This is how it had been going for the last couple of weeks: Kavanagh would come in late, oftentimes smelling like a hangover. He would pace, look out the window, pace, sit down for a bit, yawn, pace, repeat – like a dog that needed to be walked. He seemed to know everyone and he kept seeing people he knew walking past the shop. He would leap up and run to the door and yell Howya Jim?! or Howya Mary?!, and proceed to have lengthy conversations on the footpath. He would offer to go and pick up Finn’s lunch or coffee, but would invariably get the order wrong. Throughout the day he would ‘just pop out for a bit’, disappearing for large swathes of time, and return stinking of weed. It was hard to be angry with him though because he seemed genuinely interested in tattooing. Whenever Finn was working on a client, Kavanagh hovered behind him and studied the process intently. He looked at the displays of designs and traced his fingers over the lines as if committing them to memory.
Finn asked him to work on some designs of his own. He could see that Kavanagh had talent, but it was unfocused. He was lazy. There was no finesse. No additional time spent. He seemed happy with just being okay. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he needed to be more like his old mentor, Eight Ball, authoritarian and menacing, but it just wasn’t in his nature. The thing was, for Finn, it was a difficult process to explain logically. For him, the tattoo was already there. It was underneath the skin. If he explained this to people it would sound strange, so he didn’t, but he had met other tattoo artists who had experienced the same thing. It was a conversation, a type of communion. They almost entered a trance-like state where everything disappeared but the needle and the flesh. Finn told himself that everyone had to start somewhere, and he remembered being as clueless as Kavanagh. Well maybe not quite as clueless, but pretty green.
Finn was fresh out of art school and still called Fionn when he spent a year in San Francisco, learning his apprenticeship from a bald-headed, old-school hard-ass who went by the name of Eight Ball. It was a fortuitous encounter, and he seized it while he had the chance. He was hovering in the doorway, looking at the tattoo designs on the wall. The range was beyond anything he had seen back home in Ireland. There were all of the classic American designs: flags and eagles and Sailor Jerry pin-ups. He knew he wanted a tattoo, but it needed to mean something. A good-luck amulet he could carry with him, like the boys going off to war who got their tattoos in Honolulu’s Chinatown before shipping off to Japan. As he was looking at the designs, an argument was breaking out in the shop.
‘Fuck you, man,’ spat a kid who couldn’t have been more than 19 as he backed out of the shop. His hands were balled into fists, his cheeks flushed, his voice trembling.
‘Get out of here before I kick your skinny ass,’ yelled the older bald man. He reached for the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be a half-drunk cup of Coke. He flung it at the kid’s retreating back. It landed on the footpath, where the lid came off. Coke splashed up the back of the kid’s legs and ice cubes puddled at his feet.
‘You’re an asshole, man,’ said the kid.
With that, the older man seemed tickled. He let out a belly laugh. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
The kid pushed past Finn and stomped off down the street, pausing for a moment to give the place the finger and spit on the ground.
‘Sorry about that,’ the man said to Finn, beckoning him into the shop. ‘Kids these days, huh?’
It turned out the kid had been Eight Ball’s apprentice, and now there was a vacancy, so Finn came to be Eight Ball’s new apprentice. All he did for the first six months was clean, pick up the lunch orders and watch Eight Ball at work. The buzzing noise of the needle was constant. Some days it could cut right through him and sounded like the sickening noise of a dentist’s drill, but if the mood was right and he was feeling upbeat, he heard it as a hummingbird flitting about in the summer sun.
Eight Ball was old-school, unapologetically so. ‘You fucking black T-shirt kids,’ he would rant in Finn’s general direction. ‘You can’t design. You got your stencils. You got your needles preloaded. Think you know it all now but you don’t know shit.’
Finn would present him with one of his designs, and he would look it over, then look at Finn and shake his head. ‘This ain’t it, man. Not even close.’
