by Trevor Byrne
—Fuckim, says Maggit. —Why should my son have to do without?
The bus lurches round the corner towards us.
—Cos yiv no fuckin job and no intention o gettin one, ever?
Which is rich comin from me. Maggit surprisinly avoids the obvious comeback and instead just points at his arse. Maggit was shot by a Triad marksman in London a few years ago. Well, so he tells people, anyway. I was there and in reality it was the ancient fuckin owner of a Chinese takeaway that shot him, with an antique musket or a blunderbuss or somethin, in Liverpool, after that crappy Spurs game at the end o the season where Gustavo Poyet scored against us and ruined any chance we had o catchin Arsenal. Still finished ahead o United, like, but anyway, Maggit broke into the place after we were thrown out earlier that day for actin rowdy. Well, it was Maggit and Tommy Power who were actin rowdy, me and Ned were just standin there, waitin on our beef curries and chicken balls. The fella that shot him was about fuckin ninety and we had to make a nappy for Maggit out o tea towels to stop him bleedin all over the place on the ferry home.
—I’m fuckin disabled, he says.
The bus pulls up to the kerb and the doors open. The driver’s a woman. Youngish, about me own age and … actually, she looks dead familiar … the small features, the slightly pointy chin. I think I might o gone to school with her. Can’t remember her name though. Sonia, was it? Susan? Sarah? Fuck, it’s gone.
—Great to see a few colleens behind the wheel, says Maggit, who obviously hasn’t recognised her at all. He winks at her and she gives what must be the most tired and practised smile in Dublin. I drop me change into the machine and try not to make eye contact. I hate forgettin people’s names, needless embarrassment for all concerned, like. Me ticket peels out o the machine and I take it and head upstairs, feelin slightly grubby, and we grab the seats at the back, which are me least favourite but almost ritually significant with Maggit.
After a couple o stops the bus is practically full. A gang o people in shirts and ties take their seats, starin blankly ahead or out the windows, off from work and stuck in traffic, heads full o numbers that won’t go and the prices o laptops. A few seats up a Chinese student-type is talkin dead loud and quick into a tiny mobile phone. Crazy language Chinese, harsh and singsong at the same time. Makes me think o yer man that shot Maggit; that clangy, bell chime quality. A handful of oldies get on as well, faces aged and lined, the grannies speakin quick and clipped, the oulfellas winkin and laughin deep, and then a couple o local Neilstown bogies hop on and sit across from us. I know them to see but not by name. The fuckin head on yer man, the one at the window, like; spudheaded, bald and battered. Big puffy red and blue jackets. They’re mates o that mentalcase racist freakjob Slaughter, I think; yer man that battered the Nigerian student outside Trinity College. Left him spittin teeth or so the story goes. The bus kicks into life again outside Frawley’s on Thomas Street and yer man with the head turns for some reason and his small eyes are on mine and he’s seein a gangly ghoul, I suppose, a state scrounger wallowin in his labour and in his mind’s eye I’m battered, bloodpumpin, and then his mate nudges him and whoop-laughs and I turn me head away. Maggit has the Nike bag on his lap. He picks absentmindedly at a ‘No Smoking’ sticker on the window as the bus trundles on.
—I’ll get him one at some stage, he says.
—Wha?
He turns to me. —Buy him one, like. When I’ve a few quid.
—Yer foolin yerself, Maggit.
He looks at the bag and then stares out the window again, at town passin by, the cars and bikes and people with bags o shoppin. People I’ll never know, I’ll never see again.
*
Maggit rings the bell and a little youngfella in a stripy Dennis the Menace-style jumper answers the door. There’s cake mashed all over his face and into his hair, makin it stand up in little jammy tufts and spikes.
—Wha? he says.
Maggit hunkers down. —Is Anto’s mammy in? he says.
—Wha?
—Anto’s mammy, Bernadette. Is she in?
The youngfella looks over his shoulder and back down the hall. I can hear music and laughin from inside. The little fella’s obviously dyin to get back in.
—Who’s Anto? he says.
Maggit rolls his eyes.
—Ant’ny, he says. —Me son. The little blondy fella; Anto. I’ve a present for him.
The youngfella picks his nose. —Ant’ny, he says.
—It’s Ant’ny’s birthday today.
Maggit shakes his head. He stands up and looks at me.
