The Point

by Brennan , Gerard

  “I was the one getting mugged!”

  “Quite.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. Her temper was slipping her grasp. Of all the places to lose it, a court appointed counselling session was not one of them.

  “Have you tried to maim anybody since?”

  An image of Sean flashed through her mind. She could almost smell the smouldering shirt. “Isn’t maimed a rather strong description? His scratches healed without scarring.”

  “No physical scarring, anyway.”

  “Are you taking the piss?”

  “Please mind your language. We’re not on the streets now.”

  The comfy, cushioned seat no longer felt comfortable to Rachel. She shifted from cheek to cheek then uncrossed and crossed her legs. Patrice watched her through piggish eyes.

  “On the streets?”

  Patrice shrugged. “Figure of speech.”

  “Ahem.” Rachel checked her watch. “Let’s get on with this cra... this session. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. I’ve already lost my morning. Don’t want to kiss my afternoon goodbye as well.”

  Patrice scribbled something into her pad. “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Are you, though? As far as I can see, you’re only here because you have to be. I mean, if I were in your shoes, I’d take advantage of the fact that I have somebody to bounce my problems off. This isn’t a punishment, after all. This is a means to rehabilitation.”

  “Rehabilitation?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, that’s great. I can see where you’re coming from. Here’s the thing, though. I don’t really want to be rehabilitated of my natural instinct to stand up for myself. If I hadn’t acted aggressively towards my mugger, I could have ended up scarred for life or dead. Seems to me that the law wants me to lie down and take everything these scumbags throw at me. And when they do, they want to run to them and offer psychological evaluation? Well, fucking excuse me, but I’m not having that shite.” She raised her hand. “And don’t tell me to watch my fucking language.”

  Patrice fumbled with her notepad. She avoided Rachel’s gaze.

  “So where do we go from here, Patrice?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want to rehabilitate me. I don’t want to be rehabilitated. Any chance we can just agree to disagree?”

  “Um.”

  “I mean, we’re really not going to get anywhere, are we? Seems to me we’re both wasting our time.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but...”

  “Do you, though? I’m not convinced. You had me tagged as a self-harmer earlier. I don’t think you have a clue about who I am. How could I ever trust you to help me come to terms with my inner demons when you don’t even know what they are?”

  Patrice sagged in her seat. It looked as if she’d shrunk a little bit. “I see a lot of clients... I can’t be expected to...”

  “Every time I come here the waiting room is empty. I’m told your last appointment is running over and you’ll soon be with me. Funny thing, though. I never see anybody leave your office before you come and fetch me. Is there a secret passage out of here for your celebrity clients or something? Because I’m beginning to suspect that you’re in here napping, or cruising internet chatrooms, or doing yoga, while I waste my time flipping through old magazines and staring at your bitch receptionist.”

  “Rachel, I really must insist that you lower your voice and calm down.”

  “Patrice, I really must insist that you tell me the truth. Do you keep me waiting just for the sake of it? Is it some sort of psychological tactic? Or are you just a lazy bitch?”

  Rachel knew she had gone too far but she had spent her whole life having her head messed with by social workers and counsellors of varying degrees of competence. After the mugging she’d decided on a zero-tolerance approach to bullshit.

  Patrice snatched a Kleenex from the box on her desk and dabbed at her teary, piggy eyes. She cleared her throat, took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “I think we’ve done enough for the day.”

  “That’s good, Patrice. I’ve things to be doing, you know?”

  “Quite.”

  “When’s the next appointment, then?”

  Patrice flipped through her leather bound diary. “I think you’ve progressed quite well. I’d suggest we leave the next appointment for about three months. By then, I expect we’ll be able to sign off on the court order and your rehabilitation will be complete.”

  “Aces.” Rachel stood up. “Any chance you could write me a prescription for some happy pills?”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow.

  “But I can write to your doctor and recommend a course.”

  “That’d be grand, Patrice. Thanks.”

  Rachel winked at the receptionist on her way past. Things were looking up.

  And They’re Off!

  Brian drove the Toyota Hiace and Paul drank cider from the bottle in the passenger seat. As a man of modest means, Brian had become accustomed to the smell of alcohol in enclosed spaces, but today it irritated him. The cheap booze smelled like farts and Paul’s farts smelt like diarrhoea. He opened the window as they bombed down the fast lane of the M1.

  “You don’t seem very excited, wee bro,” Paul said. “Considering we chose Warrenpoint for you, like.”

  “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine when I get there and have time for a wee drink.”

  Paul tilted his bottle towards Brian, offering him a sup. Brian wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Paul shrugged.

  Less than an hour later and they rolled into a housing estate a million miles away from the built up, redbrick jungles of Belfast. Brian followed the landlord’s directions and came to a halt outside a smart semi-detached house. Skateboard’s and bikes lay about the house next door’s garden. Another house boasted a colourful rockery with seven ceramic dwarfs scattered about it. There was a distinct lack of litter and graffiti.

  “Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Brian said.

  “What did I tell you, wee bro? We’ll be living like kings, now.” Paul twisted the cap back on to his three-quarter-empty bottle of cider. “Want to check out the local pub?”

