Quarter to eight and she’s here, her dusted lilac hair pinned loosely into two Princess Leia-type buns, her familiar skinny blacks and patent Doc boots making their way towards me, in no fucking rush, like.
‘Enough glitter, yeah?’ I ask, her eyes and lips disco-balling away like ninety.
‘Fuck off,’ she says, leaning into me, linking her arm through mine.
‘What’s with the puffer,’ she says, nodding at the big lump of a coat on me. Trying to prise it off my shoulders.
‘Get to fuck,’ I say, nudging her off me, pushing her away.
‘Jaysus, all right,’ she says and walks on ahead, and I can feel the blister of the gear against my chest, hoping that the bulge of it can’t be seen.
We get to Johnny’s coming on nine, which is a nice one all round. We would be safe leaving at half ten, excuses of the last train on our lips. As we’re walking his street, it’s the calmness that unsettles, the peacefulness of it, the detachment of the houses, the sparkle of the four-wheel drives out the front, the background hush of the sea, the maturity of the oaks with their whispering leaves, promising protection, promising opportunities.
Bonnie Mitchell opens the door, all tanned and cashmere.
‘Joe,’ she says, and quickly pulls me into her, kisses placed either side of my cheeks, her smoked perfumed scent suffocating the air.
‘We’re all so delighted that you could make it,’ she says, and how the lies come so easily to her.
Mrs Mitchell sent a card. In place of her presence at the funeral. To Ma when she heard. It was in an envelope so heavy and paper so thick it needed two stamps. In the time before, I would have reused that paper, I would have imagined how it would soak up my ink, how it would work against the black of my pen. But it just lay in the bin after, not a second glance given.
‘They’re all in the marquee out back,’ she says, leading us in, saying a quick hello to Sabine, welcoming her as ‘Joe’s dear friend’, as our feet sink right into the depth of the cream woollen carpet. ‘Keep the mess contained, is what I say, it leaves it easier for tomorrow’s clean-up too, and also lets you have a bit of privacy away from the oldies. Am I right,’ she says, giving us a wink, and Sabine is at me, her excitement worn all over her, ‘Stay friends with Johnny’ muttered under her breath.
The marquee is huge and crowded. Dance floor in the middle, a bar at either side, and a DJ pumping tunes I’m too Joe Sixpack to appreciate.
‘Bleedin’ amazing,’ Sabine shouts, pulling at my hand as we make our way through the crowd of endless faces. Some I recognise, most I don’t. No one registers me. A blank stare looking through you far worse than a disgusted reaction.
‘Come on, let’s dance,’ Sabine says, pulling my hand towards the dance floor.
‘Ah you’re all right,’ I resist. ‘I’m just going to get me a drink first.’ She is off before I’m finished, joining the crowd on the dance floor, as if she’s been part of this world forever. Not seeing or feeling the divide like I do.
It’s then that I notice Johnny, surrounded by the rugby team all reminiscing on last week’s victory.
‘What’s with the big fuck-off coat,’ he laughs, not getting the discomfort.
‘Inside,’ I whisper, not making myself obvious at all.
‘Oh, right, yeah,’ he says, winking at me, and then breaking into a laugh, as if this is all just some game, no big deal.
Once we’re inside, and well out of sight, I take out the stash I have hidden in the lining. I can see Johnny’s eyes light up, drinking in all the detail, happy to see how it goes down and all I can think of is Jarvis Cocker’s ‘Common People’ in the back of my head, playing itself on fucking repeat.
‘Nice one, Joe, fucking nice one,’ as he reaches out to take what I’ve got. He leaves it on the side cabinet and moves into his pocket for his distressed leather wallet, the Louis Vuitton marking so subtle you’d hardly notice it, but unmistakably there all the same. ‘I made sure to get cash – you know, no trace,’ as if we were on an episode of fucking Love/Hate. ‘Got you a mark-up too, we’re happy to pay for it, you’re not putting anyone out, you know that Joe, don’t you,’ and the absolute obliviousness of him, the money fanning out in front of him.
I grab it, stuff it into my pocket, and fling my puffer into the corner, wanting to get it as far away from me as possible. He’s still standing there, arm outstretched, the money that greased his long soft fingers meaning absolutely nothing to him.
