by Roddy Doyle
—Yeah.
—Yeah, he said. —It’s understandable. It’s natural. An’ she’s a brilliant storyteller – a raconteur. Brilliant. You should see men lookin’ at Trish when she’s in full flow. Jesus – d’you remember?
—Yeah, I said.
I was lying: I didn’t remember watching Trish telling a story. But I’d seen Faye, and men watching her as she spoke, loving her, resenting her, leaning in to take over, sitting back open-mouthed.
—So, I’m happy to hand it over, said Joe. —She’s the entertainer. I just happen to be the one who endured the wrath – the fuckin’ contempt of Missis Baseball Cap. It doesn’t matter. We’re joint owners o’ the house – still are, by the way. An’ we’d a joint account, so we might as well share the stories. I don’t know – our fuckin’ autobiographies. An’ she’s better at it.
—Same with me, I said. —Me an’ Faye.
—There you go, he said. —An’ it’s a good thing. We don’t feel threatened or undermined.
—No.
—An’ they glow, he said.
—Yeah.
—Don’t they?
—Yeah.
—So, he said. —It’s grand. It’s more than grand. But.
—The fact remains.
—The fact fuckin’ remains. She wasn’t in the fuckin’ car.
—But, I said. —So wha’?
—So wha’? he said. —Nothin’ – nothin’, really. But this is my point, I think. If Trish an’ myself hadn’t – if we were still together, we wouldn’t be havin’ this particular conversation, you an’ me. Because I’d’ve let her into the car. I’d’ve remembered her bein’ there beside me, with Holly in the back – eventually. That’s wha’ would’ve happened.
—That’s possible.
—That’s definite, he said. —That’s wha’ would’ve happened. I’ve no doubt about it at all. It’s wha’ was already happenin’, the more I heard her tell the story. I wanted her to be in the car. An’ I’d’ve eventually remembered it tha’ way. I’d’ve seen her beside me in the passenger seat, maybe even me in the passenger seat an’ her drivin’. I’d’ve genuinely remembered it. But then we split up.
—An’ she’s not in the car any more.
—She’s not in the fuckin’ car. Are we having another?
—Go on, I said.
I was trying to recall a case of my own, some event that Faye had made her own. But I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been in company, when I’d have heard and watched her tell a story. For years now, I’ve been her only audience. And I’d been hiding from her.
It’s my fault.
—Two more, please, Joe said to a barman, the same one, I thought, who’d served us the last time.
The barman raised a hand.
—Two, he said, and kept going to the taps.
Joe took out his phone and looked at the clock.
—Loads o’ time, he said.
He put the phone back into his pocket. I checked my own, took it out. I held it beside my leg and looked down. I slipped it back into the pocket.
—I asked Holly, he said.
—Wha’?
—I asked her – Holly. I asked her wha’ she thought o’ Trish sayin’ tha’ she was in the car with us.
—When was this?
—Well, when she was still talkin’ to me, anyway, he said. —It would’ve been before meself an’ Trish split up. Before she threw me ou’.
—Is tha’ what happened?
—Not really, no, he said. —It wasn’t really like tha’. I threw myself out. Truth be told – whatever tha’ fuckin’ means. No, we were arguin’ alright, but I was still at home. But Holly would’ve heard us, I suppose. Definitely. Shite –. But anyway, Holly said she’d been in the car.
—Trish.
—Yeah. She said Trish was there with us. An’ I’ll tell you. I found tha’ very hurtful.
—Why? I asked.
—Well, these things, he said. —Memories. They’re precious, aren’t they? I used to think tha’, anyway. Special. There was me an’ there was Holly beside me, an’ your woman with the cap tellin’ me to fuck off an’ we were laughin’, the two of us, once we were off the road an’ your woman couldn’t see us. Just me an’ Holly.
—You didn’t have it out with her, no?
—Who?
—The woman.
—Are you jokin’ me? he said. —Never – Davy. Seriously. Never disagree with a woman who’s wearin’ a baseball cap. If you remember nothin’ else tonight, remember tha’, for fuck sake. But Holly. It was like she was erasin’ me. From her memory. It hurt.
—Did she say you weren’t there?
—No, he said. —No, she didn’t. It’s just, she inserted her mother. She was takin’ sides.
—Jesus, Joe, I said. —Do you really think tha’?
—I do, yeah – I think I do. An’ look, I don’t blame her. She’s heard Trish tell the story as often as I have. An’ then there’s me – she’s furious with me. That’s what I mean about her erasin’ me. I’m bein’ punished. Here’s the pints. Whose twist is it?
—It might be me.
—It might be me as well, said Joe. —It was never a question back in the day, was it? We’d’ve known. Part o’ the muscle memory or somethin’.
He was searching his pocket for notes. So was I, and I got there before him. I pulled another twenty from my wallet and held it out, across Joe, to the barman. He took it and turned to the till.
—I’ll get the next two rounds, said Joe.
He watched the barman put the change on the counter.
—If I fuckin’ remember, he said.
He watched me gather the change, the fiver and coins, and slide it into my pocket.
