He’d discovered Phil through Neville, of course. Neville was comforting him after some lads in the playground called Theo a monkey and threw banana skins at him. Again. They must’ve been about twelve because they were still in primary school and it was before the joints, and then the powder, started to blur Neville’s sharp edges.
“They’re eejits. They don’t know a thing,” Neville had said after the arrival of a teacher sent them scattering. He didn’t reach out to comfort Theo – they didn’t want to add ‘fag’ to the other boys’ lengthy list of insults – but he stood close so that no one could see the sheen in Theo’s eyes.
After school, Neville took him back to his house, letting him in with his own key, and then leading the way up the stairs to his room. Neville was an only child and he had the run of the place because his parents were both doctors and out all day. He was like an older brother to Theo – his saviour, friend and role model.
“Listen to this.” Neville pulled a video out of a pile by the side of his bed and pushed it into the player. “But first close your eyes.”
“Why do you want me to close my eyes? It’s a video.”
Theo remembered feeling very confused and a little scared. He was still haunted by irrational fears: he was scared of the dark, he hated being alone, the sound of metal scraping against metal terrified him, ditto balloons popping or cars backfiring, and it was all he could do not to cower and cover his eyes when he heard screaming, even that high-pitched, mostly happy playground screeching.
But this was Neville asking, and so, reluctantly, he closed his eyes, putting his hands over his face as well. He didn’t want to let Neville down by peeking.
“The minute I went solo, people started offerin’ me deals,” a man said on the telly.
“Where’s he from?” Neville asked.
“I dunno. I can’t see him.”
“Take a guess. Go on, guess, Theo.”
“He talks like you so he must be from here, right? He’s a Dubliner.”
“Yeah, good. And so, d’ye think he looks like me?”
Theo hesitated. He didn’t know what Neville meant. To him, everyone in Dublin looked like Neville in that they didn’t look like himself, or at least not many did. So surely the answer must be yes. He opened his mouth but Neville was too excited to wait.
“Look, Theo. Look, he’s black. Well kinda. Definitely not white. He’s Phil Lynott, he was a massive rock star, and he was black and he was Irish.”
He was almost hopping with excitement over by the TV, smiling delightedly, his eyes glittering, all the enthusiasm that would later push him to seek out every kind of high, chemical and emotional, directed at Theo. He looked like he had discovered the secret to eternal youth, the Titanic shipwreck and where Shergar was hidden all at once.
“See?”
Theo didn’t know exactly what he was meant to see. But he nodded anyway because Neville seemed to need him to understand so very badly.
They watched the full interview. Theo was hypnotised by the soft lilt coming from the almost-black man’s lips. And he thought his Afro looked really cool though Theo would never then, or now, let his hair grow that long. There was something in the back of his mind, some flicker of his mother rubbing her hand over the top of his head, and saying, “It’s too long. I will take you to Mama Solange.”
But that was all he got. A fragment. He couldn’t remember who Mama Solange was or where she lived. Already, even at twelve, he could barely remember his mother’s face. He could just about picture it in its entirety but he couldn’t break out the individual features. He didn’t have any photographs, of course.
“And then, there was Paul McGrath, he was a footballer and he was great in the World Cups in 1990, and 1994, before you came here. There was a song about him and everything. Ooh, ah, Paul McGrath, I said ooh, ah Paul McGrath.”
Neville was jumping around now, pumping his fists in the air. He looked so happy that Theo got up and joined him and they both leapt around like eejits until the door banged downstairs and they realised Neville’s mother was home. They fell onto the floor, still laughing, still gasping ‘oohs and ahs’.
Later that week, Theo bought his first Thin Lizzy tape. It was Vagabonds of the Western World. They’d loads of their albums in HMV but he liked that one because the cover was so bonkers with its psychedelic colours and the rocket and the planets. Later, over time, he bought them all and they were still in a cardboard box in his flat. He hadn’t kept much from home – he’d gone through his stuff when Jim and Sheila moved to Donegal – but that box he kept, even though tapes were about as useful as floppy disks nowadays. He loved the music but he also loved the legend of the man and his contradictions. Lynott was proof that you could be all and everything, and perhaps dying young was the price he had to pay. Or maybe that was just hype and it was nothing more than an accident. That was the thing about legends – you could hang your opinions on them and they were strong enough to bear them.