‘Joe, you do know it would have been OK if you couldn’t bring this stuff.’ The smile is gone from him now, and he’s putting his wallet back into his pocket. ‘Seriously, it really wouldn’t have mattered,’ completely ignorant of how much all this matters to me. ‘I never would have asked if I knew it would affect us,’ and he puts his hand on my shoulder.
‘Ah look, you’re all right,’ I say, giving his hand a pat, signalling it’s OK for him to take his down, ‘there’s other stuff going on, it’s complicated, but just don’t ask me to do this again,’ and it comes out fiercer than I intend, I see the sharpness of it in the flinch of his face. ‘This is the one and only time I’ll ever do this, OK?’ I continue, really needing him to understand that this can’t be what I’m known for.
‘Yeah, of course, no problem, and sorry,’ he says, and hovers, not sure what to do next.
‘All right, I’m off to the bar so,’ I say, getting him off the hook, ‘are ya coming?’
‘Ah you’re grand, I’ll get this stuff sorted.’ He starts packing the gear into a bag, ready to start handing out, like party favours.
‘Chat to ya so,’ I say, and make my way through.
I get to the bar and I see her before she sees me. Naoise. My heart thumps just that bit harder. Fuck.
I pretend to busy myself with the drinks menu. A fucking drinks menu, a real one. For a house party. I scan to make it look like I haven’t seen her, or don’t feel her coming closer to me.
‘Joe,’ she says, putting her arms right around me, kissing me hard, parting my lips with her tongue, and her head is back now laughing, her toppling over herself. ‘I’m so fucking drunk, Joe,’ she slurs into my ear, all polished and free, and it’s more than the drink, I can tell by the buzz of her, by the chew of her cheek.
‘Ah howya,’ I say, drinks menu still in hand, still trying to catch my breath, still tasting the tang of her, unsure of what to do next, or where to put my hands, or where in her space I should be.
‘Have you decided yet?’ she asks, breaking through my anxiousness with a tapping at the menu in my hand, sitting herself into my lap. ‘I can recommend the pink flamingo,’ she says, and I start to laugh, wrap my arms around her waist, and leave them there, fingers sprawled on her thighs, connecting us, making us fit.
‘All right so,’ I say, game for the challenge.
‘Two pink flamingos when you’re ready,’ I say to the barman, who looks pissed off to fuck being giving orders by jumped-up little tossers, his face brightening slightly at my accent.
She can’t stay still, she’s up looking around, then back down, and ‘This fucking song,’ she screams, pulling at me to get up, dancing in the gap between us, pulling at my arms.
‘Two pink flamingos, sir,’ the barman says, placing two sparkling concoctions in front of us, complete with flashing pink ice cube and pink-flamingoed umbrella. She takes hers, places the umbrella behind her ear, and downs it in one. Takes mine then and does the same.
‘This fucking song,’ she says again, spinning herself out of my reach. And then I see him, Phonsie Dunphy, in a ring with the lads on the dance floor, breaking away, shouting towards us.
‘Naoise, over here,’ he says, him all buzz too, and she’s leaving, moving towards him, he picks her up, her squealing, and they go into the centre of the jumping ring, all concealed and uniformed with belonging, and I just stay, not calling out, not trying to join in.
I’m getting myself up off the stool, and the heaviness of it, trying to scan for Sabine. I battle
my way through the dance floor, through arm-joined barriers jumping in time to ‘Maniac’, searching for Sabine, wading through the dancers, and stumblers, and moshers, all bumper to bumper, looking for her, wanting to firmly plant my suggestion of leaving. But no sign. Typical. I try my phone, no answer. I get to the house and enter the long-carpeted hallway, go to try the phone again when I see Naoise, and Phonsie Dunphy, at the door by the study. Him all over her. Pulling and dragging at her, his lips on hers. Roughly. She is not responding; she is practically unconscious, limply trying to resist.
‘Get the fuck off her,’ I say, pulling Dunphy back, taking him by surprise.
‘Fuck off, O’Reilly,’ he says. ‘This is none of your business, but I’ll be finished in about half an hour if you want a go of her then.’ He turns his back to me, trying to get Naoise through the door of the study, trying to slam me out. And my heart starts to race, really fucking pump, my hands sweating, my tongue not swallowing, and all this saliva is gathered and swirling around in my mouth, with nowhere at all to fucking go.
