The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ That’s what I tell Sorcha when she bells me on the Wolfe, but she knows me too well. She goes, ‘You’re not yourself. Anyone can see that,’ and I’m there, ‘It’s this JP business, I suppose. I was talking to Fehily this morning and he didn’t think there was much hope. Said JP had been, like, called and shit.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘It’s not that either. Ross, you’re missing him – why don’t you just admit it?’ and I’m like, ‘Missing JP? That’s benny talk,’ and she’s there, ‘I’m talking about Ronan. It’s okay for you to say it,’ and she’s basically spot-on. I’ve only known the little focker a few months, roysh, but he’s grown on me in a major way.

  Sorcha goes, ‘He texted me this morning. He’s missing you as well,’ and I’m there, ‘Really?’ and she’s like, ‘In his own way. Only one more week, Ross,’ and I go, ‘I suppose,’ and she’s like, ‘What are you doing?’ and I go, ‘Just sitting in my room, flicking through…’ and I can’t tell her it’s FHM, roysh, in case she thinks I’m having an Allied Irish, so I just go, ‘… I don’t know, Newsweek.’

  She goes, ‘Do you want company?’ and I’m there, ‘What about the shop?’ and she’s like, ‘HELLO? I think Aoife can look after things for a couple of hours,’ and I go, ‘Yeah, that’d be nice then.’

  The second she arrives she’s, like, straight on my case, going, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Will you look at this place! When was the last time you actually let them in to clean?’ but I don’t answer, roysh, and eventually she goes, ‘I’m sorry, Ross. I’m, like, SO hord on you sometimes. Here,’ and she hands me an envelope, roysh, and she goes, ‘A present,’ and I open it and it’s, like, a flight to Ibiza.

  She goes, ‘It’s just for the weekend,’ and I’m like, ‘When am I going?’ looking for the date on the Wilson, roysh, and she’s there, ‘Your check-in is in an hour,’ and I’m like, ‘An hour? I can’t… I’ve no, like, summer gear with me,’ and she’s there, ‘You can buy it in duty-free,’ and I tell her that I’m speechless and she tells me to hurry up because I’m already cutting it majorly fine.

  The heat hits me straight away, roysh, as if someone’s opened, I don’t know, an oven door, even though it’s, like, ten o’clock at night. I mosey through passport control, pick up what few threads I managed to throw together from the carousel, then go out through the arrivals gate and stort looking for Ronan. As usual, I hear him before I actually see him. He goes, ‘Rosser, you steamer!’ and he’s, like, standing there in his Celtic jersey and not, I notice, the Leinster one I bought him for going away.

  I don’t know what to do at first, roysh, it feels a bit awkward, but in the end I go with it and give him a hug and when I pull away, roysh, he storts, like, dusting himself down and telling me he has a rep to live up to and that if I’m into that kind of thing, I should keep it to the rugby dressing-room.

  I crack my hole laughing and I go, ‘Are you having a good time?’ and he’s there, ‘Ah, it’s mustard, Rosser,’ and I look around and realize for the first time that he’s, like, here on his own. I go, ‘Did you come to the airport by yourself?’ and he’s there, ‘No, the others are in the bar.’

  The bor? They let a focking seven-year-old saucepan wander around an airport on his own just because they can’t say no to a drink? Ronan can tell I’m not a happy camper from the basic speed I’m walking. He runs up behind me, grabs me by the orm and goes, ‘Stall the ball, will ya?’ and I’m there, ‘That shit’s not on,’ and he goes, ‘ROSSER!’ really loud, roysh, so loud that I actually stop, then he’s like, ‘You can’t just march into our lives and start laying down the law, Rosser. You can’t tell me Ma the right and wrong way to raise a kid. She hasn’t done a bad job, y’know,’ and listening to him talk, I know he’s roysh, and I decide to say nothing.

  ‘Did you change yisser money?’ That’s the first thing Tina’s old man shouts at me when I walk into the bor. He’s like, ‘Ders a bayoo-ro de chonge out dare,’ and he points outside, and I actually turn around, roysh, and I’m about to go back out when they all – we’re talking Tina, her old pair and Decker, her Ken Acker of a boyfriend – crack their holes laughing. Tina goes, ‘Don’t moyind him, Ross. It’s all yoo-ros over here, like in Oyerlind,’ and I end up being made to feel like a total focking tool.

  They’re all hammered, of course. On the sauce all day, by the looks of it. Her old dear’s off her face and she’s practically asleep, sitting there on her low stool, red as a focking lobster, obviously having gone out in the sun with no cream on and barbecued the shit out of herself. Tina’s the colour of milk and so is Decker, roysh, who’s wearing the same Celtic jersey as Ronan and I feel this, like, sudden, I suppose you’d have to call it jealousy, roysh, that he’d rather wear what Decker wears than what I wear.

