Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —I’d hope so, he said. —Because, let’s face it, you’re married an’ you understand the rules.

  —Ah, fuck off.

  —I’m only quotin’ you, he said. —Who’s Mags?

  —Back, just after I left college, I said. —She had a flat on Leeson Street.

  —You broke it off with a bird with a flat?

  He was winning again. He was taking my anger and clarity from me. And I was letting him do it. Just as I’d done years before. I was trotting along behind him. Letting myself be his sidekick.

  I drank from my pint. It was warm – it protested; it didn’t want to be drunk. I swallowed.

  —I’m goin’ to the jacks, I said.

  —Good man.

  I hadn’t been sitting but I felt like I’d just stood up. I was dizzy. I didn’t stagger – I don’t think I did. The spots stayed away from in front of my eyes. But I could feel myself deciding to take the steps I needed to take to get to the door down to the toilet. I was remembering the hospital, trying to put one foot forward, failing.

  I watched the steps down, I held the rail. It was good to be away. Away from him, away from warm drink. I wanted to go now, to piss – urgently. I unzipped my fly while I was still on the stairs. I let go of the rail. I was fine.

  I pissed. It was fine. It was normal – strong. I hated this getting old, the surprises. The quick indignities. It was supposed to be a slowing down, but it wasn’t; it was a series of shocks. I’d been told that my hearing wasn’t great in one ear. I’d been told that I had low blood pressure, high cholesterol. I’d been told that I had a blocked artery, coronary artery disease. I’d been told that I had a cataract on my left eye – a small one, a growing one. All in less than two years. From man to old man. Dying man. Careful man. Self-pitying, pathetic man. I’d been told not to drink and I was getting hammered – I was already hammered. I was my young self, drunk, sober, drunk, sober several times in a day. I was drunk. I was drunk and angry, drunk and happy. Drunk and lost. Drunk and just drunk. I was missing something.

  I checked my phone. I’d missed nothing.

  I washed my hands. It was cold here – it was nice. I was still alone. I went to the wall opposite the sink. I kept my eyes on the door upstairs and I put my face, my left cheek, against the wall, the white tiles. I felt the cold go through me. Down me. I was steadier, sturdier. I went back to the stairs. I remembered what he’d said, I remembered what I’d said. I wanted to keep going. To keep going at him. I had to keep the anger. He had to know and I had to get it right.

  I was steadier, lighter. I was ready to beat him.

  I checked my phone again; I took it out. I’d done it already – I remembered that.

  —You said you had a stalker, he said when I got back.

  —No, I didn’t.

  —You did.

  —I told Faye I had a stalker, I said. —That’s what I said. But you weren’t listenin’.

  —Ah, Davy.

  —No, no – sorry, I said. —But I need to get this straight. You’d no right to say wha’ you said abou’ Faye there. It was just crude an’ you were tryin’ to make me go against her, even though you might not be conscious o’ that. An’ her name was definitely Mags.

  He looked at me. That was it – he looked at me. He didn’t try to interrupt or contradict. He didn’t smile this time, he didn’t shake his head. He let me talk.

  —There was a gig, I said. —In the Magnet. I’m nearly certain it was the Magnet. The Atrix – the band. I was goin’ to bring Mags an’ you said I couldn’t. You said it was disloyal, I could meet her on Saturday night or any other night o’ the week, but not Friday. Disloyal to fuckin’ you, by the way. Friday night was our night. An’ I remember thinkin’ tha’ that was a load of bollix, but I didn’t say it. An’ I didn’t go an’ meet her like I’d said I would, an’ I only had her work phone number an’ it was too late to phone her. I was supposed to be meetin’ her outside Trinity, I think it was – at the gates. An’ I didn’t go. An’ I really liked her.

  —No, you didn’t, he said now.

  —I did, I said. —But I didn’t know that until after.

  —Jesus, Davy.

  —It was always the same, I said. —I’m not blamin’ you. I was always the sap.

  I ignored the remains of my old pint and went for the new one. It smelt fine, it smelt good. The glass was cold in my hand. I drank. I put the glass to my cheek.

  —We always did wha’ you wanted, I said.