—So, yeah, he said. —Memory.
—Okay, I said. —What about it?
—Did you ever tell a lie so often you ended up believin’ it?
—Probably, I said.
—Probably me hole. You did.
—Okay.
—So often it becomes a memory, he said. —Some porky you told to get you out of a corner becomes an event tha’ you can remember. You cross a line or somethin’. D’you think that’s feasible? I’m not so sure.
—No, I said. —Same here – I think.
I was getting drunk for the second or third time that night. I was feeling young. I was feeling thin and tall. I was feeling less than careful.
—But how would you know? I asked.
—Wha’?
—Well, if a lie becomes somethin’ you remember, you have to forget it’s a lie. Surely. Don’t you?
—Good point.
—I mean, I said. —I remember lyin’ so convincingly, I almost believed it. But I still knew it was a fuckin’ lie. I didn’t really believe –. I was impressed, tha’ was it.
—When was this?
—Are you askin’ me if I’ve only told a lie once in me life?
—No, he said. —No. Just a – for example. I seem to be doin’ all the talkin’. Am I?
—Yeah.
—Fuck off, he said. —Go on.
—Well, I said.
I couldn’t think of anything.
—Why are we talkin’ abou’ this? I asked. —Memories an’ stuff – wha’ started it?
—Good question, said Joe. —I was – I think I was, anyway. I was tryin’ to explain –
I remembered something.
—I’ve got one, I said.
—Good man, he said.
—I told Faye I had a stalker.
—Fuck off.
He laughed, and so did I.
—Brilliant, he said. —That’s fuckin’ mad. What happened?
—Well, I said. —It’s ages ago. Before the word stalker was even a thing.
—Before you went to England?
—No, I said.
—No. Not tha’ long ago. I’ve been livin’ in England longer than I haven’t been, remember. If tha’ makes sense.
—It does.
—Does it?
—Yeah, he said. —You’re in England more than thirty years.
—Yeah, I said. —Exactly.
—Fuckin’ hell.
—Yeah, I said. —It’s hard to believe sometimes. Especially tonight. Somehow. It feels like I’ve never been away.
He picked up his old glass.
—Good to see you, man, he said.
I picked up my glass and we tapped them again.
—Fuckin’ great, isn’t it?
—Yeah.
—Fuckin’ great, he said. —Move back, Davy – you have to.
—No.
—Go on, he said. —Come home.
—Can’t.
—Why not? What’s stoppin’ you?
—Faye wouldn’t have it.
—Fuck her.
* * *
—
Faye was watching a film. She’d heard the key in the door. She thought she’d heard a car – the taxi moving away from the front of the house. All the sounds were expected – the car, the key, the front door being carefully opened. Then the unexpected. A rhythm that wasn’t mine. Strange feet in the hall.
—David?
I remember my hand on the wall. Beside the light switch.
—Dave?
She found me looking at my feet.
—What’s wrong?
I lifted my foot, the one that I’d just realised lacked a shoe. I felt the sock – the sole. It wasn’t wet. Was it raining outside, was it wet out there? I didn’t know.
—What’s wrong with your foot?
I let go of the foot. I let go of the wall. I looked again. The shoe still wasn’t there. I looked at Faye.
—God, the state of you, she said. —Come on – come in. Where’s your bloody shoe gone? Shut the door there, for God’s sake. The dog will fuckin’ escape again.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t remember getting home. I couldn’t remember being in a taxi; I couldn’t remember paying for a taxi. I couldn’t remember opening the door. I couldn’t turn to close it. Faye did that; she went past me. I heard the rush – the door across the mat, the slight thump and the click. Faye was gentle. She was smiling as she put her arm around me, under my own arm, and escorted me to the couch and let me drop. I lay there, facing the television. There was sound, a gunfight, music, then no sound. The dog was looking at me. Whatever dog it was back then. Front paws up on the couch, right in front of my face.
Faye sat on the floor.
—Are you going to be sick, are you?
I tried to shake my head. I lifted it, I got up on my elbow. I moved my head, right, left.
—Saying no would’ve been easier, Dave, said Faye.
—No, I said. —No, Faye.
—You remember my name – lovely.
I closed my eyes. But it wasn’t nice there. I opened them again.
—Where’s your shoe?
—Somewhere.
—Grand.
Something about the way she spoke, about the way I heard it. She thought I was a child. I was lying on my side, my hands were under my cheek. I’d lost one of my shoes. I was a child. My mother was beside me, looking after me.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t want a mother.
—There’s a woman in work, I told her.
—Is there?
I sat up. I felt like I’d slept. I was ready.
—What about her? said Faye.
—What?
—This woman you’re dying to tell me about.
—She won’t leave me alone, Faye.
—Did she take your shoe?
—No, I said. —I don’t think so. I don’t know. She’s gorgeous, Faye.
—I’m sure she is.
I wanted Faye to slap me. I wanted her to rage. To stand over me and beat me. I wanted to feel her over me, on me.
She was sitting on the couch now. She was holding one of my feet.
