by Trevor Byrne
—Wha d’yeh mean?
—I just wanted this fuckin car, Maggit. I –
—They won’t get the car. Don’t worry about it.
—How? Wha are yeh gonna do?
—Nothin. Fuck them.
—Yer a fuckin prick, d’yeh know that? A stupid fuckin big-eared prick.
*
I’m sittin in the front watchin Gone With the Wind with Paula and Teresa. Maggit’s flippant bullshit and Shane’s letter is runnin round me head though, so I can’t really get into it. I’ll tell Paula, obviously, eventually. About the letter, like. I remember an episode o The Simpsons where Homer’s supposed to sit an exam after he’s gone back to college, but he didn’t do any studyin or anythin and he’s fucked, he knows he’s gonna fail. His solution is to hide under a pile o coats and hope everythin turns out OK. That’s exactly wha I feel like doin. It actually sounds kind o cosy.
Me phone rings. Paula looks at me, annoyed, like I’ve planned the timin o the call to interrupt Scarlett’s latest strop. I get up and walk out to the hall.
—Hello?
—He’s after killin them … he’s after …
It’s Pajo. He’s stutterin and splutterin and me blood drains down to me toes. Wha the fuck did that Maggit cunt do? Probably after stabbin Franno in the fuckin head.
—Wha happened? I say.
—He just … he fuckin killed them, Denny!
—Wha?
—He bit them, like. He savaged them. All o them!
—Bit them?
—There’s feathers all over the place, they were –
—Feathers? Wha the fuck are yeh talkin about?
—The chickens. He murdered them.
—Maggit did?
—Wha? No, Ignatius.
—Fuckin hell, Pajo. The fuckin dog? Here, I’ll drop over in a minute, yeah? Sit tight.
*
Pajo’s back garden’s a total mess, covered in blood and guts and feathers. The dog is sittin behind the grimy patio doors, oblivious to — or possibly very pleased about — the carnage he’s wreaked. There are mangled chicken carcasses strewn around the place.
—We’ll bury them, yeah? I say. —Or wharrever Buddhists do. That cool?
Pajo nods, then says:
—Actually, maybe we should, like … we should make a pyre, burn them.
—Yeah, cool. Sound.
Pajo hunches down and pets the floppy head o one o the chickens.
—Yeh keepin the dog? I ask.
—Yeah. It’s not his fault really, is it? I mean, like, it’s … in his nature or wharrever. Isn’t it?
—Suppose so.
—Like, they’re wolves really, aren’t they?
—Yeah.
—Domesticated.
—Yep.
Pajo stands up and rubs his palms on his chest.
—Have yeh spoken to Maggit? I say.
—Yeah, says Pajo, his eyes still on the dead chickens. —Well, a bit. He said he doesn’t give a fuck about the gyppos. He said they’re a shower o cunts and there’s a smell o burnt sticks off them.
I look up and Maggit passes by the kitchen window with a can o Guinness in his hand. He stops at the sink and fiddles with somethin out o view. He doesn’t even look at me.
—When d’yeh wanna get rid o the chickens? I ask. —Today?
—Yeah, suppose. Better to do it soon, isn’t it?
Pajo pokes at one o the carcasses with his boot.
—Lookit poor Shawn there. The foot’s bit off him.
All of a sudden I’m takin with this massive urge to laugh. I have to turn me head away.
—Shawn?
—Yeah. After Shawn Michaels. I named them all after wrestlers. And Roddy there, lookit him. Roddy Piper. Doesn’t he look afraid? Poor Bret’s head is gone … I think Ignatius ate it.
And then out comes the laugh, belly deep and uncontrollable. Pajo looks at me, uncomprehendin.
*
There’s a knock at the door and Paula answers. She’s stood there for a few minutes and when she comes back Maggit’s with her. Paula gives me a look and heads into the front room. Maggit takes a big sloppy bite from an already half massacred, tinfoil-wrapped breakfast roll.
—See the car?