‘Get away from her now, Phonsie, or I swear to fuck I’m busting your fucking face.’
He lets out an entitled laugh, ‘Well, my baby’s got the Benz, thanks to you,’ and I punch him, hard, in the side of his ribs, winding him, giving me enough time to get her, but I feel the shake in my hands, my knees, the thump of my chest ringing hard in my ears. I did this, I brought this shit here. I bring her towards the bathroom, splash water on her face, trying to get her to stay with me, I lean her over the bath and stick my fingers down her throat, until she gags, until she retches up the pills she’s taken, I do it again, to make sure, she’s sobbing now, shivering, I place her head on my lap, my jumper over her shoulders and take out my phone and ring Johnny.
‘I’m in your bathroom, yeah the downstairs one, come quick, it’s Naoise, and phone an ambulance.’ I stroke her hair as she sobs, chat to her gently, tell her it will be OK and I’m rubbing my hands on my jeans now, trying to calm my breathing, calm myself down, trying not to let the guilt eat right into the nerves of me, I can feel it seeping, soaking me right through. The door slams open, Mr and Mrs Mitchell rushing to their daughter, a superior fuck of a smile on Phonsie Dunphy hovering behind them.
‘What did she take,’ I yell at Phonsie, ignoring the looks of shock, the mutterings of denials from the parents. Mrs Mitchell has now started to cry, sobbing right there along with her daughter, she has taken over from me, has her now cradled to herself, lullaby rocking, back and forth.
‘She’s gotten most of it up,’ I reassure her, ‘but we’ll need to know what she took for the paramedics, when they get here,’ and she turns to Phonsie now too, pleading with him to let her know. Her voice erratic, escalating with each plea.
‘Ask Joe, he’s the one who brought it,’ he says, not an etch of a lie visible anywhere near him and the shame of it is all me, heavier than I ever thought possible.
‘Bonnie, I’m calling the Guards,’ Johnny’s Da calls out, but I don’t register yet that this is not going well for me, not until I realise that they are all looking at me. Until I realise what that look on their faces means, and sure isn’t it true what they say, like father like son, that tarred brush a magnet, only attracted to scum like me.
Finn
‘Back again, Mrs O’Reilly? What seems to be the problem this time?’ Dr Flynn asked, barely looking up from his computer screen. I wondered what he had on it. Minecraft, Candy Crush, or the last level of Plants vs. Zombies? I didn’t think I’d look up from that either, especially if I hadn’t passed a checkpoint yet.
‘Show him, Finn,’ Ma said, pulling at my arms, making me stretch them out, right in front of him.
He sat up now, straight in his chair. Took my arms and looked them over and over.
‘Can you take your jumper off for me, Finn, good lad.’ He was inspecting my arms closely. I could see the hair up his nose, black and springy, like John Joe McGinty’s labradoodle.
‘Has he any more?’ he asked Ma.
‘Yes, Doctor, all up the backs of his legs as well.’ He inspected those too. Ma was sat still. Ma was never still. She was always drumming, or tapping, or chewing on that hard skin around her nails, until it bled.
‘How did he get them?’ Dr Flynn asked, still inspecting.
‘Chasing, Doctor. He swears it. And swinging off the bicycle rack in school. That’s what—’
‘How quickly did they appear?’ he asked.
‘Straight away, and they’re getting worse, darker.’
Dr Flynn was writing on his computer. His fingers flying like the feckin’ Flash. I didn’t think anyone could type that fast. Now Rebecca Burke could have given him a run for his money; she helped her Da out at the shop at the weekend, sometimes even on a school day, when she’d come in late with her lips and tongue blue from sucking on blueberry bonbons. But Dr Flynn was like a champion of speed typing, if there ever was such a thing.
‘I’m contacting a friend of mine. A specialist. Immediately,’ he said. ‘She’ll see him quickly, on my recommendation.’
‘Jesus, Doctor. What do you think it is?’
‘I can’t be sure, Mrs O’Reilly. He needs further testing, blood work, but this along with the nosebleeds could mean something else.’
