by Trevor Byrne
I light up a cigarette and take a few puffs and flip open the book on me lap. The pages old and thick and slightly yellow. There’s a big red stamp on the inside cover sayin PROPERTY OF BALBRIGGAN LIBRARY. I tease the little ticket out o the pocket and Victor, yeh wily bastard, it’s four and a half years overdue.
THE PATH OF THE BUDDHA
This is a joke, man. A fuckin joke. I stare out the window and shake me head … I can’t believe this … I fuckin knew somethin like this was gonna happen.
The car’s outside the garden on its roof. It looks like a fucked beetle, wheels and rusty metal guts in the air. It’s surrounded by a gang o kids. I drop me Cheerios and squash on the runners Paula got me yesterday and race out o the house and into the light mornin rain. I push past the kids and give the fuckin heap o shite a boot. One o the lads laughs.
—What’s so funny? I say.
—You, he says.
Cheeky fuck.
—Did youse do this?
—No. Did you?
His mates snigger.
—D’yiz know who did it, then?
Fuckin desperation here, I know; I’ve more chance o gettin a straight answer out of a Fianna Fail councillor than these poxy kids. And anyway I know full well who did it: the gyppos. And that cunt Maggit’s still off gallivantin. Wha am I supposed to do, like?
Fuck it. I turn and head back up the garden. I should probably just get rid o the motor. I’ll just drive the thing up and be done with it. I mean, it’s only a shitty little rustbox anyway and the gyppos don’t seem –
—I like yer runners, mister.
I turn round. —Wha?
The lads are laughin, nudgin each other.
—Yer runners are gorgeous.
He makes a floppy-wristed gesture and I look down at me new runners. Actually, now that these little bastards mention it, they’re quite sparkly and vaguely effeminate. And there’re little hearts on the laces.
I hurry back into the house.
*
On the phone to Pajo:
—Is Maggit back yet?
—No, no sign of him.
—Fuck sake.
—What’s wrong? Did somethin happen?
—It’s upside down.
—Wha?
—It’s upside down … on its fuckin roof, like.
—The car?
—No the fuckin house. I’m sittin on the ceilin.
—OK, OK. Chill, man.
—There’s a load o kids out lookin at it. Fuckin gawpin, the little saps.
Silence for a few seconds, then:
—Denny, did yeh hear anythin last night?
—No. Why?
Silence again.
—Wha?
—Sounds weird to me, like. Odd. I mean … I don’t want to add to yer woes, Denny …
—Wha are yeh shitein about?
—Well … d’yeh think they, like … they might o cursed the car or somethin?
—Jaysis, would you stop. Were you smokin somethin this mornin?
—Yeah, but … still, I’m just sayin, like. If yeh didn’t hear anythin …
—Here, can I ring yeh back? I’m callin the X-Files. Yeh fuckin sap.
I end the call and click on the kettle in the kitchen. I need a cup o tea. Wha a load o bollix, like. Nothin ever goes right for me. Never. I mean, I get a car … and let’s face it, the car’s fuckin shite; a total fuckin banger … and it gives me a bit o fuckin pleasure, like, a bit o fuckin freedom … and wha happens?
It’s typical, this. Totally. That shite with the Triads (so-called Triads) was Maggit’s fault as well, and so was everythin else, ever. The chap’s trouble. And he’s turned into a selfish cunt, as well. I mean, there was a time he’d fight for anyone, he was a socialist, an environmentalist, the lot.
But now he’s just a big-eared cunt.
*
Pajo’s after comin over for the night. It’s the wee hours o the mornin and we’re havin a stakeout.
—Bags Charlie Sheen, Pajo says.
—He’s not in Stakeout, his brother is.
—Are yeh sure?
—Yeah. What’s his name … Estevez somethin. Emilio Estevez.
—Right. I’m him, then. You can be the oulfella.
—I’d rather be Richard Dreyfuss anyway. He’s a better actor.
—Yeah, he’s about ninety though.
