Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  It’s at that exact point, roysh, that I feel what I immediately know is another trickle of blood coming from my nose. It’s the worst bleed I’ve had yet and I have to put my hand up to my actual face to stop it. Luckily, roysh, there’s a gents, like, ten feet away. I walk over to it, push the door and go into Trap One. I pull off maybe twenty sheets of toilet roll and sit on, like, the lid of the jacks with my head back, trying to stop the bleeding. I’m sniffing like a focking madman as well, trying to stop it getting all over my clothes.

  It takes, like, ten minutes, roysh, but eventually the bleeding stops. I put the paper in the jacks and flush, then I open the door of the trap…

  I end up nearly shitting myself there on the spot.

  There’s, like, three security gords outside the door. And these goys aren’t dressed like focking stormtroopers either – they’re the real deal. We’re talking nightsticks, we’re talking guns, the lot.

  One of them sort of, like, throws me out of the way, then rushes into my cubicle and takes a look in the bowl.

  ‘Looks like he flushed it away,’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘What the fock is this?’

  ‘Sir,’ he goes, ‘we’ve had a complaint from a member of staff that someone was snorting cocaine in here.’

  I catch my reflection in the mirror behind him. There’s all, like, dried blood on my upper lip?

  I’m there, ‘I wasn’t snorting anything. I had, like, a nosebleed?’

  ‘Sir,’ he goes, except he says it, like, really firmly, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to calm down!’ the way bouncers do when they’re looking for an excuse to deck you.

  I’m there, ‘But I’m not even into that shit.’

  ‘Let me see some ID,’ he goes, like he’s not going to take any shit from me.

  I hand him my driving licence.

  ‘This you?’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘Of course it’s me.’

  ‘JP Conroy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  One of them sort of, like, grabs my elbow from behind, then another one grabs the other and the third dude goes, ‘Sir, we’re going to ask you to accompany us to the front of the casino – the police have been called.’

  I’m like, ‘Police? Whoa – you’re making, like, a major mistake here.’

  They literally pick me up and carry me out of the jacks and I’m suddenly like the coyote out of the Road Runner when he goes off the cliff – as in my legs are moving but they’re just, like, treading air.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I cop C-3PO, over by the craps tables, trying to look all innocent. There’s no prizes for guessing who the member of staff was.

  I’m there, ‘You’re a focking grass, 3PO!’ except I’m not sure if he hears me, roysh, because I’m moving pretty fast now and all I can see is the blurred faces of the old man and Darth Maul and Sorcha and Erika and Bib Fortuna and Helen and a couple of Gamorrean Gords and Ronan and Big Juice and the old dear in her wedding dress, tears still streaking her face, then finally Christian, Lauren and little Ross, staring at me open-mouthed as I’m carried, like a battering ram, through the gaming hall and the lobby and into the back of a waiting cop cor.

  ‘Fourteen hours!’ I’m banging on the cell door, going. ‘Fourteen focking hours! Either chorge me or release me.’

  I don’t know where that line comes from – probably CSI or one of those.

  The cell’s got, like, a bed, a table and two chairs, although the only thing you really need to know about it is that it smells of piss.

  The door swings open and a cop walks in. His name’s, like, Pat Patterson. I met him earlier and he told me his great-great-grandfather was from Limerick, like this was something to be proud of? I cracked on to be impressed, of course, and told him that Limerick was a beautiful port of the world.

  He leans against the wall. ‘We picked you up at three this afternoon,’ he goes, then makes a big point of looking at his watch. ‘It’s ten to seven.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah? And your point is?’

  ‘My point is, JP, that’s not even four hours.’

  I’m like, ‘Facts and figures – whatever. My point is, why am I still here? What did the medical examiner say?’

  He checked me out just after I got here.

  ‘Quite a bit,’ he goes. ‘Did you know you’ve got a septal perforation?’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, I’m kind of aware of that at this stage? But what did he say about the whole, I don’t know, coke thing?’

  ‘Well, from his examination of your pupils, and the swabs he took from your nose, it was, in his opinion, highly unlikely that you ingested any illicit drug in the previous twelve hours.’

  ‘Dude, that’s what I told you – my life’s a natural high…’

  He laughs – Pat’s actually sound?

  ‘So, like, what am I still doing here?’

  ‘The Federal boys want to talk to you,’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘The Federal boys? That sounds suspiciously like The Feds to me.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Er, do you mind me asking why?’

  I’m suddenly kacking it, thinking they’ve obviously searched the room and found the laptop and the radio mic.

  But it’s not that at all.

  ‘It seems there’s an arrest warrant outstanding for you since 2001.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yeah, a complaint you slapped a kid around in some toy store in New York?’