—And she’s taken your shoe hostage, has she?
I was lying down again.
—You’re Cinderella, David, she said.
—What?
—That’s who you are, said Faye. —You left the shoe behind when you ran away at midnight. And – sure, look. It isn’t even midnight. It’s hardly even dark. She’ll be going from door to door now, getting all the men to try on your shoe.
—She’s gorgeous.
—I bet she is. And she’ll be ringing the bell any minute, will she?
I was crying.
—I’d never do it, Faye.
—More fool, you, Daithí.
—I’d never do it.
—I know, she said. —I know you wouldn’t.
Her face was close to mine. I opened my eyes. She was still there, further away. I closed my eyes. I opened them. She was gone.
—Faye?
—Go to sleep, David.
There was something on me. Faye had put a duvet over me. The television was off, the light was off.
—Faye?
—Go to sleep, for fuck sake.
—Where are you?
—Near, she said.
—Where?
—Go to sleep.
—I don’t want to.
—You do.
—I don’t.
—Please yourself, so.
—I don’t want to.
—You’re a pest, so you are. Go to sleep. Don’t get up and fuckin’ wander. Let the kids stay asleep.
—She was gorgeous, Faye.
—Sure, I know, she said.
She was beside me again. Looking down.
—Make sure you stay on your side, she said. —The basin’s beside you there. In case you want it.
She was gone.
—I want to hold you, Faye.
I couldn’t get up. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I had to sleep – I had to roll away from this. I needed to shut my eyes. I needed this to end. I needed to start. Start again. Find her. Look at her. Hold her.
* * *
—
—Why did you say tha’? I asked him.
—Wha’?
—Fuck her, I said.
—I didn’t mean it like tha’, said Joe. —Fuck her. I didn’t say tha’.
He smiled.
—More fuck’r, he said. —That’s what I said. An’ not aggressively. Or dismissively – none o’ tha’.
It was like he was ready; he’d planned his response.
—Wha’ makes you think you can fuckin’ say tha’? I asked.
—Okay, he said. —Look, I shouldn’t’ve said it but – fuck it – I didn’t say wha’ you’re sayin’ I said. But I do apologise.
—It’s always the fuckin’ same.
—Jesus, he said. —Here we go.
—Fuck you, Joe.
—Drink up, Davy, he said. —Before we get fucked ou’.
This was more like it. This was what I hadn’t been remembering.
—Just fuck you, I said. —You can’t fuckin’ say tha’.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s like – for fuck sake. It’s like you expect me to make a decision – not a decision either. Just fuckin’ obey you, just like tha’.
—Where’s this comin’ from?
—From deep down an’ far away.
—What’s tha’ fuckin’ mean?
—Fuck you.
I was going to do what I wanted to do. I was going to go. I’d had enough.
—Seeyeh, Joe.
—I’m sorry, he said. —I didn’t mean anythin’. I was bein’ flippant – stupid. Sorry.
I was going.
—I don’t even want you to come home to Dublin, he said. —Not really. I was just enjoyin
’ meself an’ I thought you were too. So – yeah. Sorry.
—You can’t fuckin’ say tha’.
—I didn’t mean anythin’.
—You can’t fuckin’ say tha’, I said again. —I’m still married, you know. I understand the fuckin’ rules.
—Ah, now, he said. —For fuck sake.
He laughed and I still didn’t want to hit him. But I wasn’t going yet – the need had gone from my legs. I wanted to want to hit him. I wanted to feel myself deciding not to. To forgive him because he needed me to.
—You’re a desperate fuckin’ bitch, Davy, he said. —I understand the rules. For fuck sake.
—It’s always been the same, I said. —But it’s not. Not now.
—What’re you on abou’?
—I always had to drop everythin’, I said.
—That’s just bollix.
—It isn’t, I said. —An’ you fuckin’ know it isn’t.
—An’ I’ll ask you again, he said. —Where’s this comin’ from?
—Fuckin’ always.
—Wha’?
—But I’ll fuckin’ tell you, it’s different now.
—I’m sure it is, he said. —What is?
—I don’t even live in this poxy country.
—Thank fuck.
—You don’t even know Faye.
—I know I don’t an’ I’m sorry for tha’, he said. —I am. I didn’t mean to – to – hurt your feelin’s. Or insult you. Or her – Faye. I really am sorry.
—You even insisted that I fancied Jessica, I said.
—Before we even knew who she was. Which we never fuckin’ did, by the way, I don’t care what you’re sayin’.
—Fuckin’ hell.
—Just because you fell for her, I had to as well. I broke it off with tha’ one – Mags.
—Mags?
—Yeah.
—Mags? he said. —Are we inventin’ people now? Fuckin’ Mags?
—Yeah – Mags.
—Who’s Mags?
—I think her name was Mags.
—You think?
—Yeah.
—Who was she?
—I went with her, I said.
—The love o’ your life an’ you can’t remember her.
—I didn’t say she was the love o’ me life, I said.
—An’ I do remember her. Quite well. I’m just not sure of her name. It was years ago.