  Decker goes, ‘Are ye gettin’ dem in or wha’?’ which is basically Skobie for, ‘Buy us all a drink,’ which, like a fool, I do, roysh, the round being pint bottles of Bulmers for Tina and Decker, a Guinness for Tina’s old man and a West Coast Cooler for her old dear, who wakes up when the drink’s put in front of her. Ronan gets himself a Coke because, as he says himself, he doesn’t want to get into rounds.

  When I come back from the bor, Decker’s looking inside Tina’s mouth, presumably for any gold fillings he can rob

  so he can buy, I don’t know, hash and Asian records. Tina closes her mouth and goes, ‘Ask Ross,’ and then she turns around to me, roysh, and she’s like, ‘Notice anyting diffordent ‘bout me, do ye?’ and I am SO tempted to say something really funny, roysh, except I can’t actually think of anything, so I end up going, ‘No,’ and she sticks out her tongue, roysh, and she’s actually got the focking thing pierced.

  I’m a bit, like, squeamish about that kind of shit, roysh, and I have to, like, turn away, which Decker thinks is focking hilarious. Tina goes, ‘I got it done today. It’s killin’ me but,’ and her old man goes, ‘Maybe you’re not aposed to drink wirrit,’ and Tina goes, ‘Fook dat,’ and of course that is also the funniest thing that anyone’s ever said in the history of the world.

  Ronan at least tries to make me feel, I don’t know, comfortable, I suppose. He’s like, ‘Wait’ll you see the apartment, Rosser. It’s the fooken business,’ and I’m about to tell him that I’m actually going to look for somewhere with a few more stors than they’d be used to, roysh, when all of a sudden my, like, conscience gets to me and I decide to stay in whatever Ballymun-on-Sea tower block their tour operator has dumped them in.

  We finish our drinks and I’m, like, looking at my watch, thinking I wouldn’t mind shooting off now and catching a few zeds because I’m, like, totally wrecked at this stage. Decker goes, ‘Will we gerra Jo back to de gaff, or will we have anudder one?’ and Tina and her old man laugh like it’s the stupidest question they’ve ever heard. Decker turns around to me, like the focking skanger that he is, and he goes, ‘Tink you’ll find it’s your round.’

  *

  Ten o’clock I hear noise coming from the kitchen, roysh, and I go out to find Tina’s old man – Eddie’s his name, if the tattoo on his left hand can be trusted – frying what looks vaguely like sausages, bacon and eggs, except they’re floating in so much oil it reminds me of one of those Greenpeace newsletters Sorcha gets after some tanker has spilled shit all over the gaff, killing everything within, like, a 10-mile radius. He’s like, ‘Bitta brekky dare, son?’ and I’m there, ‘I’ll, em, pass on that, if it’s all the same,’ and he goes, ‘A woy-iz man. Sure de sausages ardent de sayim over hee-er. De bacon eeder.’

  Ronan sticks his head in from the balcony, where he’s smoking one of his famous rollies, and he goes, ‘Moy Jaysus, what the fook are you wearin’?’ and straight away I’m there, ‘This jersey? It’s, like, the New South Wales Waratahs,’ and he shakes his head and tells me I’m some fooken tulip and he asks me do I know that.

  I go, ‘Sorcha texted me this morning. She’s been on the internet. Said we should check out Aquamar. It’s, like, a waterpork and shit?’ and Ronan’
s like, ‘Fooken deadly,’ stubs out his cigarette, then goes, ‘I’ll go and ask me oul’ dear,’ and disappears into the next room.

  Eddie’s still working the pan, even though there’s fock-all left to fry in it, roysh, everything’s been, like, incinerated, if that’s a word. The next thing, roysh, Tina comes out of the bedroom and goes to me, ‘How are ye gettin’ dare?’ and I have to say, roysh, even though I thought I’d have a few problems with the language coming over here, I presumed it would be when I was talking to the actual locals. I’m there, ‘Sorry?’ and Tina’s like, ‘HOW… ARE… YE… GETTIN’… DARE?’ I go, ‘Oh, I’m going to rent a cor. Sorcha checked it out for me. Said there’s a place down the street.’