But something, stubbornness perhaps, kept Finn coming in, day in, day out. He was soaking everything up like a sponge. He saw the intricacies of Eight Ball’s designs, the attention to detail he put into every tattoo. He thought he would probably see out the entire apprenticeship without ever laying his hands on a tattoo gun. Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, Eight Ball looked at him, placed his hand on Finn’s shoulder and said, ‘You’re ready.’
The Americans found it hard to get their heads around the word Fionn. Dude, your name’s Fun? What did you say? Oh, Fee-yone? Huh? For a time, Eight Ball called him Funyun. Adapt or die, he thought to himself one day as he looked Eight Ball in the eye and said, ‘Call me Finn.’ So he came back to Ireland four years later with a new name, a West Coast twang, and a sleeve of the best tattoo work that side of the Atlantic.
Finn was doing some sketching when he saw Kavanagh come into the shop. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He was over an hour late. He saw that Kavanagh’s arm was in a sling, a sheepish look on his face.
‘Sorry, I should have rang. I, uh, had a bit of an accident.’
‘What happened?’
Kavanagh relayed some story of trying to open a wine bottle at a party and ending up in the hospital getting stitches.
‘Wait, you put the bottle in your shoe?’ said Finn.
‘It works, honestly,’ insisted Kavanagh, as Finn laughed. ‘Well, it’s not supposed to break, obviously. So, yeah. I’m out of action for a while.’
‘Well, look, take it easy for a bit until you’re recovered.’
Kavanagh nodded. ‘Okay. Also, I … uh … ordered a tattoo gun, a miniature one, online. ’
‘You what?’
‘Yeah, I wanted to get a bit of practice in, you know?’
‘Have you used it?’
‘Yeah, wanna see?’
‘Sure.’
Kavanagh rolled up his trouser leg and showed Finn an intricate Celtic knot on his calf.
‘I only had black ink, so …’.
‘Did you trace this out?’
‘No, I did it freehand.’
He could see that Kavanagh wanted some kind of validation. It was a decent effort, but the shading was off and it looked flatter than it could have done. Finn shook his head and heard his old mentor’s words emerging from his own mouth, ‘This ain’t it, man. Not even close.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Kavanagh.
‘Look, I mean, it’s not bad for a first attempt, but you should have waited … I don’t think you get this whole apprentice thing. I take this seriously. If you want to learn about this stuff, you have to watch and learn and try to take in all you can.’
Kavanagh nodded. ‘Fair enough, yeah. I hear what you’re saying.’
‘So, give it some thought over the next few weeks. If you’re really serious about this and you want to come back, give me a shout. We can have a chat about it.’
Kavanagh nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘And keep that shit clean. Did you cover it with cling film?’
‘Yeah,’ Kavanagh lied.
Finn grabbed a bunch of antiseptic wipes and placed them in Kavanagh’s good hand. ‘Here, take these with you.’
‘Thanks, Finn.’ Kavanagh ambled towards the door. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he called over his shoulder.
Chapter 10
The shop was full of second-hand furniture, like the mismatched home of some ragged family. A kitchen table and four chairs stood beside an outdated velvet sofa with ornate wood panelling, and a children’s desk painted with flowers. Nestled at the back, Ste
vie spotted a bookcase – dark wood with three shelves. They were spaced widely apart, perfect for her taller history books.
‘Excuse me, how much for the bookcase?’ she asked the man behind the counter.
‘Twenty Euro.’
‘Twenty? Okay.’ Stevie nodded.
‘But for you, twenty-five.’
‘Oh, twenty-five …?’
‘Ah, I’m only coddin’ ya!’ The man laughed a booming laugh that filled up the shop and caused all heads to turn towards them. He leaned towards her and in a low conspiratorial voice said, ‘Are you a student, are ya?’
‘I am, yeah.’
‘How much do you want to pay for it?’
‘Well, I …’.
‘Sure, give us a fiver.’
‘A fiver?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ah yeah. Call it a student discount. Do you need a hand bringing it to your car?’