  —Not true.

  —True, I said. —I trailed along behind you. Until.

  —Are we havin’ another?

  —Go on.

  The barman didn’t hesitate. We hadn’t crossed a line. I wanted to stay there for ever. I wanted to go back down to the toilet and stay down there. I wanted to stay with Joe. I wanted to kill Joe.

  —An’ I didn’t fancy Jessica, I told him.

  —You did.

  —Only the same way I’d fancy any woman, I said.

  —I fancied her, was infatuated or whatever, because you insisted on it. If you fell for her, the world had to fuckin’ stop. But – me? Sorry, she was nothin’ special. Tha’ sounds wrong – sorry. But I wasn’t fussed.

  —Tha’ was the fuckin’ problem, Davy, he said. —You were never fussed.

  —Wha’?

  —The stalker, he said. —Go on.

  —Wha’ d’you mean, I’m not fuckin’ fussed?

  —Tell me abou’ your stalker, he said. —And then I’ll tell you if I’m right.

  —I told you already, I said. —There wasn’t a fuckin’ stalker.

  —But you told Faye there was.

  —Yeah.

  —Why?

  —The buzz, I suppose.

  He laughed.

  —I’m changin’ me mind, he said.

  —Thanks very much, I said. —Tha’ word, but. The phrase – the buzz. I feel so fuckin’ old sayin’ it. It just seems wrong. Like – there’s nothin’ worse than a fifty-year-old woman pretendin’ she’s twenty. An’ I’m assumin’ it works for men as well – that any self-respectin’ woman would gag if she heard me sayin’ the buzz.

  —Does Faye try to be twenty, by the way?

  —Leave Faye alone, I said. —An’, no, she doesn’t. But I’m bettin’ Trish fuckin’ does.

  —More, thirty, he said. —No – forty. No, Trish is great. An’ forty, like – I don’t even know what it means. An’ who said it was okay to have a go at Trish?

  —Sorry.

  —Fuck you.

  —We’re quits.

  —Jesus.

  —We’re quits.

  —Okay.

  —I’ve no idea wha’ bein’ forty used to involve, I said.

  —Same here, said Joe. —But a kid, bein’ a kid – I remember tha’, no bother. An’ the twenties.

  —Yep, I said. —Like yesterday.

  —And now – the way we are now.

  —Yeah.

  —I could talk all fuckin’ night abou’ tha’, he said.

  —But the years in between?

  —We might as well never’ve fuckin’ lived them, I said.

  —It does feel tha’ way sometimes, he said. —Maybe we were just too busy. The stalker – go on.

  He didn’t care about the stalker. He was trying to get me back. He was letting me talk. He was asking me to forgive him. I already had.

  —It was just a work thing, I told him. —Like the one you were talkin’ about. A Friday.

  —Dress As You Like Day.

  —I’d say it was before all tha’, I said. —The whole dress as you like thing. How long has tha’ shite been on the go?

  —Oh, fuck. Ten years? Twenty? I don’t know. I’d know if it’d started when we were in our twenties. I’d remember the fuckin’ day.

  —Exactly, I said. —But anyway, the kids were still small �
�� I remember tha’ much. It was just down to the pub after work. The English are funny – more formal tha’ way. But now an’ again someone would just say let’s go for a pint an’ it would happen. I’d have phoned Faye, to tell her.

  —An’ no problem?

  —No – no, I said. —None. Never. But, anyway, it was just one o’ those ones. That’s why I was so hammered by the time I got home. I don’t think I even had a packet o’ crisps all nigh’. I don’t do it any more.

  —Eat crisps?

  —No, I said. —Fuck crisps. I don’t do the drinks thing after work any more.

  —Same here.

  I could tell, my time with the mic was running out.

  —I’m the oldest person in the place, I said. —By a distance. An’ I feel it if I’m with them.

  —I know wha’ you mean.

  —An’ it’s not the drink, I said. —This – tonight, like. I haven’t drunk like this in – Jesus. Years. But it’s the company, the others. I haven’t a clue wha’ they’re talkin’ about.

  —Same here, he said.