I shake me head and get up to make another cup o tea. Pajo’s sippin his cappuccino, a little drop o whiskey in it. I’d drink coffee as well but I hate the stuff. I keep a packet o cappuccino sachets in the press for Pajo, though, cos he’s a fussy bastard with certain things and won’t drink tea. Anyway, we’re sittin up to keep an eye on the car, we’ve a good view from me bedroom window. Me room still looks like it did when I was a teenager — Undertaker posters on the walls, a big Che Guevara flag over me bed, rows o books on me shelves. I have the kettle and the milk and that up here, and biscuits and ashtrays and the whiskey bottle for Pajo. Pajo may be a Buddhist but he still drinks like a Catholic. Although, maybe he’s better off. I wish we lived in ancient fuckin times, so I could worship the sun or the moon or somethin … somethin that’s actually there, actually worth-fuckin-while.
I squash me tea bag up against the side o the cup and then scoop it out and flick it into the basket beside me bed.
—I saw Kasey a while ago, I say.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. He was sayin he was after comin into a bit o money.
—Yeah?
The way Pajo says ‘yeah’ I know he already knows. Pajo’s the absolute worst liar on earth.
—What’s the story, so? I ask.
—Ehh …
—Well, somethin dodgy then, obviously.
—Ehmm … like, em … drugs and that.
—Doesn’t surprise me.
Pajo sips at his cappuccino. —Will yeh keep this under yer hat, Denny?
—Yeah, course.
—They’re Dommo Power’s drugs.
—Yeah? Fuck sake. He’d wanna watch himself gettin involved with them. Slaughter’s in with them now, they’re dodgy as fuck. Dealin for Dommo’s like –
—No, he’s not dealin for him. He … like, he robbed him.
—No fuckin way. Yeh serious? Jesus fuckin Christ.
Pajo nods.
—Fuckin hell. How did he manage that?
—Ah it’s complex, Denny. Very, like …
—Complex, yeah. G’wan.
—Well, he heard off some posh fella in Trinity after one o these lectures that he goes to that there was a big shipment comin in, for all the Blackrock heads and that, yeh know? Yer man mentioned a fella in a wheelchair so Kasey put two and two together.
—Is it heroin and that?
—Nah, they don’t bother with heroin or anythin anymore, Denny, that’s all, like, that’s old news. It’s cocaine now. All the business heads and that are mad into it, and the students and everythin. Heroin’s for nothin these days Denny, it’s small change.
—So wha did he do? How did he get his hands on it?
—Well, like, he scammed the fella from Trinity, I think. Although, like, this is Kasey sayin this so it’s not, em … like, corroborated or anythin. So, wha Kasey said was yer man, this Trinity fella, he buys the stuff off the dealers in bulk and sells it on to the, like, business classes and all this. Yeh know the way they all think Kasey’s from Dalkey, like, with the posh accent he puts on and the suit and all this? He just, like, got yer man’s trust and lifted a load o the stuff from his gaff. Simple as, like. They’re not very wide to that sort o thing yet. Kind o naïve, yeh know?
—So no one knows it was him?
—No. Dommo knows the stuff went missin, like. Yer man from Trinity was just holdin it, he hadn’t paid anythin for it yet so there’s a load o, like, pissed-off people.
—That’s fuckin dangerous. What’s he doin still hangin round?
—He says it’s a Robin Hood thing, steal from Blackrock and give to Clondalkin.
�
��Jesus Christ. He’s not fuckin well.
—They’re all lookin for fellas from Dalkey, though, with posh accents.
I shake me head and sip me tea. Fuckin cocaine, wha? The new scourge o Dublin. Fuckin cunt’s drug, cocaine is. Heroin was a waster’s drug, a desperado’s, it was awful but it was all about escape and despair, while cocaine’s for overpaid cunts in suits, our supposed betters. Heroin was a trap and cocaine is a choice. It’s … actually, would yeh fuckin listen to me? Get off yer fuckin soapbox, Denny. Jesus.
—I’m sayin a few prayers for him, says Pajo.
—To who?
—Like, the Supreme Being. For Kasey.
—Is that for real or wha? D’yeh really believe in this Buddhism stuff?
Pajo turns slowly from the window. He takes another sip from his cappuccino and there’s a wary look in his eyes. And why wouldn’t there be? I mean, he must be well used to bein slagged mercilessly at this stage. God knows he brings a lot of it on himself, but still.