‘Oh, no thanks. I’ve no car but I’m just around the corner.’
‘Grand, I’ll move it for you now.’ He picked up the bookcase and left it by the door for her.
‘Thanks a lot.’ Stevie handed him the money.
‘No worries. Here, do you like this fella?’ The man pointed to a religious statue beside the till of a small porcelain boy wearing a a crown and a garish red and gold cloak.
‘Oh, yes, he’s very …’ Stevie searched for the right word.
‘Isn’t he?’ The man nodded in agreement and looked at the statue in open appreciation. ‘That’s the Child of Prague. He’ll keep an eye on ya.’ He reached for the statue and put it in a plastic bag.
‘Oh, no, I….
‘He comes with the bookcase.’
‘Oh right, okay. Thanks.’
‘Sure you can manage now with that?’
‘Ah yeah, fine thanks.’
Stevie was surprised by the weight of the bookcase. The man had made lifting it look so effortless. She could feel his eyes on her so she summoned all her strength, turned to smile at him before lifting the bookcase, then shuffled crab-like out the door. She managed to get around the corner before lowering the bookcase to the ground, the muscles in her arms screaming with relief.
A familiar figure walked towards her. He smiled at Stevie as he held up his right hand, which was resting in a sling. ‘Well, if it isn’t Florence Nightingale.’
‘Oh, hey, you’re alive!’ said Stevie. ‘I was worried about you. It wasn’t too serious I hope?
‘Nah, just got some stitches. I’ll live. I don’t think we were properly introduced. I’m Joe, but everyone calls me Kavanagh.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Stevie.’
‘Stevie,’ he repeated, smiling at her. ‘I like that.’
‘Thanks. I’d, ah, shake your hand, but, you know …’. She laughed and gestured towards his sling.
‘Here, I’ll help you with this, if you like. Where are you headed?’
‘Wood Quay.’
He picked up one side of the bookshelf and winced.
‘Oh, mind your hand.’
‘Ah, it’s grand.’
They got to the end of the street before he stopped. ‘Smoke break?’
‘Sure.’ Stevie accepted a cigarette from Kavanagh’s packet. They lit up and leaned on the bookcase.
‘I hope I’m not keeping you.’
Kavanagh shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m just on my way home. I was at the dole office. They’re on at me to do a FÁS course.’
‘Oh yeah? In what?’
‘Fuck knows. Welding or some shit. This sling should buy me a bit of time anyway. They never have courses in things you might actually want to learn.’
‘Yeah, what they should really offer is a FÁS course that teaches you how to avoid having to do FÁS courses.’
‘I’d sign up for that,’ said Kavanagh. ‘It’s not like I’m not looking for work, ya know? It’s just there’s fuck all out there at the moment.’
‘Tell me about it. That’s mainly why I decided to go back to college. I was doing a bit of office temping. A day here, a day there, but it was going nowhere.’
‘Everyone’s going back to college these days. We must have the most educated dole queues in the world.’
Kavanagh flicked away his cigarette butt and smiled. ‘Right.’ He smacked his good hand on top of the bookshelf for emphasis. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
*
They placed the bookcase against the wall in Stevie’s flat, and Kavanagh took in the small but cosy surroundings.
‘Nice. So who do you share this place with?’
‘Just myself.’ Stevie pulled back the curtains and light poured into the room.
‘Aw man, I’m a bit jealous now, I have to say. I’ve Gary and Dan to put up with.’
‘Oh, those guys. Yeah, I met them at the party. The spatula twins.’
Kavanagh laughed. ‘I’ll tell them they have a new nickname. They’ll be delighted with that.’
‘Ah no, they seemed sound.’
‘Yeah, they’re not the worst. I can see now why you need this.’ Kavanagh gestured towards the stacks of books and folders piled up on the floor. ‘Are you a writer or something?’
‘No, I’m studying history.’
‘Oh.’ Kavanagh felt his heart sinking like a stone. ‘Like my father.’
‘Really?’