Maggit nods. —On its roof, yeah.
—It’s like that nearly every mornin.
—So I hear.
—Just as well it has that fuckin roll cage cos the thing’d be fucked otherwise. Sick o beatin the fuckin bumps out o the roof.
—It’s terrible alright.
—Haven’t seen yeh all week.
—Ah, yeh know yerself. Out and about. I took Ant’ny down to Funderland yesterday. Someone robbed me wallet, the bastards.
—Did he like it?
—Ah yeah, fuckin loved it. Wanna see him on the bumpers, fuckin mad he was. He bashed some kid over the barrier. Fuckin deadly like.
I light up me first cigarette o the day. I wouldn’t mind a breakfast roll meself, actually — there’s nothin in the fridge. Might run the car down the shops, grab somethin nice. After I get it back on its wheels, o course. Me head’s done in with the car, to be honest. Maggit chews the mess o fried egg and sausage and red sauce with his mouth open.
—I’m gonna fightim, he says.
—Wha?
—Yer man, Franno. I’m gonna givvim a scrap.
—You for real?
—Yep, he says, wipin a red smudge off of his chin. —I’ll knock the shite out of im.
—Yer gonna fightim. That’s pure stupid.
Maggit swallows noisily. —Nah. He’s only small, fuckim.
—Fuck’s sake, Maggit. Yer –
—Look, Denny, he says. —I’m late. He takes another huge bite from his roll. I can hear me stomach grumblin. —I have to go. I’ve to see Bernadette.
Bernadette’s face spins past in me mind’s eye. Miserable, put-upon Bernadette. Can’t imagine she’ll be glad to see Maggit at her door, specially not this early. Although … maybe that’s why Maggit’s been in such a good mood recently? Stranger things have happened than Maggit and Bernadette getting back together, I suppose.
A bit of egg flops out o Maggit’s mouth. —The weekend, he says. —Up at the haltin site. Just a straight up, like … a boxin match or wharrever. Yeh know yerself. Like on the knacker fight videos Gino had.
—Close yer mouth for fuck sake.
He holds up the remains of his roll and wiggles it, droppin more egg and a bit o sausage. He makes a face. This is supposed to mean somethin. Yid have to ask Maggit, really. We look at each other for a second, then he says,
—Look Denny, I have to run.
I blow out a lungful o smoke and tap the lengthenin ash o me cigarette. I can feel it, soft and warm, as it sprinkles onto me bare feet. Maggit looks at me and shrugs.
—Yeh comin up with us? he says.
—Yeah, spose. Fuck sake though, man, this is pure dopey. I mean, fuckin fightin gyppos …
—It’ll be grand. Look, I’ll see yeh, right? We can drive up. The posse.
—Yeah.
He holds up the remains of his roll. —Yeh want the rest o that?
—Fuck off, I say, although it does smell lovely. Pure greasy spoon roll, like, but fuck, yeh know when yer starvin?
Maggit lifts up the bin lid and drops the roll into it. A smell o mouldy bread and rotten fruit wafts up.
—See yeh, he says. —Don’t be rootin around for that roll after I’m gone.
—Yeh sap. See yeh after.
—Good luck.
NONE OF THIS HULK HOGAN SHITE
Besides the splutter o the banjoed exhaust and the general creakin and groanin o the car, we drive to the haltin site in silence. It’s a cold, clear day. I still can’t believe what’s goin on. Pajo’s sittin in the passenger seat fiddlin with his nose. He looks worried. Ned’s in the back, the Evening Herald spread on his lap. He’s been on the same page since we left the house. Maggit’s beside him, sittin still, watchin Clondalkin bump
by. There’s no radio to turn on, and the tapedeck’s after packin in so I can’t even use that to break the silence. I could just talk, like, open me mouth, but it doesn’t feel right.
