Boys Don't Cry

by Fíona Scarlett

  Finn

  There was a knock on the door. I took a peek out the bedroom window: it was Mrs O’Sullivan. What was she doing here at the flat? Had she found out about the bicycle rack? Was it because I couldn’t find my copy for last night’s maths homework? But sure, Joe gave me a sheet of his foolscap, and I still got it done. She was mad into her copies and her red-penned margins and her one-number-per-box rules, so it probably was that. Maybe.

  I opened my door a crack and looked out. There was a knack to spying in this place. The bedroom door had always been too fat to close properly, so that was one thing in your favour, and if you just opened it a little more, no one had a clue what you were at. You needed to stand the far side though, just behind it, so if someone did look over, they wouldn’t see you peeking. I learned that when Da saw me once when he was having a meeting with The Badger. He slammed it on my fingers for being a sneaky little bastard, so I didn’t do it that way again.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs O’Reilly. Would you mind if I came in for a bit?’

  I could see Ma’s back, not moving, blocking the door.

  ‘I promise I won’t be long – just a quick chat about Finn is all,’ she said.

  ‘Finn? What’s this all about? Could this not be done at the school?’

  ‘If I could just come in, it’ll only take a minute. I saw Mr O’Reilly hop on the bus there, heading into town, so I’d say he’ll be a while.’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’ Ma asked, her hand gripping the door. Making her block stronger.

  ‘Nothing, Mrs O’Reilly, but it means we probably won’t be interrupted is all.’ She waited, not saying anything else.

  Ma stood aside and let her in. Just about. Not asking her for tea, or clearing a space on the couch, or asking me to knock into Josie for the good biscuits.

  ‘Well, what’s going on?’ Ma asked again, folding her arms tight across her chest, still blocking.

  ‘I’m just a little concerned about Finn,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean? Has he done something? It wouldn’t be like him now if he has. He’s a good boy, our Finn, so he is.’

  ‘No, he’s not in any trouble, not like that anyway. I was just wondering if everything is all right here,’ she said. ‘You know, with Mr O’Reilly?’

  ‘Listen, I don’t know what this is all about, Miss, but lurking around outside, waiting till Frank has left, asking me personal questions … so I’m asking again, what the fuck is going on?’ And her hand was out, reaching for the latch of the door. Ready to shut her out.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. It’s just I noticed some marks on Finn today, lots of them, big dark bruises, all over his arms. He said he got them from yard, chasing, but Mrs O’Reilly, I just don’t believe him.’

  ‘So you’re calling my Finn a liar?’

  ‘No, of course not, but I was wondering why he would lie, if he is.’

  ‘What are you trying to get at, Miss?’

  ‘Look, I didn’t do this through the official means, yet. I know where that can lead. But I will if I have to, understand? I just wanted to check if you might know where the bruises came from first.’

  ‘All up his arms, you say?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs O’Reilly, literally covered. There is no way he would have gotten them from a game of tag like he says.’ Ma’s hand dropped from the latch, she was making her way towards my room.

  ‘Finn,’ Ma called, ‘would you come out here for a minute, love?’ I stepped back from my spying spot, made a show of getting up from the bed, not letting on that I’d been hid behind the door, being a sneaky little bastard.

  ‘Love,’ Ma said, ‘Mrs O’Sullivan here is a bit worried about the marks on your arm. Would ya mind showing us?’ I rolled up my sleeves to let them get a look. They were darker now, all a mash of yellow and purple, and covered both arms.

  ‘Jesus, Finn, what the fuck happened? Who did that to you?’ Ma asked.

  ‘No one, it was from tag, in school today.’

  ‘Finn, no one gets bruises like that from tag. When did it happen?’ Ma held on to both my hands and looked me straight in the eyes. ‘You can tell me, love, no matter who it was, you can tell me.’

  ‘You’re not in any trouble, pet,’ Mrs O’Sullivan added.

  ‘It was just from playing, Ma, honest,’ I said, holding her gaze.

  ‘Have you any more?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Finn.’ She held my hands a little tighter.

  ‘OK. Yeah. I have some on the backs of my legs too, from hanging off the bicycle racks at school.’ I took a quick look at Mrs O’Sullivan. She nodded and gave a little smile. Maybe she wouldn’t rat me out to Kelly after all.