  Decker comes out of the bedroom then, wearing a focking bogball jersey, we’re talking Dublin. He goes, ‘Do us a favour, whatever-you’re-called. If you’re taking him out, don’t bring him back till late,’ and Tina’s there, ‘What are ye sayin’, Decker?’ and Decker goes, ‘I tought we’d check out dat new club. Get a few yokes into us,’ and Tina goes, ‘You don’t moyind takin’ um for de day, do ye?’ and I’m about to go, Of course not, he’s my focking son, isn’t he? but in the end I just go, ‘Of course not.’

  I cop Ronan staring at Decker, then he disappears into his bedroom, roysh, and comes back, having changed out of his Celtic jersey into the Leinster one I bought him. Then we hit the road, roysh, and before we know it we’re lead-footing it towards Playa d’en Bossa in a rented Seat Toledo, 1.9 litre, five-door with air-conditioning, with the Snoopster giving it loads on the CD player.

  We’re driving for, like, half-an-hour, roysh, when I notice that Ronan’s pretty quiet, so I turn around to him and I go, ‘You’re not a fan of Decker’s, are you?’ and he sort of, like, shrugs his shoulders and goes, ‘Just don’t think he’s good enough for me Ma,’ and I am SO tempted to say that I think they’re focking perfect for each other, but I end up biting my tongue and I can tell from Ronan that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  After a few more miles of road, he goes, ‘So what’s this place got, then?’ and I’m there, ‘Well, according to Sorcha, we’re talking slides and rapids and all sorts of shit,’ and Ronan goes, ‘Happy days.’

  So we go in, roysh, and all the various amusements keep him entertained for, like, twenty minutes, then he comes over to where I’m sitting, sipping an Americano, watching all the basically Spanish yummy-mummies mill about the place. I’m there, ‘Are you, like, enjoying yourself?’ and he goes, ‘Ah yeah, but it’s for kids, isn’t it?’ and he plonks himself down in the chair beside me, calls the waitress over and orders a double espresso for himself.

  There’s something on his mind. I can tell. I go, ‘So, spit it out, Ronan,’ and he just smiles at me as if to say that I’m basically a mind-reader. He goes, ‘That school you went to, Rosser…’ and I’m there, ‘Castlerock?’ and he’s like, ‘Yeah. Would they take me, would they?’ I go, ‘They have a junior school, yeah. It’d be a bit of a long trek for you in the mornings, wouldn’t it?’ and he goes, ‘Right, I’m going to have to level with you. There’s no other way to do this,’ and he takes a long drag on his cigarette, knocks back his coffee in one mouthful, then goes, ‘I’ve been kicked out of school, Rosser.’ I’m there, ‘Kicked out? As in, like, expelled? What for?’ and he goes, ‘Demanding money with menaces. Well, bullying, they called it,’ and I’m like, ‘And you want me to put your name down for my old school? That’s what you’re asking me, I presume?’

  He’s there, ‘I swear to you, Rosser – not telling ye a word of a lie – I’ll keep me nose clean,’ and I go, ‘What does your old dear think?’ to avoid having to give him a straight answer. He’s there, ‘That’s the problem. She knows fook-all about this. It’d kill her, see. She’s not a great coper. That’s why I try to make things easier for her,’ and I’m like, ‘So, you don’t plan to tell her? That you’ve, like, changed schools and shit?’ and he goes, ‘Of course I’d tell her, but I’d crack on that I was big into rugby all of a sudden and I wanted to follow in your footsteps.’

  He orders another double espresso while at the same time checking out the top tens on the waitress. I’m there, ‘You have this all worked out, don’t you? What about the fees? You know the junior school is, like, five grand a year?’ and he taps the side of his nose and goes, ‘Don’t worry, I know where I can lay my hands on that kind of bread,’ and I’m there, ‘No focking way, Ronan,’ having visions of him holding up a security van or something. I go, ‘If you’re accepted – and by no stretch of the imagination am I guaranteeing that you will be – I’ll pay the fees. Deal?’ and I’m thinking I’m on safe ground here, roysh, because there’s a waiting list for Castlerock and you’ve got to have your kid’s name on it before the midwife has even cut the focking cord.

  Ronan goes, ‘Game ball. Not a word to me oul’ wan, ‘member. It’d break her fooken heart,’ then he knocks back his second double espresso and tells me he’s going to have one last shot on the giant waterslide.

  They’re hammered, as usual. Don’t get me wrong, roysh, I like my pop as much as the next man, but I don’t think they’ve been sober for longer than ten minutes since I got here. It’s, like, three o’clock on Sunday afternoon and we’re all sitting outside the Fiddler’s Elbow, roysh, and Tina and Decker are tanning the old Bulmers, while Tina’s old dear is singing, ‘Alice, Alice, who de fook is Alice…’ with three random birds at the next table, none of them easy on the eye. It’s one of those nights you just know is going to end in karaoke.