—Fuckin hell, he says, under his breath. —Dense, wha?
—He’s only a kid.
I ring the doorbell again, and look down at Cakeface.
—Yiv a bit of jam on yeh there, I say.
He looks up at me and starts wipin at his forehead, mashin the cake all over the place.
—Birthday cake, he says, grinnin.
I’m about to ring the bell again when Bernadette comes walkin down the hall and the little fella legs it back inside, squealin. Bernadette’s wearing a pair o faded jeans and a pink strappy vest. There’s a party hat on her head, perched lopsidedly on her blonde braids. A fierce, righteous look comes into her eyes when she sees Maggit. She stops in the doorway, plants one hand on her hip and lifts the other to her lips, takin a long pull on her cigarette.
—Yer late, Colm, she says, lookin at Maggit. —As per usual. If yid left it any later he’d be seven.
—I know, I know, says Maggit.
He sniffs, then looks at the ground and scratches his ear.
—Sorry, he says.
Maggit looks at me.
—The bus took ages, didn’t it?
—Yonks.
Bernadette shoots me a look and I feel like a fuckin beetle or somethin. Somethin small and nasty. Which is fair enough, in a way: if yid got a kid with Maggit yid tend to have a fairly poor perception o men in general. Fuck all to do with me, like, the ins and outs o their relationship, but I feel dead bad for Bernadette sometimes. Ah well.
—He didn’t think yeh were comin, says Bernadette. —This is the only sixth birthday he’s gonna have, by the way. Yeh do know that, don’t yeh? They don’t do a repeat on the weekend, fuckin omnibus edition, it’s only once a year and all yeh have –
—Sorry, Maggit says, again.
I don’t know why I came up here with him. Ned was right; this is fuckin embarrassin, and me bein here seems kind o inappropriate.
I can hear children whoopin and laughin inside. I look up and down the rows o bare, unhappy gardens and put me hands in me pockets. There’s a little park across the road, but yeh wouldn’t want yer kids to play there, it’s junkie city, like. Yeh can tell Bernadette wants to tell us to fuck off but she won’t.
Maggit pats the Nike bag slung over his shoulder.
—Here, I got him a computer game thing, he says. —A dear one, like.
He looks at me again.
—It’s a good dear one, isn’t it Denny?
I shrug, then look at Bernadette lookin at Maggit and Maggit lookin at me. Such moments man, brief and forever, fuckin intolerable. I just nod.
—He’ll love it, says Maggit. —Can I come in? I’m sorry I’m late. Fuckin Dublin Bus like.
Bernadette takes another drag.
—Yeah, she says, and stands aside. —Right. I suppose so.
*
There’s kids runnin all over the place in the kitchen, bangin spoons off pots and jumpin off chairs, one swoopin past us with his arms out, makin spluttery machinegun noises. There’s a big sheet o paper thumbtacked to the wall (actually it’s loads o small sheets taped together) with HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANTHONY written in red and blue and yellow marker. Balloons as well, and scrunched up wrappin paper in piles by the sink. The remains o the cake are on the drainin board, next to a pile o plates. Three young, Bernadette-aged women are sittin by the open back porch, smokin, their legs crossed and chins raised just far enough that they can eye me and Maggit
down the lengths o their noses. Again, I know the faces but not their names. I must be sufferin the fuckin early onset o senile dementia or somethin. The women are all wearin party hats as well but they don’t look too happy, although to be fair me and Maggit probably have a lot to do with that. Bernadette taps her cigarette into a Bob the Builder mug.
—Where is he? says Maggit, scannin the horde o demented kids.
—He’s up in the toilet, says Bernadette. —He has the runs.
There’s brief eye contact between the mothers, some kind o secret signal unreadable to males. They look at us again, heads still tilted. We hover in the kitchen doorway and the youngfella with cake on his face and another fella with big glasses and ginger hair walk over to us. They start jerkin their shoulders and heads, and kickin out their feet. They both have these serious, set expressions.
I look at Maggit, then back at the kids.
—What’s that? I say to them. —A dance?
Redser nods his head. The two o them start makin choppy movements with their hands.
—Are yiz havin a fit? says Maggit. —Spazzos, are yiz? He elbows me and laughs.
—Breakdancin, says Cakeface, lookin up at the ceilin, his shoulders jerkin up and down.