That day at Neville’s, Theo made up his mind to speak like Lynott. It amused him now to think that what everyone thought was his obvious, ultimately hugely successful, attempt to fit in by speaking like the natives was really a secret tribute to someone who was, superficially, as little like the natives as possible, at a time when that really was a thing.
He swallowed down the last of his coffee and stubbed out his fag. Right, Michael better have some good news. Still no word from Neville and Theo had a bad feeling that he just couldn’t shake. In the best of all worlds, Neville was going to get a hiding. But Dublin wasn’t anywhere close to being the best of all worlds and Theo couldn’t help thinking about the stories he’d heard when Billy Mannion disappeared. Most of the rumours had been put about by Michael, a smug grin on his stupid face as he swore he didn’t really know the details while at the same time slyly hinting that he’d personally had a hand in poor Billy’s fate. As he hammered it back to the bridge, Theo wished he’d taken Ronan up on his offer to source him a gun.
“Ye never know when ye might need it,” Ronan had said in the pub a few weeks ago, talking as if he were someone. He’d said he could get Theo a tasty 9mm. Theo said thanks but no thanks and drained his pint, desperate to get away from the little git. Ronan was clearly trying to impress, hoping that Theo, whose star was on the rise with Gerrity, would put in a good word for him. Theo could’ve told him he was pissing in the wind: Michael didn’t like Ronan, didn’t trust him much and there was no way he was going to give him a bigger role. He should be happy with his lot, not sniffing around for more trouble, Theo thought at the time. He should’ve taken his own advice.
Michael was leaning on the cast-iron rail in the middle of the bridge. Even though it was a warm day, he was wearing a dark overcoat over baggy jeans and trainers, sunglasses and a beanie, for Chrissakes. Big coat for the big man, Theo thought as he walked onto the bridge.
The Council wasn’t having much luck persuading people to stop putting padlocks on the railings. There were still loads, some decorated with little red ribbons, or paper hearts, or just your bog-standard padlock with some names scrawled in marker. To Theo’s thinking, the padlock was a bitter symbol. Did love always have to be a burden, a weight, something to stop you being free? Maybe. Then, did hate set you free? But maybe the padlocks were to hold love together, to keep it safe. Maybe the Council should leave well enough alone.
“Howya, Michael?” Theo said.
Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t turn around either.
Stifling a groan, Theo leaned up against the railing, leaving a good few feet between himself and Mr Big so that the gobshite didn’t accuse him of being an amateur. He waited. If Michael wanted to play at being in The Wire, then they would play at being in The Wire.
“I’m only gonna say this once, Theo. Forget about Neville. He’s fucked things up and he has to pay.”
Theo grasped the railing tighter. Here it was but he hadn’t expected Michael to be so bloody blunt. He stared into the Liffey’s dirty wa
ters and somewhere deep under the fear and panic rising in his chest, he felt a bone-deep sadness. This was the moment when his train was going to come off the tracks. Again.
“That’s just not good enough, Michael. What’d he do? If he’s short this week, I’ll make it up. I can get the money. Just gimme a coupla days. I’ll come good, you know I will.”
“It’s not the money, Theo. If it was just the cash, do you think Gerrity would be involved himself?”
Theo turned to look at Michael. The waste-of-space was smiling.
“Wipe that smile off your ugly gob,” he muttered. “What d’you mean, Gerrity’s involved? Is he back in town again?”
“Yep, came in two days ago from Spain. And then, he heard about Neville and he’s taking it personal, like.”
If he rushed Michael now, he could flip him over the railing and into the water, Theo thought. But the damn Liffey probably wasn’t deep enough to drown him. Maybe it would poison him to death.
