by Roddy Doyle
—You’re with him now.
—When he was well.
—You’re with him now, Davy. He knows you’re here.
—He does in his hole, Joe.
—You’ve been with him for the last four months, he said. —He knew that.
—Okay.
—Stop beatin’ yourself up.
—Okay.
I looked at the mouth.
—He liked you, I said. —Did I tell you that already?
—I liked him too, said Joe.
My head was full again, a rush of water and Lucozade. I gasped, I coughed. I pushed it back. I sat up, pushed my back against the back of the chair.
—Where did you sleep? Joe asked.
I pointed at the bench.
—There.
—Every night – since he came in here?
—Yes.
—No wonder you’re fuckin’ exhausted.
—It’s not too bad.
—If you insist.
—I do.
—You’re a better man than I am, so.
I was looking at my father.
—I’m glad you’re here, Joe, I said.
—So am I, he said. —I’m glad too.
—I’m glad.
—Grand, said Joe. —We’re all fuckin’ glad.
There was a gasp, a hiss. An explosion we hardly heard.
—Was that it?
—Think so.
—I’ll get Maeve.
I didn’t notice her arriving. My father hadn’t changed. His hand wasn’t cold. She put fingers to his neck, his pulse. I watched her.
—Yes, she said.
—He’s gone.
—Yes.
—He’s dead.
—Yes, she said. —He’s gone. I’ll leave you with him for a little while.
—Thank you.
Joe was standing beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder. I let go of my father’s hand. I knew: it would be cold the next time I touched it. I let it go, and stood.
Joe hugged me.
—I’m sorry for your trouble, bud.
—Thanks.
—It’s shite.
—It is.
—You did well, Davy.
—Okay.
—You did.
—I’m goin’ to phone Faye.
—Good man.
I went to the door.
—No, he said. —Come here. You stay here, I’ll wait outside.
—No, I said. —It’ll be easier –.
—Okay, he said. —I’ll stay.
—You don’t mind?
—It’s an honour – go on.
* * *
—
Faye must have been awake.
—Hi, Dave.
—Hi.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say the words. She must have realised, or heard me; I might have moaned.
—Oh, David.
I could speak now.
—He died, Faye.
—I know.
—A minute ago.
—I’m so sorry, she said. —I’m so sorry. I wish I was there.
—Yes.
—Do you want me to come over now? David?
—Yes.
—I’ll be there tomorrow.
—Good.
—I love you, David.
—I love you too.
—I do.
—I know. I’m sorry, Faye.
—Stop it.
—Okay, I said.
—The kids, David.
—I’ll phone them.
—You sure?
—Yeah, I said. —Thanks.
—I’ll be there soon.
—Yes.
—In a couple of hours.
—Yeah.
—He had a good innings, she said. —So he did. Isn’t that what they say?
I smiled; I knew I was smiling.
* * *
—
We stood outside the hospice. It was five o’clock, already day. Joe’s app told him the taxi was two minutes away, on its way up from Raheny village.
—We could find an early house, he said.
—God, no – fuck.
—Ah, go on, he said. —Molloy’s or the Windjammer.
—No way, I said. —I’m bollixed.
—I’m only messin’, he said. —You’ll have things to do, anyway.
—Yeah.
—The undertaker an’ tha’.
—Happy days.
—You’re an orphan now, Davy.
—Yeah – yeah. For fuck sake.
—A big orphan.
—Yep.
—What’s keepin’ this fucker?
—Ask your phone.
He looked down at it. He brought it up to his face.
—One minute, he said. —It says, anyway.
—Grand, I said. —There’s no mad hurry.
—What about –? he said. —Do you want to come an’ meet Jess?
—No, I said. —No. Thanks.
—The early breakfast, no?
—No, I said. —Thanks.
—You’d like her.
—I know.
I didn’t want to see her. She’d be too real and too human. I’d leave them be, her and Joe, with the things that had happened and the things that hadn’t happened.
—Another time, he said.
—Definitely.
—Here he is now, look.
We watched the taxi come up over the hill, down, and towards us.
—Pity it’s not our man, said Joe. —The lad who brought us here.
—He was sound, I said.
—He was, said Joe. —Sound.
We watched the taxi slow, and stop.
—You’ll soon be home, Davy, said Joe.
—Yeah, I said. —I will.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Lucy Luck, Dan Franklin, Nick Skidmore, Daisy Watt, Deirdre Molina and Paul Slovak.
RODDY DOYLE was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of eleven acclaimed novels including The Commitments, The Snapper, The Van and Smile; two collections of short stories; and Rory & Ita, a memoir about his parents. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.