  My hort nearly stops. Of course, the obvious thing to do is to tell him that I’m not actually JP Conroy? But I know one or two goys from Clongowes who did jail time over here for carrying fake ID and it’s a generally accepted fact that I’m too pretty to go to prison.

  ‘I’d hordly say slapped around,’ I go. ‘If anything, it was just one good slap?’

  ‘Well, whatever – the kid’s coming up here with his parents. Hey, do you have any objection to taking part in a line-up?’

  I’m there, ‘Er, no.’

  He nods. ‘Hey, speaking of kids,’ he goes, ‘yours is here.’

  I’m there, ‘Ronan? Look, whatever he did, it was my idea,’ automatically thinking the worst.

  ‘He didn’t do nothing. He came to see you.’

  ‘Oh – well, that’s one good thing.’

  ‘Hey, what a great kid…’

  ‘Yeah, he definitely has a way with, like, people?’

  ‘The sergeant here – been here forty years. Got some great Mob stories. They’re sitting out there for hours talking.’

  His voice drops to, like, a whisper. ‘Look,’ he goes, ‘I shouldn’t really do this. But like I said, the boys all love him. I’m going to let him in to see you.’

  I’m there, ‘Really?’

  ‘Hey,’ he goes, ‘what harm can it do?’

  I’m tempted to tell him to frisk him for explosives. Knowing Ro, he’s come with an escape plan.

  So off he goes and ten or fifteen minutes later, roysh, the cell door swings open again and in walks Ro, looking majorly pissed off with me. ‘You’re some fooken tulip,’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘What?’

  He looks over his shoulder. ‘I feel it only fair to tell you, Rosser, Big Juice is not a happy man.’

  I’m there, ‘So you didn’t go ahead with the whole, I suppose, scam?’

  ‘What, with the heat you drew on us? What do you think?’

  He sits down at the table, opposite me, and sighs, I think the word is, wearily?

  Something suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hey, what name did you use when you asked for me?’

  ‘JP Conroy. Don’t worry, I’m wide. I remembered you talking to that speed cop and I thought, “I know what this bag of piss is going to do.” What are you at, Man? Tell them who you are.’

  I’m there, ‘No focking way. I could end up getting, like, six months – do you know what they do to pretty boys in the prisons over here? Even best case, I’d be, like, deported? Which’d mean no second series of the show.’r />
  ‘So, what, you’re gonna take the fooken rap for what JP did?’

  ‘Ro, there isn’t going to be any rap. I’m just thinking here, they’re setting up, like, an ID parade? So they send the kid in. He walks the line. If he doesn’t pick me out, they have to release me? I’m telling you, I’m going to be back on The Strip in time for the big porty.’

  The funny thing, roysh, is that as I’m saying it, I’m storting to relax more? I’m even looking forward to hearing Christian’s speech and wondering will I get a mench.

  ‘Take my advice,’ Ronan goes, ‘tell them the fooken troot.’

  I’m like, ‘Ro, forget it. Now this scam of yours, is it fixable – as in, could we do it somewhere else?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I think Big Juice was getting cold feet in anyhow. Ah, we’re gonna do something diffordent, even if it’s just counting cards?’

  ‘Counting cords? Like Dustin Hoffman?’

  He goes, ‘You don’t have to be autistic, Rosser, to track the ratio of high cards to low cards in a deck and determine the probability advantages…’

  It’s only now, roysh, sitting there in the cop shop, that I suddenly realize how proud I am to hear my son talking like that.

  ‘It’s just a matter of assigning a positive, negative or null value to each card in the deck,’ he goes, ‘then adjusting the running count as each card is dealt. Two to six are plus one. Tens, aces and paints are minus one. Seven, eight, nine are zero…’

  ‘Fionn said they think you’re gifted,’ I go. ‘In other words, freakishly intelligent?’

  He nods, roysh, like he’s taking it all in his stride.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ I go, ‘I’m not going to let them experiment on you.’

  The door suddenly opens. Pat’s back. ‘You ready for this line-up?’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘Right with you, Pat.’

  Ronan looks me dead in the eye. ‘Just fooken tell them, Rosser.’

  I actually laugh. ‘Ro,’ I go. ‘Piece of piss.’

  So the next thing I know, roysh, I’m in this room with, like, five or six other dudes, who are all around my age? We’re actually having a bit of craic because it turns out they’re all, like, students and they do this just for the shekels. I stort telling them some of the shit we did for dosh when we were over here on our J1ers and they’re cracking their holes laughing – really loving me, if that doesn’t come across as, like, too big-headed?

  ‘Hey, aren’t you that guy from that show?’ one of them goes.