—That’s very good, I say.
I can hear the toilet flushin. Then there’s a flurry o footsteps on the stairs and little Anthony skids into the kitchen. He’s wearin a mini Liverpool jersey and he’s got Maggit’s Champions League trophy ears and Bernadette’s green eyes. He looks up at his da.
—Howayeh Anto, says Maggit, a big grin on his face. He drops down to his knees and holds out his arms. Anthony jumps up and into him.
—His name’s Ant’ny, Bernadette calls over. The other women shake their heads, clearly disgusted.
— Ant’ny, says Maggit. —Happy birthday son.
Cakeface and Redser are still breakdancin beside us.
—He’s my da, Anthony says to them. They stop and look at Maggit.
—Are you his da, mister?
—Yeah, he says.
Maggit looks dead proud. It’s mad seein him like this. Nice, though. He pats the Nike bag and unslings it, then puts it on the lino.
—Wait and yeh see this, Anto.
—Ant’ny, says Bernadette.
—Ant’ny, says Maggit. He looks at Anthony. —Go on so, he says. —Open it.
Anthony takes hold o the zipper and pulls it back. Bernadette arches her head for a better view. Cakeface and Redser peep over Anthony’s shoulders and Anthony reaches into the bag. He pulls out the jumble o plastic and wires and plugs and joypads. I can see now that the stickers are them football ones yeh collect for the sticker books. One o them’s Damien Duff, from when he used to play for Blackburn Rovers.
—Playstation, says Anthony.
Maggit nods his head. —Yeah, he says. —The Playstation. That’s a great one that, isn’t it? Isn’t that the one all the big boys have?
Cakeface and Redser and Anthony look at each other.
—Playstations are stupid, says Anthony.
—Wha? says Maggit.
Anthony’s turnin one o the joypads in his little hands. —They’re gank, da. Playstation 2s are good.
He holds up the joypad and Maggit takes it, lookin at it like it’s some unfathomable fossil, alien and infinitely strange.
—That’s the old one da, says Anthony. —That’s Playstation 1.
Maggit stands up. He looks crumpled or somethin, dead deflated. He places the joypad on the drainin board.
—Jaysis. Is that one no good then? It still plays games and that doesn’t it?
—It’s no use, says Cakeface.
—No use? says Maggit. He looks at the kid and the sensitive Maggit disappears instantly. —Wash yer fuckin face you, will yeh?
—Don’t talk to my son like that, says one o the single mothers, standin up. She flicks her floppy pink fringe and stubs out her cigarette. —He’s only a bleedin child. C’mere to me Kyle.
Kyle starts to cry.
—Yeh alright? I say, and reach out to rub his head. Me palm comes back sticky with cream and jam.
—Fuck.
Kyle runs over to his mother.
—Don’t fuckin curse in front o my son, says Pink Fringe. —Don’t mind them Kyle, she says, huggin the bawlin child.
—Wha did I do?
Pink Fringe kisses Kyle’s sweetened head.
—I think yiz better go, says Bernadette.
—I’m only here two fuckin minutes, says Maggit.
—Yeah, and yiv worked fuckin wonders. Gerrout.
Maggit scoops up his empty bag.
—I’m entitled to see me own son, Bernadette, he says.
Bernadette walks over, picks up the Playstation and shoves it into Maggit’s arms.
—Yeah, yeh are. And if yeh bring robbed stuff into this house again I’m entitled to phone the fuckin police. That fair?
—It’s not robbed. Is it Denny?
I’m sayin fuck all. Last time I’m ever comin over here, I swear. Fuckin nightmare.
—I’ll get yeh somethin better durin the week, Anto. Yeah? An Action Manjeep or one o them other Playstations. The new ones.
Anthony nods.
—With Tekken 3? he says.
—Yeah, no probs. Anythin yeh want. Tekman 3 and loads o other ones.
—Tekken, not Tekman, Cakeface shouts over, between sobs.
—Tekken, yeah. That’s wha I said. Right.
He leans down and hugs Anthony.
—See yeh son, he says. —And happy birthday.
*
—That went well.
—Don’t start Denny.
We’re cuttin through the Lawns. Well, cuttin through an under 11s five-a-side, to be exact. The kids stop and look at us. One o them picks up the ball.