—Honestly, I say. —I was just wonderin.
Another sup. A longer one this time.
—Well, it’s just … it’s kind o complicated, Denny, he says. —Faith and that. Complex, like.
—Yeah, I know that. There’s no easy answers and all the rest. But sure we’re here all night one way or the other. Nothin else to do.
—Suppose.
Pajo looks out the window and bites his lip, then turns back to me.
—Well … I dunno, really, he says. —I dunno wha started it, like. I think it’s just cos o all the sufferin and that, yeh know like? I mean, yiv got people killin each other all over the place — lookit Iraq on the telly — and animals dyin in experiments as well and trees chopped down and all the rest and … wha can yeh do about it? I know Maggit’d say go out and join the socialists or wharrever, but that’s not for me, yeh know? Politics and that. And this was annoyin me, like. Actually, not annoyin … kind o like, hurtin me, yeh know? A kind o, emm, like a soul hurt, thinkin about all this stuff. So –
—But where did yeh get the Buddhist stuff from? In particular I mean.
—I had a dream.
—Serious?
—Yeah, serious.
—Wha about?
—Well … em … OK. Eh, I was wanderin through the fields in the snow, pure freezin, like. I only had a pair o shorts on me, and a T-shirt. Don’t know why. Just dreams like, yeh know? It was nighttime, and there was … d’yeh know the way the snow kind o glows in the dark? It was like that. I was lost. I was, like, fallin through the snow and I couldn’t find me way back when I saw these footprints so I started followin them. Yeah? They went on for ages. But after a while they split into two and I didn’t know which ones to follow. I was pure freezin by now, like. Me fingers were like coolpops, I couldn’t even bend them. So I fell down on me knees and started cryin, yeah? Big sobs. And then I noticed there was blood, little tiny drops, like, in one set o tracks. So I just stood up and, like, started followin the clean ones and then they split again, in three this time. But I looked and there was blood in two of them so I followed the clean ones again and this kept happenin, like … the footprints splittin and the blood and all the rest. I was dead far into the fields … and it was huge, like, the way it used to be when we were small.
—So anyway, the tracks started to get more and more filled with blood so even though there were loads o them, dozens, like, hundreds, I was able to find the way dead easy. Actually, d’yeh know wha the blood in the snow was like? It was like the red stuff they put in them slushy drinks, the way it kind o, like, seeps into it, all pink and faded.
—Where did the tracks lead to?
I start rummagin through me drawer for a few skins as he talks.
—To these oul train tracks, says Pajo. —And, emm, that’s where I found the way.
—Off who? Did someone tell yeh or did yeh just know?
—Someone told me.
—Who?
—Jack Charlton.
I burst out laughin.
Pajo looks offended. —He was wearin his cap and everythin. It was definitely him.
—Wha did he say to yeh?
—Are yeh, like, just takin the piss now or wha? says Pajo.
—No, seriously. I’m not. Jack Charlton though. That’s some dream, Paj.
—If yeh don’t want me –
—Seriously, Paj. I’m listenin, like. It’s just a bit mad. Wha did he say?
—He said Follow the path of the Buddha.
I have to bite back a laugh.
—Wise man, Jack, I say. —Wha did he sound like?
—The way he did on telly. Northern English, like.
I lick the skins and stick them together. —Wha d’yeh think he was promotin Buddhism for? Is he not a Protestant?
—Yeah, but he probably seen the light on the other side, like.
—On the other side?
—In heaven, like. He probably –
—Yeh do know Jack Charlton’s still alive, don’t yeh?
—Is he not dead? Are yeh sure?
—Hundred per cent. I saw him in town a few months ago. There’s life after the fuckin Irish job yeh know.
Pajo gulps at his can.
—Maybe it was Bobby Charlton?
*
We sit and watch and the minutes and hours creep by unmarked. The car is in a pool o yellow light, right beside the garden gate. A gang o teenagers stumble past and a girl falls against the bonnet and laughs and a youngfella pulls her to her feet. It’s not tha late but I can feel me eyes gettin heavy. Me arms and legs feel like they’re dead or dyin. I’ve stayed awake for days on end before like, but I’m fuckin wrecked here, even though I’m doin fuck all. Pajo’s head is noddin forward and back, his tongue restin on his lower lip, eyes openin and closin slowly. This tiredness, it’s after comin out o nowhere; settlin on me like a duvet, all warm and comfy … we were grand a half an hour ago, talkin shite, me tea in me hand, smoke curlin upwards and Johnny Cash on the radio and now I’m –
*
—They cursed us, Denny. I’m tellin yeh!
