out, Chloë,’ and Chloë’s like, ‘You must have, like, worked it out wrong then,’ and Emer goes, ‘HELLO? Who was it who took grinds and still failed Pass maths?’ and that’s, like, game, set and match.
Christian arrives back with the Britneys. I’m giving the serious mince pies to this blondie bird who’s, like, a ringer for Tanya Robinson and Sorcha cops it, roysh, from down on the dance-floor, and the next thing she’s nodding to Amie with an ie to head back over to where we’re standing, roysh, and she stands in front of me, with her orms around my waist, basically to show everyone that I’m her property, and every now and then she looks over her shoulder to give Tanya Robinson filthies.
Christian hands her a vodka and Diet 7-Up, fair focks to him. Emer turns around to me and goes, ‘oh my God, I heard JP’s totally flipped out,’ and I’m there, ‘What do you mean, flipped out? He’s just gone mad into God,’ and then Chloë goes, ‘Oh, yeah, like he needs to be praying? He’s loaded, Ross,’ and Emer’s there, ‘Yeah, I heard he’s had a total breakdown. It’s like, OH! MY! GOD!’ and Chloë’s like, ‘I heard that, too. I heard it was like, Aaahhh. And I heard that from Wendy, who’s, like, in the Institute with a girl who lives two doors down from his parents.’
And I just lose it, roysh, listening to them talking about one of my best friends like that. I go, ‘And I’m focking telling you that he hasn’t had a breakdown. He’s into God, not focking, I don’t know, devil worship,’ and Sorcha just, like, squeezes my hand, roysh, to tell me I’m making a tit of myself, people are basically staring, and Emer and Chloë look me up and down and, like, turn away as if to say, we rest our case.
Emer goes, ‘oh my God, there’s that girl who used to be in Crunch with us,’ and Chloë’s like, ‘OH! MY! GOD! I can’t believe she thinks that skirt fits her,’ and Emer goes, ‘She is SO not going to the gym anymore, that’s for sure. I heard she piled it on when she went on the pill.’
‘Ronan’s worried about you,’ Sorcha goes to me the other night. I flush the jacks and head back into the room. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I’m there, ‘Worried? How so, Babes?’ She goes, ‘What he says is right, Ross, it’s not normal, you living in this place,’ and she, like, looks around the room. I’m there, ‘It’s the focking Berkeley Court,’ and she goes, ‘Yes and it’s very nice, Ross, but as your actual home? It’s like, Oh my God!’
I’m looking for my Dubes. I’m SO going to have to tidy this place. Sorcha’s not going to let it go, though. She’s like, ‘Stability, Ross, that’s what Ronan thinks you need,’ and I go, ‘He would never have heard of a word like stability,’ and she hands me her phone, roysh, and shows me this text message and it’s like: Worried about d rosser lad, needs 2 get his shit 2 gethr n get the 2 of u a gaff. Needs stability. Girls lik u don’t cum around evry day – don’t ever let him 4 get dat.
Anyway, roysh, I don’t bother arguing anymore because Ronan – wherever he got his brains from – is basically roysh, we do need a gaff. So I end up doing the whole responsible bread-winning husband bit, roysh, I give her a few hundred sheets to drop into Rococo and Blue Eriu, while I hit Foxrock to ask Wank Features to give me the money to buy a house.
The first words that come out of his mouth when he opens the door, roysh, aren’t, ‘Hey, how are you?’ or ‘I’m sorry for being a focking tool all my life,’ but, ‘I have a big surprise for you, Kicker.’ I’m there, ‘Well, it better be half-a-million squids because I need to buy a gaff,’ and he laughs and goes, ‘Better than that, Ross. Come on, it’s in the study,’ and I walk ahead of him, roysh, and just as I’m about to push open the door, he puts his hands over my eyes and goes, ‘Get ready for the surprise of a lifetime,’ and sort of, like, edges me into the study, roysh, does a bit of a focking drum-roll routine, then whips his hands away and Hennessy’s sitting there, knocking back the old man’s cognac, like he’d never been away.