  Brian thought about all the boxes and bags in the back of the van. “Aye. Fuck it. Why not?”

  “Sweet.”

  The Local

  “Here’s to me and my big dick. Fuck everything else. Suck the back of my balls. Amen.” Paul’s toast boomed across the pub chatter.

  He got a kick out of how Brian squirmed and mouthed apologies to the other patrons of Cearnogs. He didn’t want to stand out yet, but Paul needed to get to work on his reputation right away. He needed to connect, and acting like a loud prick usually got you noticed by the right sort of people; who were, of course, the wrong sort of people.

  “Do you want to keep it down, Paul?” Brian said. “At least until the bar fills up a bit and we don’t stick out like sore thumbs?”

  “You scared of these fucking farmers, little bro? I’m just having a laugh.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re getting the hairy eyeball.”

  “That’s just because we’re so fucking handsome.”

  “Watch the language, Paul. There’s kids running about here.”

  “Well, who the fuck takes their fucking kids to the fucking pub, on a fucking Saturday, at three in the fucking afternoon?”

  A barking voice from behind him answered. “I do, dickhead. What of it?”

  Paul swivelled on his stool to see a man of about forty, on his feet and angry. A shock of thinning white hair crowned his square head. His craggy, weather-beaten features were tinted red by burst capillaries. He stood a little shorter than Brian but looked twice as wide. Paul thought his longer, wiry arms would give him the advantage over the walrus-necked man. At the table behind him sat a young boy and a slightly older girl. They shoved crisps into their mouths and slurped on tall glasses of
cola with lemon slices floating amongst the ice. They looked as at home in the dingy pub as any of the other barflies present. And cool as cucumbers at the prospect of their da getting into a row.

  “I think that’s a fucking disgrace,” Paul said.

  “And are you an authority on childcare, pretty boy? You’re barely out of nappies yourself.”

  “Well, I have no formal qualifications, but I don’t think I should have to feel guilty about the fact that your kids are listening to my conversation. I should be able to relax with my drink and not worry about impressionable young minds. You’re corrupting your children, you stupid bastard.”

  Brian stood up and stepped away from the table.

  “What are you doing?” Paul asked.

  “Getting a drink in.” Brian looked to the angry local. “Would you like one, mister?”

  “No.” The local shook his head, momentarily distracted. Then he pointed a finger at Paul. “You watch yourself, son. Next time I see you, I mightn’t have the kids with me.”

  “Let’s hope I see you first then.”

  The local beckoned his kids to follow him and stormed out of the pub. Paul watched after him, smiling. Then he turned to Brian. “‘Would you like a drink?’ What the fuck, bro?”

  Brian shrugged.

  “Whatever,” Paul said. “I’ll get the next round in will I? Do you fancy a wee vodka?”

  “It’s just after three in the afternoon. You want to hit the hard stuff already?”

  “I thought you knew how to drink. You sound like a killjoy girlfriend.”

  “I’m sticking to the beer.” Brian raised his empty pint glass to indicate he wanted more of the same.

  Paul half turned on his stool and shouted over his shoulder. “Two double vodkas over here, barman!”

  Girls!

  The night came fast and the pub filled to the rafters. Brian was relieved to be lost in a crowd. A live band played in a corner. The wall of sound they created prevented Paul’s big mouth from getting them in trouble. Things were looking up. The brothers still sat at the same table and were still drinking vodka.

  The biggest improvement to their situation was that they were accompanied by two well-suited and booted, carefully made-up, young ladies. Paul had met them at the bar and invited them over. Rachel, dressed to nuke, laughed at some stupid thing Brian had just said. She’d just put him on cloud nine. He didn’t even care that Paul was unashamedly eating the face off Rachel’s friend, Karen, in plain sight.

  Since Rachel seemed to be in giddy humour, Brian pushed the boat out and gave her some observational comedy.

  “Ever notice how nobody stands beside each other at the bus stop?”

  She licked her luscious lips. “I don’t really understand you. You’ll have to talk slower.”

  “Why don’t you listen faster?”

  “What?”

  “Listen faster.”

  “Oh, right. Very good.”

  Rachel nodded enthusiastically but Brian got the impression that she didn’t understand him.

  “You have nice boobs,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Me and my brother live in this great house just up the road from here. You want to come home with me? We can have coffee or sandwiches or something. We have a nice bit of ham. You country girls like a nice bit of ham.”

  “Did you just call me a cunt?”

  The horrible word sounded even worse coming from her pretty mouth.

  “No,” Brian said. “I said country.”

  “Oh, sorry, you’re a little hard to understand. Do you have a speech impediment?”

  “Ach, I’m just pissed.”

  “That’s good. I don’t like people with speech impediments. They’re too much effort to talk to, you know?”

  “I think you’re a little pissed too.”

  Then Rachel leaned over the table to kiss him and confirmed Brian’s suspicion. She tried to stick her tongue in his eye. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant experience.

  Brian and Rachel

  Brian always said that there was no way to avoid a hangover, unless you avoided alcohol. He also said that the only thing that made a hangover seem worth it, even at its worst, was the smell of sex in your room and a stranger in your bed.