‘If you start talking about DeVelara and the Free State, I’m out of here.’
Stevie laughed. ‘It’s the medieval stuff I’m into. A bit before Dev’s time. Is your dad a teacher?’
‘He was. Actually, he used to teach at my secondary school.’
‘Oh. That must have been …’.
Kavanagh nodded. ‘Yeah, it was pretty fucking embarrassing, but I wasn’t in his class so I suppose it could have been worse.’
Kavanagh had cultivated a lack of interest in history to avoid having to take his father’s subject. Seeing his father in the halls was bad enough; actually sitting in his class and listening to a continuation of his dinner-time historical lectures would have been too much to bear. The boys called him ‘Spittalfields’: he was so passionate about his subject that he was in the habit of frothing at the mouth during his nationalist tirades. Kavanagh wasn’t sure if his father knew about the nickname, but all things considered he had got off lightly compared to the teacher with the nervous tick that the students called ‘Twitchy Ferguson’, or the unfortunate geography teacher who was lumped with the succinct but cutting ‘Stench’.
‘So, would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Stevie.
‘How about a pint?’ Kavanagh smiled. ‘I suppose I kind of owe you a drink after smashing up your wine.’
*
‘Best seat in the house,’ said Kavanagh as they sat in the snug in Neachtain’s. They placed their drinks on the small round table that had an old map of the world under its glass top. ‘That’s the great thing about daytime drinking – no packed pubs. Your choice of seats.’
Someone was playing jazz standards on the old piano in the corner. The plinky-plonky strains of ‘All of Me’ drifted over to them.
‘Looks like this is my new local.’ Stevie took a sip of wine.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Kavanagh. ‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘Well, this is my second time. I only moved here recently for college.’
‘Ah, you lucked out so. This is my favourite pub. There’s a couple of nice ones down the west as well.’
‘Down the west?’
‘Over the river.’
‘Oh yeah, I know where you mean,’ said Stevie.
‘It’s a small place really. More a town than a city in a lot of ways.’
‘Yeah, I like
it though. How long have you lived here?’
‘Too fucking long,’ said Kavanagh. ‘But I’ve concocted an escape plan.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Thailand.’
‘Oh right, you’re gonna move over there?’
‘Yeah. That’s the plan anyway. See, I was over there last year. A friend of mine was teaching over there and he married a Thai girl so I went over for the wedding. Man, I should have stayed put. It’s like something out of a film. White beaches, palm trees … monkeys.’
Stevie laughed. ‘Monkeys?’
‘Have you been over there?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘I learnt to swim over there and everything. Well, kind of. The water was like a bath. I’m telling ya, I’ve drank cups of tea colder than that sea.’
Stevie traced a finger around the edge of her wineglass. ‘It sounds amazing.’
‘It is. I can’t wait to go back.’
This was how it had been for Stevie with friends over the past few years, always someone moving some place, or someone coming back from some place, an endless rotation of leaving dos and returning drinks. Australia, Canada, England, America. One coming back, one setting off. It seemed every person her age was playing this giant game of musical chairs. She sat and smiled when the conversation turned to travel, which it invariably did, because in Ireland everyone was looking outwards and to the future. In this way Stevie felt like she was at odds with the entire country, because she was in a permanent state of looking inwards and to the past, at the secrets in the moss-covered stone waiting to be revealed. Travel was such a part of the vernacular for people her age that there was almost a presumption that she shared these experiences: the J1 visa in America, crammed into an apartment with college friends, or backpacking around South Asia, or taking a year out in Australia. So she demurred if the topic came up. She asked questions, feigned interest. ‘Oh, I’ve heard it’s lovely there,’ she would say. And if anyone asked her directly had she been to a particular place, she would say ‘not yet’, which was more hopeful than a flat out ‘no’, and implied a desire to go, which in reality wasn’t there. ‘Oh, you know, money …’ she would say, and they would smile knowingly because everyone was broke these days and now it was okay to admit it, even revel in it.
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