I turn onto the Fonthill Road. There’s a tract of land there that, for Dublin, is still relatively free o people. There used to be miles o fields here, a huge green wilderness between Clondalkin and Lucan that all four of us trekked through as kids, our imaginations enflamed, but now it’s been squashed down to a tiny green belt as the estates and factories expand. That’s where the gyppo camp is. We pass an oulfella in wellies pushin a bike and a pack o mangy dogs savagin each other by the roadside and then the haltin site comes into view. It’s set a little bit back from the road and surrounded by mangled bits o fence and pallet and chicken wire. There’s a gravel path leadin into it and I pull up just short o wha I suppose is the entrance.
I twist and unclip me seat belt.
—Here we are, I say.
*
There are about fifteen caravans on the site and they’re surrounded by half-wrecked cars with their bonnets in the air and piles o tyres and blown-up fridges. Strings o twine are tied from one caravan to the next with washin flappin from them and there’s horses, too; big stocky ones with blankets on their backs and slabs o muscle under their necks and legs and with big shaggy manes over their eyes. A couple o skinny greyhounds pad across the gravel in front of us.
—They used to sacrifice them in the olden days, says Pajo.
—The dogs? says Ned.
—Yeah.
—Waste, says Ned.
There’s a big fire in the middle o the camp, and there’s a group o lads sittin on boxes beside it, listenin to an oulfella in a battered armchair. I can smell cookin from one o the caravans; stew, I think. It smells lovely. I scan the place but I can’t see Franno Ward anywhere.
—Go up and ask the oulfella there where he is, Pajo, I say.
—You ask him.
Fuckin hell.
—There’s yer woman, says Maggit.
He nods towards one o the caravans. There’s a group o three girls standin by the door, lookin over. They’ve all got dark hair and dark brown eyes. They’re smilin and gigglin between themselves. It’s her, the girl from the party that night; the nymph.
—Which one’s yer bird? says Ned.
—She’s not me bird yeh sap, says Maggit. —Niamh’s the one in the middle.
—Yeh serious? says Ned. —She’s gorgeous.
—Yeah, and fuckin mad as well, says Maggit.
—Well, yiv to take the rough with the smooth, says Ned.
Maggit looks at him.
—I’m just sayin, like, says Ned. —She’s a very beautiful woman.
—She’s only sixteen, I say. —Sinead’d kill yeh if she heard yeh sayin that.
Ned looks like he’s gonna say somethin, but just kind o lifts his eyebrows instead.
—I’ll go over and ask her where the heads are, will I? I say.
—I’ll go with yeh, says Ned.
*
—He’s in the shack, practisin, says one o the girls.
—Practisin?
The girls laugh.
—Colm’s the best scrapper in Dublin after all, she says, and they laugh again.
I look at Niamh. She’s more beautiful by daylight. She’s stunnin, really: dead pale and delicate and willowy. And very obviously only a kid. Wha she sees in Maggit is anyone’s guess. I try to make a plea for sanity.
—I don’t know wha Mag … wha Colm’s after sayin to yeh, but he’s gonna be fuckin battered. Will yeh not do somethin? Can yeh not say somethin to Franno?
—I already have, says Niamh. —He won’t listen. And anyway, it’s only a fistfight. There’s no bitin or stabbin or anythin. Sure they’ll only be bruised. And I can fix Colm up after.
They laugh. So does Ned, like he’s under a fuckin spell or somethin.
—Fantastic, I say. I grab Ned under the elbow. —C’mon, you.
—How’s the dog gettin on? says Niamh.
The images o the pup with its muzzle dyed red with blood pops into me head.
—He’s grand, I say.
*
Glowin sparks swirl into the air, caught in the updraft o the thick, greasy black smoke billowin from the fire. We’re sittin on a row o battered tea boxes listenin to the oulfella. There’re a load o gyppos gathered round, women and men and kids and a couple of oulwans with grey hair piled high on their heads. The kids are wearin Nike and Fila tops and the oldest are in ragtag suits or shawls and dresses. The three girls, immensely beautiful, all o them (fuckin sirens, like) are standin near the back, Niamh’s eyes glued to Maggit. The oulwans offered us a bowl o stew each and Ned is millin his, the bowl inches below his chin as he scoops the spoonfuls o beef and potato and broth into his mouth.