  I’m there, ‘Er, yeah – but do me a favour, keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Man,’ he goes, ‘I love that fucking show,’ and he high-fives me.

  Another cop comes in and tells us to quit talking and to line up against the wall. There’s a whole The Usual Suspects vibe to it? They’ve even got the, like, height measures painted on the wall behind us.

  ‘Okay, bring him in,’ the cop shouts.

  I turn to the dude beside me and tell him they should all come to the casino opening tonight – as in, the new Star Wars casino? I happen to be best mates with the dude who project-managered it. He even named his kid after me, if you can believe that. He says that’d be awesome. I tell him I’ll be out of here in, like, fifteen minutes.

  And then in walks the kid.

  I feel my body go instantly cold. I’m thinking, no way. No focking way. This has got to be someone’s idea of a joke.

  He walks the line, roysh, spending a good four or five seconds studying each face. I’m shitting Baileys, of course. Not only am I trying to not look like JP, I’m also trying to not look like me.

  Then I’m thinking, there’s a good chance he won’t recognize me with the new nose. But I’m sweating like a fat bird writing her first love letter.

  He’s suddenly standing in front of me, staring hord at my face. I’m doing all sorts of shit, like squinting my eyes and pouting my lips to try to, like, throw him off the trail – but there’s obviously something familiar about my face.

  It’s just he can’t place it.

  He’s just about to move on to the next dude when he suddenly stops and I watch the – I suppose – realization dawn across his face. Our eyes sort of, like, lock, for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, then I watch his eyes narrow. He suddenly smiles at me, the little prick.

  ‘Number six,’ Danny Lintz goes. ‘It’s number six.’

  Pat Patterson says he’s sorry he has to cuff me. I tell him it’s cool. He pushes my head down to make sure I don’t bang it getting into the back of the cor.

  He gets in and storts the engine. He turns on the siren, roysh, but then changes his mind.

  The gate rolls upwards and we come up from the underground cor pork. There’s, like, a crowd waiting outside. They’re mostly, like, reporters, but then I stort picking out one or two familiar faces as well. Sorcha and Erika. Fionn and JP. Christian and Lauren. The old man and Ro. And Honor. All standing by me, no matter what.

  There’s no sign of the old dear, though, and that sort of, like, winds me like a kick in the stomach.

  They’re all waving at me. But with my hands cuffed, I obviously can’t wave back. Honor recognizes me even through the glass. ‘Daddy!’ she’s going. ‘Daddy!’

  Johnny Sarno’s loving it, of course. He’s got, like, two cameras trained on the cor and two or three more on the crowd. I suppose he’s thinking – like we all are – what a focking series finale.

  The cor makes its slow way through the crowd, Pat shouting at people through the speaker on the roof, to get out of the way. There’s a lot of flashbulbs going off in my boat.

  Then, all of a sudden, we’re clear of them and I’m looking back through the rear window at the madness, getting smaller and smaller, until it finally disappears and I’m left thinking, so that was it then – that was fame.

  I feel suddenly, I don’t know, empty, although I do realize I’m getting off lightly here. It took twenty-four hours for me to persuade them that I was Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, not JP Conroy.

  The District Attorney wanted to chorge me with all sorts. It turns out his son is, like, a major fan of the show. Two nights ago he called his mother a focking truffle-hunter and I don’t need to tell you who they blamed.

  ‘Hey, you’re lucky the sergeant took a shine to that kid of yours,’ Pat goes.

  I laugh. If only they knew.

  Soon, we’re taking the slipway for McCarron International Airport. Pat suddenly turns up the radio. There’s some shit on the news about home repossessions. ‘Hey, that’s only going to get worse,’ he goes. ‘You hear Bear Stearns said today they got serious problems with two of their hedge funds?’

  I turn around – as anyone would – and I go, ‘Er, this affects me how exactly?’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to, very humbly, thank the wonderful team that continues to support me in my endeavours. Rachel Pierce is more than just an editor to me – she’s my director, and a truly great one, too. Rachel, thank you for working so tirelessly, while never allowing the quality to suffer. Thank you, Faith O’Grady – I’m truly blessed to have you as my agent and friend. Thank you, Michael McLoughlin, Patricia Deevy, Cliona Lewis, Patricia McVeigh, Brian Walker and all the Penguin Ireland team – it’s a pleasure and a privilege working with you. I’d like to thank my friend Paul O’Kelly for allowing me to pick his enormous brain on the subject of mathematics. Thank you, Alan Clarke, for your quiet-spoken genius. Thanks to my father and my brothers for their love and support and all the fun years. And thank you, Mary, for making me happy.

 

 

 
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