He spoke slowly, trying to think of the best words, the most meaningful words. There must be words to sort this out.
“What’s Gerrity taking personal? For God’s sake, will you speak straight and drop the bad-guy act?”
Michael flinched, his smile fading like an Irish summer. Good, the jibe had hit its mark.
“Neville’s been ratting to the cops.”
Theo almost laughed. It was so ridiculous. But Michael was smirking again.
“Neville, a rat? Don’t be an eejit, Michael. He’s a user, can barely get through the day without a coupla hits. Why would he grass ye up and muck up his supply?”
“I dunno the details. All I know is someone saw him being taken by the cops the other day, down where the yobs sell their trash round Blanchardstown. Fuck knows what he was doin’ there. Not our turf. And ye know what Gerrity thinks of open markets. Anyway, that’s on top of him not delivering his money last week. Like I said, I don’t know the details of it all but don’t you worry, Theo. Gerrity’ll find out.”
Theo struggled to take it all in. No time to figure out the truth now. He had to keep talking and he needed to get Michael on his side. No use flying into a rage with the tosser.
“I’ve known Neville nearly all my life, Michael,” he said, spreading his hands to show he wasn’t pissed at the younger guy. “There’s no way he’d talk to the cops. You’ve made a mistake.”
“Well, if that’s the case, he’ll have a chance to explain himself. Gerrity’s having a wee chat with him today.”
Theo turned away again and grasped the railing harder. He was feeling dizzy. The light suddenly seemed too bright, the water too shiny, the people too loud. This happened sometimes when he was stressed. Everything overwhelmed him, as though his whole system was starting to shut down. He took a deep breath.
“Where? Where are they? I want to be there.”
“No way, big man. We don’t need you gettin’ mixed up in this,” Michael said. “We’ll handle this the same way we always handle all these things.”
The smug tone, and that ridiculous ‘we’, finally tipped Theo over the edge. He leaped across to the smaller man, grabbed him by the lapels of his stupid coat, and pushed him hard against the railing.
“If anything happens to Neville, I swear I’ll get you, Michael. You think you’re God’s gift but you’re just a low-life wannabe. Gerrity’d cut you loose tomorrow. You’re nothing, Michael, and I promise you, you’ll be less than nothing if anything happens to Neville. You might think you’re the boss of me but you know nothing. And you can take that to Gerrity too. Anything happens to Neville and you’ve got a big problem with me. I know things.”
Michael glared at him, his face tightening so that for a moment he looked almost smart, almost deadly.
“First, Theo, you’re the one that knows nothing. That’s why we do things the way we do.”
Was the tosser really stressing the ‘we’ again?
“You know me, you’ve met Gerrity once, and ye hang around with that waste of space, Ronan Patterson. But for the rest, you know nothing. You’ve no information to trade, and the sooner ye get that into yer thick black head the better. Or is your English still not good enough for you to understand what I’m tellin’ ye?”
Theo pushed him away. To his horror, he thought he might cry. Michael was right. He didn’t know anything. What would he go to the cops with? ‘Hello Garda Plod, I’ve met Gerrity, he’s the leader of a gang selling bags of brown, bars of coke and yokes across Dublin’. They knew all that already and the bruiser was still on the streets, still going after people like Neville who’d done nothing wrong, who were just too trusting to play this game.
Theo rubbed his hands over his head. What could he do?
“Tell Gerrity to call me.”
When Michael just grinned and shook his head, Theo grabbed him by the neck again, this time pressing his thumbs into the soft flesh around his windpipe. That wiped the smile off his face. A few passers-by sidled their eyes over to them but hurried on past, staring resolutely at their shoes.
“You’ve no idea what I really am, Michael. Things I’ve seen. Things I could do. You think I’m frightened of you? Don’t be a gobshite. Tell Gerrity to call me,” he said, each word slow and sure. “Tell him I’ll vouch for Neville. I know he’s not a grass. Tell him.”