Fuckin hell.
The car’s upside down again.
RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW
I haven’t told Paula but we got a letter from Shane today. A notice of eviction. Typed and everythin. He was probably advised by the solicitor. I should probably be indignant that he didn’t say it face-to-face but in a way I’m glad — I don’t wanna see him. I knew this was comin, anyway. We’ve got three months’ notice, accordin to the letter. Paula’ll tear it up if I show it to her, march straight round to Shane’s and have fuckin murder on his doorstep, which’ll make things ten times worse. I’ll tell her about it tomorrow, maybe. Or maybe I’ll give Shane a shout meself. I mean, he might come round if I talk to him, try to be reasonable and that. He might just be tryin to scare us, like. One way or another, though, it’s the last thing I need.
I rinse me cup under the tap and hang it on the rack, starin out the back window. I don’t think Shane’s even seen the back garden yet. Should probably pick up a shears or somethin today. I got a text off Ned earlier this mornin though, and it said he saw Maggit this mornin gettin off the 78a at Neilstown so it’ll have to wait. I fold up Shane’s letter and stick it in me back pocket, turn off the heatin, lock up, then hop in the car and drop by his usual haunts — the doctor’s and the clinic, then the shops and outside the community centre, Finches, then the snooker hall and then into Clondalkin village. I find him comin out o The Steerin Wheel.
I beep the horn and he walks over, grinnin, the smell o cider on his breath.
—Wha the fuck were yeh doin with that girl?
—Wha? Nice to see you as well.
—Wha were yeh thinkin?
—I didn’t do anythin. Wha girl?
—Some gyppo looper said yeh slept with his cousin. Was that yer woman yeh were with at the party?
Maggit rolls his eyes. —I … her? Jaysis. That gyppo one? So wha? Here, giz a lift back to the house.<
br />
He pulls open the door on the passenger side and gets in.
—I thought yer man was gonna fuckin stab me or somethin, I say. —Chop me fuckin balls off.
—Wha would he stab yeh for? Twenty years in The Joy for a sap like you?
—Will yeh shurrup for a minute?
Maggit wiggles his fingers and pretends to look offended. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and sticks it in his mouth, then looks at me.
—Wha are you so happy about? I say.
—That’d be tellin.
He winks. I start the car and pull into the traffic. Road’s fuckin packed at this time o day, yeh never notice these things till yiv some wheels o yer own.
—Yeh didn’t take anythin on yer woman, did yeh? Like, yeh didn’t rob anythin on her.
—I didn’t as a matter o fact. She’d only a few ornaments in the place anyway. She lives in a fuckin caravan Denny, she’d fuck-all there.
—And yeh didn’t touch her?
—Wha? O course I touched her. What’s the big fuckin deal? And anyway, she touched me first. I wasn’t really into her to be honest. She’s a bit mental, I think. A bit, yeh know, doolally.
I shake me head. The lights go red and we stop beside the industrial estate.
—Yer a fuckin eejit.
Maggit looks at me. —Wha the fuck is wrong with yeh, Denny? She practically fuckin raped me. She was fuckin mad.
—They want the car.
—Wha?
He stubs out the cigarette on the dashboard.
—They want the car. They said they’d take the car instead o killin yeh and d’yeh know wha? I’d rather they killed yeh, yeh fuckin eejit. Wha were yeh thinkin?
—Cunts.
Maggit runs his palm over his head and scratches his nose. He looks at the lights o the cars in front of us and then at the people at the bus stop and then back at me.
—They can go and fuckin jump, he says.
—Brilliant. Fuckin ingenious. That’s the end o the fuckin car, so. And I haven’t even given Gino the full whack yet.
—Don’t worry about it. Fuck them.
—That’s yer plan?
—Yeah. Fuck them. They’re only knackers. —Why are yeh bein such a prick?