  This morning’s hangover had been blessed with both. Blurred flashbacks replayed the drunken, naked fumble in Brian’s mind and he smiled.

  He pulled open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet and found his breath mints. Fresh breath always increased the chances of a morning shag. When he finished the mint he tried to remember the brown-haired girl’s name. He couldn’t.

  “Hey, sexy,” he said. “I’ve been up for hours, and I’m not talking about being awake.”

  She opened her eyes to reveal icy blue irises and tried to focus on Brian’s face. She didn’t seem too disappointed when her pupils adjusted.

  “I’m too sick for another shag,” she said. “All the bumping and jumping would make me puke.”

  “Nothing that an Alka Seltzer and a round of dry toast wouldn’t cure.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  Brian knew his Sunday morning sex had just gone out the window. It had to happen before breakfast. The opportunity was usually lost as soon as the girl found her knickers. He shouldn’t have offered her anything.

  “Have you seen my knickers?” she asked.

  “Yeah, they were sexy as hell.”

  “No, I mean, do you know where they are?”

  “I think they’re out in the hall. We were caught in a moment of high passion, if I remember correctly.”

  “You said I wouldn’t get pregnant if we did it standing up in the hall.”

  “I wasn’t lying.”

  “You had a condom and I’m on the pill.”

  “You can’t be too safe.”

  “You’re an eejit.”

  She sat up in the bed and the blanket fell away from her small but perfect breasts. Her nipples stiffened in the morning chill. Brian’s heart fluttered.

  “I’ll just go get my knickers,” she said. “Can I borrow a T-shirt or something? I don’t want to give your brother an eyeful.”

  He pointed to a crumpled heap of cloth on the floor. “Grab that one, sure.”

  Rachel’s side of the bed had been crammed against the wall so she had to climb over Brian to get out. She threw a leg over him and tried to slide-crawl over his body. Her smooth skin was warm and soft against Brian’s. Her pubic mound brushed against his erection. Belly to belly she paused, her expression devilish.

  “You are so fucking sexy,” Brian said.

  “You know what? I feel a little better. Maybe breakfast can wait.”

  Paul and Karen

  Paul rooted through Karen’s purse. She snored. He thought he was on to a sure thing when he’d taken her to his room the night before. She fell asleep with her nipple in his mouth. Paul would never describe himself as a gentleman, but he wasn’t a rapist. He lifted her drunken body from the bed and stretched her out on the floor. He threw his spare blanket on top of her and got himself a good night’s sleep.

  Just as well really. She didn’t look too hot in the morning light. Her lips glistened with drool and her hair sat in a frizzy mess.

  Her purse contained thirty-five pounds. He left the fiver in it for her taxi home. Chivalry hadn’t quite died.

  Feelers

  Mad Mickey loitered on his favourite street corner, smoking a spliff. Dave jogged towards him. His cheeks were red and his breath came and went in short puffs.

  “Well?” Mickey asked.

  “The feelers are out, boss, but no joy yet.”

  Mad Mickey sucked a long draw off his joint.

  “Better get back to it, then, Dave. Right?”

  “Aye.”

  “We’re going to get this sleekit wee bastard. And when we do, I’m going to make a bong out of his skull.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “Aye. And I’ll put his lungs on ice. Might come
in handy.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Wonder what kind of hit you could get with a skull bong and four lungs. It’d have to be good, wouldn’t it?”

  Dave shrugged.

  “Are you still here, Dave?” Mad Mickey waved him away. “Go find him, for fuck’s sake!”

  Rachel Sticks Around

  Brian and Rachel had the house to themselves the entire Sunday afternoon. Paul had gone out for a walk after Karen left, to get a feel for Warrenpoint, and hadn’t been seen for hours.

  They watched some DVDs in the living room, snuggled together on the couch under the duvet dragged off Brian’s bed. They ordered a pizza and lazed. They got to know each other better between the action scenes of the Hollywood movies. Complete bliss.

  “So, Karen wasn’t particularly taken by Paul then?” Brian asked.

  “She thought he was okay, last night, but this morning he acted pretty cold towards her. She’s a good looking girl and doesn’t need to hold on to anyone she’s not sure of. Besides, he isn’t as sexy as he thinks he is.”

  “Judging by the amount of girlfriends he’s had, I thought he must have been better looking than the Devil himself. I assumed I was missing something or had the wrong idea about what women want.”

  “But you don’t try to be like him?” Her voice didn’t brim over with admiration for Brian’s choice to be his own person, but it did seem to require an explanation Brian didn’t have one. He did the usual in an uncertain situation. Kept his mouth shut.

  Rachel looked at him as if trying to figure him out. Brian gave her a little peck on the lips to mask his discomfort.

  “You’re even better looking than Karen, but you didn’t call a taxi. Are you a little surer about me, or am I just sexier than I think I am?”

  “No, I’m just a slut, and I thought if I stuck around a little longer, you’d ride me again.”

  Her hand found his crotch under the duvet and they christened the sofa while Nicolas Cage and John Travolta chased each other in speed boats on the television screen.

  Petrolheads and Cannabis