He dropped Michael and spun away, heading back across the river, back to the north of the city. He was shaking and his mind was racing. He wasn’t interested if Neville had grassed to the police or not. It didn’t matter now. They were going to act like he had anyway. It might already be too late. Jesus, what was he going to do?
Theo couldn’t bear feeling this helpless again. He stopped, leaned against a wall, tried to calm his breathing. He hadn’t been able to stop his father, he hadn’t been able to save Shema, and he’d lost the rest of his family by sneaking off like a mongoose through the bush. He couldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t still be that powerless, could he? What was the point of everything if he was just going to let things happen around him all the bleedin’ time?
He was walking up towards Inns Quay, the Four Courts looming ahead of him. The building usually looked forbidding but today the sun was sheening the brickwork, lighting up the copper dome of the rotunda. He’d visited the courts as a kid with his school and he remembered the statues above the portico were Mercy, Wisdom, Justice, and bizarrely Moses. There was another one too. What was it? Ah yeah, Authority. But those austere figures were too high up in the ether to help him now. Gerrity had swallowed them up and smothered or stolen their powers. He was the dispenser of justice now, the only one who could offer Neville any mercy, the one true, Catholic, apostolic authority.
Theo pulled out his phone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Howya, Grace. It’s Theo. Listen, can I talk to your mam? Sorry, I don’t have her number and I need to ask her something bout work. Are you with her?”
“Theo, how’s it going? Yeah, sure. We’re just out shopping. Gimme a sec, I’ll find her for ye. She’s around here somewhere. What’s the craic?”
In the background, Theo could hear the muted babble of people spending money they didn’t really have, hangers clicking on and off rails, bags rustling, some kind of annoyingly twinkly muzak. No point telling Grace anything until there was something to tell. She wouldn’t have a clue what he was talking about. For her, Neville was the smart college boy. She must know he smoked hash and maybe she knew about the cocaine – she might even do a few lines herself – but that’d be it. The two of them had been floating in their little love bubble since they met, so he hadn’t seen much of them. Neville had his lectures, Grace had her exams and he’d been busy pushing the new supply out. He’d drifted away from his friend. Took his eye off the ball and look where that had got them.
“Same old, same old,” he answered, moving closer to the river and away from the Saturday morning traffic building up along the quay.
“Maybe I’ll see ye later? Neville was saying something
the other day about an open-air concert in Phoenix Park tonight. I think it’s some young bands, from round our place, so probably not much talent, but it could be fun if the rain holds off? I haven’t heard from him today though?”
There was the merest hint of a question in her voice, an early-relationship query too shy to fully stake its claim.
Theo made a non-committal grunt.
Grace didn’t push it.
“Anyway, I’ll talk to ye later. Let me grab Mam.”
Theo waited, feeling awkward. He’d be the last person Deirdre’d expect a call from at the weekend although they got on well at work, chatting away through their break times, each seeming to have found the right-sized person for a particular-shaped gap in their lives.
It took a while but eventually Theo began to tell Deirdre about his family and childhood over there. Only snippets at first but she was a good listener, mainly because she knew nothing about Rwanda. Because of this, she didn’t probe the big picture, happy instead to discuss just what he told her. She asked him about Clément – what he looked like, did he play football, did he pick on his younger brother? And about Angélique – did she cry a lot in the night, when did she take her first steps, did he remember it? And she asked him if his mother was a good cook and whether his father played games with him. It was as though Deirdre was the missing link between there and here. She was effortlessly able to achieve the magical fusion that the counsellors had failed to deliver. He was even more comfortable talking to her than to Jim and Sheila. It was another disloyalty but no less true for that. Jim and Sheila had known too much to be able to see things like Deirdre did and, in any case, they’d had a different job to do. They had to make him feel at home in those first awful years and they knew that for that to happen, he needed to forget the Before. Today, the Before no longer threatened his Now. It was no longer a zero-sum game and so he could allow his memories in. The act of talking about it all seemed to be igniting new circuits in his brain as well, closing the circle on the whole process.
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