  —The words, I said. —The language. I end up wonderin’ is it English. An’ I’m living in fuckin’ England, by the way. But anyway, this was years ago. Down to the boozer with a gang.

  —English pubs are shite.

  —Not all o’ them. But, yeah. This one was okay.

  —Wha’ d’you drink over there?

  —I drink bitter.

  —Ah, Jesus. Fuckin’ bitter?

  —It’s an acquired taste, I said. —An’ I’ve acquired it. When in Rome.

  —Drink piss.

  —I like it, I said. —Anyway –.

  I hung there for a while – over a bowl of words and sentences. I could pick one up – woman – and see where, how far I could carry it. I could make up a life to match his. Have an affair. Launch one here, see what I could do with it.

  —It was one o’ those days, I said. —When you’re so tired, so – I don’t know – wired as well, you can feel the first pint nibblin’ away at you immediately, you know. I was drunk before I was drunk, if tha’ makes sense.

  —Been there.

  —Half an hour later my head was hangin’ over the table – I was bollixed. I remember gettin’ into a taxi an’ it was still daylight – it was the summer, like. An’ I got back out of it before it started movin’. I just thought the kids would still be up when I got home an’ I wasn’t havin’ tha’, the state I was in. I didn’t want them seein’ me. So I was staggerin’ around the town. Tryin’ to walk straight, you know. An’ failing fuckin’ miserably.

  —Where is it again?

  —Wantage, I said. —It’s in Oxfordshire.

  —Strange name.

  —Yeah, at first – a bit. A lot o’ the place names sound strange, when you’re away from the towns tha’ have football teams.

  —Scunthorpe.

  —Macclesfield.

  —Hartlepool.

  —Halifax, I said. —So, yeah, it’s all a bit confusin’, even though it’s only over the water. But you get used to the names. East Challow, East Lockinge, Stanford in the Vale. It’s just English an’ that’s where we are, so fair enough. An’ they haven’t a fuckin’ clue abou’ the place names over here.

  —The ones that’d bother comin’ over.

  —Ah, lay off, I said. —But, anyway, I couldn’t remember wha’ pub I’d come out of.

  —Did yis always go to the same one?

  —Yeah, we did, I said. —The Lord Alfred’s Head. But I couldn’t remember it. I was so drunk, it was like I’d taken tha’ date rape drug – what’s it called?

  —Rohypnol – is it?

  —Sounds right, I said. —I was wiped.

  —Come here, though, said Joe. —Did someone slip somethin’ into your drink?

  —I never thought o’ tha’, I said. —Christ –. There’s a fuckin’ thought, though. After all these years. But no. I don’t think so. An’ I found the pub – I figured out where I was. An’ I went back in. But I didn’t go over to the gang again. I didn’t sit down. I went back out an’ got into another taxi. But all I remember then is being in the hall, at home, an’ one of me shoes was missin’.

  —Rohypnol – I’m telling you.

  —No. No – but maybe you’re right. Why would someone from work do tha’?

  —Your stalker.

  —But there wasn’t a stalker.

  —Maybe there was, he said. —Tryin’ to get into your boxers.

  —She wouldn’t’ve needed to drug me.

  —Maybe she did, though, said Joe. —The happily married man. She’d’ve had to drug your smugness.

  —Fuck off, I said. —But, anyway, I had nothin’ to tell Faye, so I told her about the stalker, the woman who wouldn’t leave me alone.

  —Out o’ nowhere, said Joe.

  —Not quite, I said.

  —Oh, oh.

  —But basically, yeah, I said. —I made her up.

  —How did she take it – Faye?

  —She was all set to get me into the car an’ back to the pub, to point her out an’ confront her.

  —Brilliant, he said.

  —She was hoppin’, I said. —Fuckin’ furious.

  —Fuckin’ sure she was. An’ there actually was a woman, was there?

  —Not really.

  —Go on, yeh fucker.

  —It was nothin’.

  The feeling, the rush of happiness, of achievement, surprised me. I was worth listening to.

  —But you see, said Joe. —There’s the thing. Faye would’ve known there was somethin’. She’d’ve sensed it. She’d’ve felt threatened.

  —There was no need for her to feel threatened, I said.