He goes, ‘How are you, Ross?’ and I’m like, ‘When did you get out?’ and he’s there, ‘Last night. Pending my appeal, of course,’ and I go, ‘I take it you’ll be heading back to Rio pretty soon then?’ The old man’s like, ‘Why on Earth would he do that? The man’s as innocent as the day is long,’ and Hennessy goes, ‘And I had to surrender my passport anyway.’
Knob Head is like, ‘It’s a good job you arrived when you did. I was in the middle of telling Hennessy a story,’ and he actually goes back to telling it. He’s there, ‘So I told the young service girl: “Call the police, if you think it’ll do any good,” and that’s just what she did. So this chap arrives – straight out of Templemore, Hennessy, still wet behind the ears, cabbage and potatoes and so forth – and he tells me to put out my cigar. So I fixed him with a look and I said, “I provide almost two hundred people in this town with a living. I think you’ll find that entitles me to a glass or two of cognac and big cigar on a Friday evening.” Then he said it again: “Put out your cigar!” I said, “Who won the Second World War, can you tell me? It’s just I think I may have misheard the result.”’
Hennessy goes, ‘What station did he take you to?’ and the old man goes, ‘Donnybrook. So I know something of what you went through during your incarceration, quote-unquote,’ and then he turns to me and goes, ‘Hennessy’s going to become my election agent, Ross,’ and I go, ‘I couldn’t give two focks if he’s going to become a secret agent, I need half-a-million squids and it’s not a focking joke,’ and of course he makes a big deal out of it, roysh, letting the cigar hang out of his mouth, like it’s a big shock.
I go, ‘There’s a problem?’ and he’s like, ‘Afraid there is, Ross. Standing in the local elections is going to eat up a lot of my spare cash. Those posters aren’t cheap. Your Ray Burkes and your Padraig Flynns would tell the likes of Kerrigan that, if he ever bothered to ask them. Have you talked to the bank, Ross, about a mortgage? That’s how people generally pay for houses, over the course of a working life,’ and I go, ‘How the fock am I going to pay a mortgage? I don’t even have a job,’ and he just, like, stares at me, roysh, and I swear to God, he actually thinks I should get one.
I go, ‘If it came out that your
son had fathered a child with a skanger? And that you had paid off the child’s mother so she’d never dorken your door? If the papers were to find that out, what would it do to your election chances?’ and he looks at me in total shock, and we’re talking totally. He goes, ‘Damn it, Hennessy, he’s right. A grandchild? In one of those wretched sink estates? It’s not going to go down well with the voters of Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown, thank you very much.’
Hennessy’s, like, swilling his brandy around in his glass, going, ‘I don’t know, Charles. There’s are a lot of poor people out there and, for better or worse, they have votes. We might be able to use this kid. Show you appeal to all sorts. Us and them,’ and the old man goes, ‘I think you’ve had more than enough cognac for one afternoon, Hennessy. I’ve no interest in appealing to them. My only appeal to them is to leave my car alone, stop breeding like bacteria and move their wretched Christmas funfair somewhere more appropriate. Actually, write some of these down, Hennessy. Head the page, “Policies,” and use a capital P. No, make it all capitals.’
I go, ‘I’m getting bored here. All I have to do is ring One F. His mates in The Stor are bound to be interested in your… murky past,’ and he’s there, ‘He’s got me by the short and curlies, Hennessy, quote-unquote, pardon the French for their sins against wine-making. It’s checkmate and there’s not a bullet in my gun, to mix a metaphor, exclamation mark.’
I go, ‘I’m going to leave you two orseholes to your sad little lives. Oh, by the way, me and Sorcha are back together – that’s why I need a gaff. Those new ones in Blackrock are supposed to be nice. I’ll let you know the damage. And by the way, you’re a dickhead.’
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress Page 16