  ‘Can I see?’ Ma asked.

  I rolled up the bottom of my trousers as far as they would go.

  ‘Jesus, love, they’re all up the back of your legs too. Are you sure that’s how you got them? Please, Finn. Just make sure you’re being honest with me. Promise me, love.’

  ‘I swear, Ma, that’s how I got them.’ I couldn’t remember how I got bruises before. I didn’t even think these were bad. Yeah, they were big, and colourful, and a bit mental looking, but they were only feckin’ bruises. I didn’t break my arms or legs or anything like that.

  ‘Right, love, you can go back to your room. I just want to chat to Mrs O’Sullivan a bit longer.’ I went back to my hiding place, behind the door.

  ‘I swear to you, he’s never laid a hand on him, and yeah, I know you think I’d cover for him, but there is no fucking way I would let him ever touch the boys. Either of them. I would rather let him kill me than that.’

  ‘I know, Mrs O’Reilly, but you can see why I had to check.’

  ‘What do you think it means? If he is telling the truth, sure no one should be getting bruises like that from what he’s telling us.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs O’Reilly, I really don’t.’

  I still didn’t get what the big deal was. They didn’t even hurt. They were just a few bruises. What the hell did bruises ever do to anyone?

  Joe

  Ma is at the toaster when I get in, placing two Birds Eye waffles in its slot, heating some beans on the hob, kettle boiling at her side.

  ‘Ah love, you’re back,’ she says, quickly rushing to tie the overflowing bin bag, all jingle-jangled with her empties.

  ‘I wanted to have it ready, for when you came in, like.’ She goes to give me a hug, and a kiss on the cheek, but it’s all stiff and awkward and not like Ma. Not the way it was or is supposed to be. At least when there was hope we could cling to that, but once that left us, we could cling to nothing, not even each other.

  ‘Ah don’t be worrying, Ma, you sit down and I’ll finish this up,’ I say, and we’re skirting around each other and the form of Him that is constantly wedged between us, still so fresh and unbearable, making us keep our distance.

  ‘Jesus no, love, go on and sit down, I’ll bring it over,’ she says, stirring away at the beans with the wooden spoon that used to redden our arses when we got out of line. Fucking discipline, Annie, Da used to say, showing her how to use the full force of it, making sure she’d be doing it right.

  ‘Pat was asking for ya, Ma,’ I say.

  ‘Ah go away to shite, asking for me or asking where I’ve been?’

  ‘It might be good for ya, to get back out of the flat again, you’ve always loved it down at the Tavern,’ I say. It’s true. It was where Ma shone. She had a way with her. She made everyone feel better about themselves, especially the underdog. She could handle any scrap inside too, and rarely had to resort to calling Fat Mick.

  ‘We’ll see, love,’ she says, a bit of the forced cheer slipping out of view. She places the plate of grub in front of me, with a steaming mug of tea, and then stands hovering, not sure what to do, not sure how to reach out to me, or check how I am, or see how I’m feeling or coping. I’m not, Ma, I want to scream. I’m the same as you. Crumbling. But I don’t say any of these things. I k
eep it bottled in, all screwed up tight, like always.

  ‘You not having any, Ma, no?’

  ‘Ah you’re grand, love,’ she says, and goes over to the couch, flicks on the TV, filling the silence, suppressing the golden opportunities.

  ‘Looks good, Ma, thanks,’ I say, with no response, at the table on my own, Finn’s communion photo in my direct eyeline, smiling at me through his hand-me-down suit, completely oblivious to what would happen to him, to what he would cause.

  ‘Oh, I meant to ask ya,’ she says, pressing mute on the remote and twisting herself awkwardly to face me. ‘Is Sabine doing all right?’ I put the fork down, wondering what she’s heard. ‘It’s just, I saw her there earlier, crossing The Yard, she’s just not looking right, not herself, you know?’ It’s a long time since Ma’s noticed anything, let alone something being off.

  ‘Ah yeah, she’s grand, didn’t get a course she was after, feeling a bit sorry for herself, that’s all.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she says, deceiving her never coming easy. ‘Maybe ask her around, it’s been ages, yeah,’ she says, turning back to the TV, and to the comfort of not having to look too closely at me.