—That’s a free, says a kid on the other team. —Handball.
—There’s people on the pitch yeh sap, says the fella with the ball. He’s small, with a snotty, runny nose.
I look at Maggit.
—Wha d’yeh mean, don’t start? Don’t start wha?
—Yeh know wha I mean Denny. Just don’t fuckin start.
The kids are gettin indignant now.
—Gerroff the pitch!
—We’re in extra time yiz pricks!
There are ten mucked-up faces glarin at us. Most o them are wearin Liverpool or United jerseys. One o them’s hopped on the bandwagon early and he’s wearin a Chelsea jersey. The biggest kid is in United’s white away kit, a big number 7 on the back with CUNZER above it.
—Wha are we walkin through their game for?
—Fuck them, says Maggit. —It’s a public park.
—We could o walked round just as easy.
A clump o wet muck, little blades o grass stickin out of it, sails through the air and lands on Maggit’s shoulder.
Maggit turns round.
—Who the fuck threw that?
None o the kids answer. Maggit grabs up a handful o muck and hurls it indiscriminately at the group o kids. They part ranks and the muckball splats in the middle o one o the goals.
—Gunner eye, says Cunzer.
—Wha did you say?
—Spanner eye, says a different kid.
Maggit looks livid, like he’s gonna lose it completely.
—Calm the fuck down you, will yeh? I say. I put me hand on his elbow. —They’re only kids yeh fuckin lunatic.
Maggit shrugs me off and runs back a few feet. The kids scarper all over the place, stoppin when they’re safely out o range o Maggit’s temporary madness. Maggit stands there, fists balled, soakin up their taunts:
—I’ll get me da after you!
—Big ears!
—Wanker!
—Giz a chase!
Fuck this.
I turn and start walkin. He’s a mental fuckin bastard, Maggit is. I know he’s a mate but he’s mad as fuck and he wrecks me head sometimes. I head for the gate at the bottom o the park, the one straight acr
oss from where me nanny Cullen used to live. The steel’s bent and rusty. I squeeze through the half-fucked turnstile and turn back on the other side o the railins. Maggit’s a hundred feet or so behind me. The kids are standin in a bunch, hurlin abuse and muckballs at him. I wanna wait for him but yeh have to draw the fuckin line. Need a drink man, too fuckin right. I’ll give Maggit a buzz when I get to the pub. I’ll get the drinks in like, so no fuckin change there. It’s still too cold for Bulmers so it’s two pints o Guinness and the rickety table by the window. Fuck, when did things get this predictable? Need a change, man. Need fuckin somethin, yeh know?
THE STILETTO IN THE GHETTO
The anointed day. Stupid fuckin séance, like. Why I’m goin along with this I don’t fuckin know. We’re standin underneath the Spire. Another one o Bertie’s deadly ideas. What a fuckin waste o money. I mean, I’m all for culture and that but, given Dublin’s troubles with heroin, spendin millions on somethin that looks exactly like a four hundred foot tall syringe in the middle of O’Connell Street is a bit fuckin thick. And I don’t think Bertie and his mates are streetwise enough for it to have been ironic.
—I’ll meet yiz here at six, yeah? I say. —Don’t be late. Pajo wants to get started by about eight.
—The stiffy by the Liffey, says Maggit, pattin the Spire and winkin.
—The nail in the Pale, says Ned.
—Yeah. The poker near Croker, I say.
Ned and Maggit laugh. —Never heard that one, says Ned. —Ever hear that one, Maggit?
—Nah.
Maggit and Ned don’t seem bothered about the séance at all. Although there’s no reason they should be, really -I’m the one who has to live with the consequences. I still think Paula would be better off just givin up the drink for a while, gettin her head together. But at the same time the whole situation still bothers me; it kind o gnaws away at me. Ghosts and drink and madness. Which causes which, like? In what order do they come? Gives me the creeps.
I take out me mobile and have a look. It’s ten to five. Loads o time. We cross O’Connell Street to the GPO. There’s two women and an oulfella standin to our left, a table in front o them covered with leaflets and forms. There’s a load o posters behind them, stuck to the wall o the GPO. Horrible pictures o slimy dead foetuses. They look like tiny, semi-translucent aliens. I fuckin hate that — people pushin their beliefs onto yeh, tryin to shock yeh into submission.