  —You’re missin’ the point, Davy. You’re missin’ the fuckin’ point. She’d’ve been feelin’ elated, up to the fuckin’ challenge. Like Trish.

  —You split up with Trish.

  —Yeah – but.

  —Wha’? Trish can’t’ve been all tha’ fuckin’ elated, Joe. She threw you out.

  —Oh, she was, he said. —She really was. A fight on her hands – she was fuckin’ delighted.

  —A fight for you?

  —For herself.

  —Jesus, Joe.

  —Wha’?

  —You sound – you sound like such a cunt sayin’ tha’.

  —Wha’?

  —Tha’ you were doin’ Trish a favour by havin’ it off with Jessica. Sorry – I don’t mean to be crude there. But for fuck sake.

  —I’m not sayin’ tha’.

  —You kind of are.

  —Maybe I am, he said. —But it’s not as simple as tha’.

  I could think of nothing I wanted to say. I didn’t want to make up the woman now, or Faye’s reaction to her. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust Joe. He’d examine every word; he’d catch me out. I didn’t want to hear his male-infidelity-was-good-for-women theory, and he didn’t either. He’d gone silent too. He was looking at his pint. He picked it up. He drank. He put it down. I put my hand around my glass. It still felt cold; I’d be able for it. I picked it up.

  —Where were we? said Joe.

  —Don’t know.

  —Tha’ stuff there, he said. —Abou’ Trish comin’ alive an’ tha’. I wish I hadn’t said it.

  —Okay.

  —I didn’t really mean it, he said.

  —Grand.

  —Was there a woman?

  —No, I said. —There was – no. It’s not worth mentionin’.

  —Did she get in the car?

  —Faye?

  —Yeah.

  —No, I said. —No, she didn’t. I fell asleep.

  —You didn’t even get a ride out of it.

  —Joe.

  —Sorry.

  —Okay.

  —Drink talkin’.

  —Ye
ah.

  * * *

  —

  The air outside was good. The day’s heat was gone. I examined my walk, my feet – I was fine. I was surprised, pleased. Joe was beside me at first but the numbers coming at us on the path around to College Green made walking together tricky. There was no talking. I led the way. That surprised me too.

  He was beside me again.

  —Dublin is unbelievable, he said. —The fuckin’ crowds.

  —Yeah.

  —It’s never quiet, he said. —We could drink all night if we’d a mind to.

  —There’s a fuckin’ thought.

  We walked side by side, and separately when there wasn’t room, beside the new tram tracks, to the bottom of Grafton Street. I wondered if I was fitter than him, if that was why I was in the lead; I could walk faster than Joe. I didn’t think so. He wasn’t overweight; his breathing wasn’t laboured. I half expected him to trip me.

  We were on Grafton Street now.

  —I need to get cash, he said.

  —I’ve cash, I told him.

  —I want some of me own, bud, he said.

  We were at the AIB, beside Weir’s jewellers. My father had bought me a watch in there, when I started secondary school. I remembered him giving it to me the night before the big day. It was in a box, not wrapped.

  —I quite liked school, he’d said.

  —Thanks.

  —The Brothers weren’t the worst.

  —Okay.

  —Your mother would be proud, he said.

  —Thanks.

  —Very proud.

  Joe had joined one of the queues at the cash dispensers. There were two homeless men – young lads, wrapped up for a much colder night – sitting against the wall, on the ground beside the machines. There was a couple – man and woman – putting down a flattened cardboard box in a shop porch across the street. They were young, my children’s age. I’d noticed it before, the last time I’d been in Dublin. But I’d forgotten. Every shopfront seemed to have a lone man or couple.

  I looked at Joe. He was at one of the machines, his face close to the screen. He was holding his glasses over his head with one hand as he tapped in his PIN with the other. He looked at the homeless lad beside him; he’d put his glasses back on. I saw him put a hand in his pocket. He bent down slightly and dropped a coin into the lad’s paper cup, then straightened and took his cash and card. The lad sitting on the ground said something, and Joe laughed and said something back. The money and card went into the breast pocket of his shirt, before he turned and saw me. He was buttoning the pocket as he came up to me.