  *

  I raise my fist to knock, wanting to make a statement, a side-fisted sound always more menacing than a knuckle, so I’m told, but the door is already half open, fuck it anyway, not getting myself off to a good start. I prowl myself through it instead, thinking a fright will do the menacing for me, which only gets swallowed by the noise of the young ones killing each other about the place so I’m back to square one.

  I’m behind him now; the threat of me is ever diminishing with each unrecognisable minute. He has the toddler on his hip, who is contentedly chewing at the teat of his bottle of Ribena, gurgling in delight as he manages to pull a bit of rubber away, allowing a gush of purple liquid to escape into the back of his throat and dribble down his chin, a big exaggerated gasp on him to show his enjoyment, David laughing at him while globbing luminous orange spaghetti hoops into bowls, freshly pinged from the microwave.

  ‘Grub’s up,’ he shouts, his back still to me, the rest of the Carthy clan happily ignoring his request, Mary Louise’s eyes fixed solidly to the screen of her phone, her thumb scrolling aimlessly, and Patrick and Shane tearing strips out of each other at her feet. There’s the clammy claustrophobic look about the place that’s always been there, crusted-on plates, half-filled mugs, empty wrappers and packaging cluttering the surfaces, the floors, and the syrupy, claggy smell of growing mould.

  He places the toddler down and grabs a bowl for himself, turning as he’s blowing on the spoon, dropping it straight back down on seeing me.

  ‘All right, Sir Joe, to what do we owe this pleasure.’ He takes a theatrical bow, rolling his arm out in front of him, taking a dig at me and my pedestal he so happily likes to highlight.

  The toddler makes his way to me, pulling at the leg of my jeans with his freshly sticky hands, bouncing up and down on the toes of his bare feet, signalling for me to pick him up, which I do, clasping my grip under his armpits, him wriggling with the tickle of it, and woosha him up and down over my head, repeatedly, the husked rasped laughter of him getting louder and more excitable with each lift, running away delighted and breathless when I place him down again. I catch Carthy’s eye then, him shifting a little, not sure where he stands with me.

  ‘How long has it been this time,’ I ask, despite myself. He continues to look at me like that, not quite believing that I’m here at all, and if he can trust me, and I can see the hesitation of the answer on his lips, can see it in his eyes, the weighing up of his decision to let me in again.

  ‘Two weeks,’ he says, ‘but she’s getting clean this time,’ and we both give a laugh at that, knowing full well the story of Mrs Carthy’s impromptu rehab sessions.

  ‘Look, how much does she owe, Sabine,’ I say, cutting to the chase.

  ‘Ah so it’s like that,’ he says, the smirk firmly back in place.

  ‘Just fucking tell us, yeah.’

  ‘Six hundred, even-stevens.’

  ‘Fuck off, sure Gertie only took two fifty.’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ and his hands are up in front of him, that fuck of a smile still plastering his face.

  ‘I’ll get it to ya,’ I say.

  ‘Will ya now.’

  ‘Yeah, I will.’

  ‘And how exactly are ya going to do that,’ he says.

  ‘None of your fucking business,’ I say, slamming my fist on the counter in front. The toddler starts crying at the crash of it; Mary Louise picks him up, throwing me a filthy look as she carries him into the bedroom.

  ‘Here we go again, Saint fucking Joe,’ Carthy says, coming in close. ‘Get your head out of your arse for even one second and look the fuck around,’ he continues, his breath catching on a laugh. ‘There is only one way you’ll be getting that debt paid,’ he says, ‘and we all fucking know it.’

  He picks up his bowl again then, starts shovelling the hoops into him, the sauce all dripping down his T-shirt.

  *

  I wait until Ma goes to bed, and leave an extra half an hour to be sure she’s out for the count, although I’m not sure she’d be all that bothered, hearing me leave that is, the fight is just gone from her, too consumed by everything else to leave any space for worry or concern about me.