  Tina’s old man is telling me that, ‘Peepil tought Bang Bang was mad, but Ine tellin’ ye he was as normal as you or I, clever is whoree was, made a bleedin’ faar-chin ourra de too-erists, so he did.’ I wink at Ronan, who’s as happy as a dog with two mickeys since I told him I’d put a word in for him at Castlerock – he’s actually smoking a lot less – and even though I know, roysh, that they’ll tell him to take a focking hop, at least I can say I tried.

  Eddie’s going, ‘Fortycoats was the sayim,’ but I’m not really listening, roysh, I’m actually listening to Tina, who’s telling Decker that her tongue is really sore where she got it, like, pierced and Decker says didn’t he tell her not to gerrit bleedin’ done, but you wouldn’t listen, you stupid fooken slapper, which I don’t think he should be saying in front of Ronan, or even actually Tina’s old pair.

  I’m about to say something, roysh, when all of a sudden Ronan gets up and says he has to go back to the aportment and I ask him does he want me to come with him, roysh, but he says he’s mustard, which is Working Class for kosher, and he heads off, which is no bad thing, roysh, because it’s a pretty bad atmos. There’s, like, total silence, roysh, and Tina’s trying to ignore Decker, but the goy’s just, like, staring at the side of her face with pure focking hatred in his eyes.

  Tina’s old man tries to lighten the basic mood. He nods in the direction that Ronan went and he goes, ‘Unbelievable dat wan, wha’?’ and I’m there, ‘Suppose he is, yeah,’ and he’s like, ‘Years ahead of his time. You know, when he was foyiv, he bleedin’ hot-wired me car, so he did.’ I’m there, ‘You’re shitting me now?’ and he goes, ‘Not tellin’ ye a woord of a loy, son. Hot-wired me car. Didn’t get far ourra de droyivway now, but he started de fooken ting.’

  I just like shake my head and I can’t help but smile. He goes, ‘I decided – I said it to ye, didn’t I, Tina? – I said, “We’re gonna have to givum a scay-er. De short, sharp shock treatment.” So I took um down de stay-shun, see a mate a moyin what’s a guard. Used to play ball wirrum. Says I to um, “Lock um in de cells for an hour. Put de frighteners on um.” So he did. Turned de key an’ locked um up. After an hour he goes back into um and says he, “That’s what happens to young fellas what gets in trouble wi’ de law.” An’ says young Ronan to um, “I’ve nuttin to say to ye, Copper. I want me brief”,’ and we all crack our holes laughing, roysh, all except Decker, who goes, ‘Should have fooken left him locked up,’ and everyone’s just, l
ike, silent until about ten seconds later when he turns around to me and goes, ‘Have ye a fooken problem gettin’ yisser round in, have ye?’ and even though it’s not actually my round, roysh, I hit the bor anyway, I suppose just to get away from the situation.

  I ask the borman for two more pint bottles, a bottle of Ken – except I have to say, like, the full name – a pint of Guinness and a Hierbas Ibicencas, which is what Tina’s old dear has moved onto and it’s probably best not to even ask. So the borman’s putting the top on the Guinness, roysh, when all of a sudden Ronan’s standing beside me and goes, ‘What are you doing, Rosser?’ and I’m there, ‘Getting them in,’ and he’s like, ‘You got the last round,’ and I go, ‘Look, Ronan, sometimes it’s just easier to…’ but he turns around to the borman and he goes, ‘We’re only going to be needing one of them Bulmers,’ and he pushes one of the bottles back across the bor. Then he picks up half the round and he goes, ‘He’s a fooken bully, Rosser. Stand up for yisserself,’ and we carry the drinks back over.

  ‘Am I fooken black, am I?’ That’s what Decker goes when he realizes there’s no drink for him. He’s like, ‘Am I fooken black, am I?’ and I don’t answer him roysh, I turn around and start listening to one of Eddie’s Yoo-ro Eigh-d-Eigh stories, cracking on that I haven’t heard it before. So Decker just, like, shouts it then, roysh. He’s like, ‘ARE YOU LOOKIN’ FOR A FOOKEN TUMP? I SAID, AM I FOOKEN BLACK, AM I?’ and I don’t know where it comes from, roysh, because I know it doesn’t sound like me at all, but I turn around and I go, ‘No, you’re a focking skobie. If you want a drink, spend some of that focking dole money that you already ponce off the rest of us. Or are you keeping it to buy more focking sovvies, you social-security-sucking scumbag,’ and everyone’s jaw just, like, drops, including my own, it must be said.