‘What else?’ Ma asked, leaning forward with her two hands gripped on to the side of her chair. Her knuckles white, I couldn’t see her fingers, tucked under tight. The scab of her fag burn was starting to crack. It was a mistake. Da usually put them places where nobody would see.
‘I really can’t say, but we need to get it investigated, and the quicker the better.’
Ma hadn’t moved.
‘Have you thought about getting a medical card, Mrs O’Reilly? I’m sure you’d qualify.’
‘No, Doctor, it’s not for us. Frank doesn’t like us sponging off the state.’
‘Why don’t you just fill in the form. I can get Sheila to go through it with you, in the back room?’
‘He checks the post.’
‘Fill in the form anyway, Mrs O’Reilly. We can see about the rest of it later.’ He placed his hand on Ma’s arm. Gently.
‘You can pop on your jumper again there, Finn, there’s a good man. Would you like a lollipop, or are you too old for that now?’
‘No, Doctor, a lollipop would be great.’ I rummaged right down to the bottom of the container to get a green one. Everyone knows that lime is the best. I wondered what the specialist was, or did. A specialist of bruises? Of nosebleeds? Well, as long as I got a day off school, they could specialise away.
Joe
They arrive at the house, quicker than necessary, no flash of blue here to distress the neighbours. They know who to go for too, the Guards who arrive, don’t even have to ask as if ‘scumbag’ was tattooed right on my forehead.
‘What’s going on,’ and it’s Johnny at the door, with Sabine, holding hands, although dropped as soon as they enter.
‘This hooligan of yours has only gone and drugged your sister, that’s what,’ says Mr Mitchell, making a show of pacing the room, clinking the cubes of his double distilled cognac. The Guard closest to me takes out his cuffs and with a ‘Hands behind your back’ clicks them tight into place and begins walking me out of the room.
‘Is this really necessary?’ Johnny asks, and the question is aimed right at his Da. ‘Seriously, Dad, it’s not Joe’s fault, I asked him,’ but his father has turned his back, making his way towards his wife and daughter, crouching down beside them on the white marbled tiles.
‘Can I come too,’ Sabine says, now moving closer to where I am, trying to feed her strength directly to me as I’m hustled right out of the door. ‘I want to come too,’ she asks again, but is met with a stare that signals a no. ‘Which station so,’ she asks rushing after us, determined to get what she wants.
‘Pearce Street, love,’ one of them answers, obviously new to the job, obviously pissing off her partner who now has one more thing to add to the list
of what-not-to-dos around skangers like me. We’re not fucking worthy, you see.
‘Thanks for not resisting,’ the young one says, while dipping my head into the back of the car, and earns herself another glare from her partner. ‘What’, she mouths as the other shakes his head and turns up his radio to put a stop to any notions of conversation.
The new ones are always clueless. Watching too much crime TV, expecting a fight on arrest. Preconceived notions of what we with our accents, our out-of-place faces, our disadvantaged postcodes, will do to resist you. But we won’t open our mouths. We’ll go quietly and silently. We won’t resist or assist or do anything that will make them take it the fuck out on us. No comment to the no comments. Always.
We pull up to the station and up to the hatch, flicked open to see what fresh meat is now got.
‘Name and address, son,’ says a balding head, too bored to look up, to take notice of me or what I have done.
‘Joe O’Reilly,’ I say. ‘Liberty Mansions,’ I add; I get a proper look then.
‘O’Reilly?’ A really good look. A second look, not so fucking bored now like. ‘Frank’s lad?’ The penny has dropped; the two either side of me tighten their grip. ‘Hey, Skinner,’ he shouts, right into the back. ‘Out here, we’ve Frank O’Reilly’s lad,’ and Skinner’s out to get a good look too.
‘Welcome.’ Skinner comes round, wants to do the honours of taking me in. ‘We had bets on, you know,’ he says, opening the doors with his lanyard and pin, and smooth clean white hands, while leading me back into the holding cells. ‘Wondering when you’d make your appearance.’
It takes all of my might not to tell him to fuck right off.
‘Frank’s fucking lad,’ he says, shaking his head, locking me in tight, whistling some unrecognisable shite all the way back to his room. All fucking delighted with himself.
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