  It’s always worse in the dark. The shadows. The echoing noises of misery. The smells smothering you from all angles. The fear of not knowing what you’re going to meet on the stairwell. Around that next corner. And I’m always brought back to when the electricity would trip, and Da would make me go down to the basement, to its sea of wires and scuttles of rats, as I’d edge myself along the length of its walls, with the torch from under the sink white-knuckle gripped in one hand, the handle of the brush in the other, ready to reset our switch, flicking it back into place.

  It’s still the same. The static shock of the place at night. Lads kicking the shite out of each other up and down the stairways. Drunken laughs, and shouts, and smacks bouncing off the bare walls, filling each and every space. The lights of The Yard still stoned dark, the glass of the bulbs long since shattered, and the methadone-withdrawn faces haunting the perimeter with their hollowed-out eyes, debating whether to fix it, looking hungrily at those already in the zone.

  Carthy is there, like I knew he would be. Gear bag at his feet.

  ‘Ah O’Reilly, you up to get the ride?’ The laugh on him then, hacking away, phlegmed up like an auld one on sixty a day, doubled over at the hilarity of himself.

  I get right up to him. Go in real close so I can see the flinch of fear tighten at him, grab hold of him around the edges.

  ‘Just so ya know, I’m not making a habit out of this.’ The look on him, the reality of what is about to happen dawning on him, his features verging on the arrogant, my grip loosening on him, and I’m not sure that I can give him the satisfaction of this.

  ‘Yeah, Joe, yeah sure,’ and he goes to open his bag, on full show, not having to worry or care or contemplate being caught. No Guard ever walking the rhythm of their beat anywhere near this fucking hole of a place. ‘So what will it be, bud,’ and he’s piling all sorts of shit in front of me, pulling it all out in an assortment of baggies.

  ‘Just some charlie will do.’

  ‘Ah here, but that’s so boring, unexpected telling the truth, from a man such as yourself and all.’

  ‘I said just coke,’ and I’m eying around me now, wanting to make sure I’m not seen, that people won’t think I’m in on all this now. For word to be getting out. For word to be getting back to fucking Da.

  ‘Is it for those posh bastards,’ and he’s nudging me now, like we’re friends, like we’re fucking associates. ‘I’m right, amn’t I,’ he nudges again, goes rummaging, takes out a tray of benzos. ‘They’ll love these so. All those pricks with their cheap shiny suits down the quays horse the benzos into them so they do. Nice little earner, these lads.’


  ‘Grand, yeah I’ll take that, and the coke,’ and he’s delighted with himself, taking his time wrapping them up, like he’s down the Tesco till packing bags, raising money for the local GAA.

  ‘You’re not to tell anyone about this either, yeah, a once-off, for Sabine, her debt is paid, yeah.’ He doesn’t answer, just continues with his packing; I get myself in a little closer, to make sure that I’m heard, that I’m understood. ‘So, stay the fuck away from her, you little prick,’ and he’s not so delighted with himself now. Starts to square up to me, ready to have his say about the whole thing.

  ‘Fuck you, Joe, you come here thinking you’re above all this, that you’re better than the rest of us, than your Da, yet here you fucking are.’ Now it’s time for the smugness. There it is plastered all over his face. I push in closer, put my foot hard on his, shoulder him into the wall, put my face into his, clamp my hand up under his chin, pinning his neck, just like I’ve seen Da do a thousand fucking times, and I take pleasure in the greyness that comes to his face, in the smugness that vanishes without a trace, in the look of absolute terror that replaces it. I hold on to his neck, the pulse of him thumping right through my arm, the pressure of his scalp against the concrete of the wall, and the energy and life that surges through me with the power and the strength and the smell of it. I push harder.

  ‘You won’t say a fucking thing,’ I say, spitting each word right into his face.

  As I make my way back, I pull out my phone, I’ll bring the gear, rapid-fired to Johnny, before I have time to change my mind.

  *

  Sabine insisted that she wanted to come. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said she was coming whether I wanted her to go or not, and who did I think I was keeping her away from free cocktails. I relented, told her to meet me out front at seven. She’s late. No harm, mind you. If we got there too soon we’d look like tools, having to make small talk about the weather, or school, or Jaysus knows. But I didn’t want to get there so late either that we couldn’t leave early, like I’d planned. I just wanted to drop, and go, but having Sabine there made things just that bit more complicated.