The oulfella is tellin a story about a troupe o gypsy poets and harpists who were able to capture their music and verse in jars, and make a mint sellin them to the old kings of Ireland. I’ve never heard this one before and it occurs to me that the oulfella might just be makin it up; that he might be a proper storyteller or wharrever.
—Good idea, that, says Ned, noddin. —Sellin tunes. Very marketable. Like an olden days iPod.
—Wha songs did they do? says one of the kids.
—Old songs, says the oulfella. —Beautiful songs like you’ve never heard.
—Were they better than Eminem? says the kid, smirkin.
—Fuckin Eminem. D’yeh hear that little rip? They were miles better than Eminem. Yid cry to hear such wonderful songs. None o this –
He stops.
Franno Ward and his mates step up to the fire, five young men with dark hair and dark eyes. The huge redhead from the cart looms up behind them, his massive waistcoat opened up his huge belly spillin out. Franno’s stripped to the waist; he looks to be in proper shape, lean and well defined.
—Jaysis. Here’s mini fuckin Hercules, says Ned. He looks at Maggit and then me.
—How’re yeh doin, Denny? says Franno.
I nod.
—Get the place ready now, childer, says the oulfella, and the kids spring to their feet.
They know wha to do.
*
—Are yeh takin yer top off? I say to Maggit.
—I’ll leave me jersey on.
It’s the Liverpool jersey from a few seasons ago, with number 7, KEWELL printed on the back. Maggit got the name put on it when Harry Kewell was still good. Looks dopey now.
The big redhead stops beside us. He’s rollin a barrel with two big, flat brown hands. He stops beside us, then raises his fists and throws a couple o mock rights at Maggit, then winks and laughs and rolls on by.
*
Four pockmarked metal barrels mark the extent o the ring, and the kids drag their heels from one barrel to the next to show the borders between crowd and fighters. There are about thirty or forty people bunched around the ring, the kids sittin at the front. A little thin-faced youngwan has her arm around one o the greyhounds, his long skinny face level with hers, and the three girls, Niamh among them, are standin behind her. The fire behind the crowd casts dancin shadows across the ring in the failin light. Faces old and young are filled with a kind of expectant glee. Maggit’s standin near me and Paj and Ned, beside one o the barrels, his arms hangin by his sides. His scuffed jeans and Doc Marten boots aren’t ideal fightin gear. I can see the motley assemblage of Indian ink tattoos on his forearms and the black dots on each knuckle. He’s more wasted-lookin than proper skinny — his shoulders are slouched and his belly’s startin to get kind o plump, detox or no. Franno Ward is skippin and shufflin on the spot, jabbin at the air with a succession o lefts and rights. He’s wearin a pair o grey tracksuit bottoms. He has a tiny crucifix around his neck and he’s obviously done this sort o thing before.
—Yeh alright, Maggit? I say.
He nods.
—Yeh sure?
—Yeah, grand.
—Should yeh not be, like … shuffl
in and that, like yer man there? says Pajo.
—Fuck off Pajo, says Maggit.
He steps away from us, into the centre o the ring. The crowd murmurs its appreciation and Franno steps up to meet Maggit. The oulfella is standin off to the side. He’s the ref, apparently. Maggit is about a foot taller than Franno but he was never quick on his feet and he’s less so now. I’ve seen him stitch a loaf on a few blokes in pubs and that when the need arose, and he can definitely take a hidin, but he’s done fuck-all but drink and smoke and eat in the most erratic fashion possible over the last five or six years; he’s a wreck, like. He looks like a half-dead scarecrow.
—Right, lads, says the oulfella. —I want a nice clean fight, yeah? No bitin, no pokin, no loafin and nothin below the belt, yeah? And no kickin, either. This is a boxin match, not fuckin Hulk Hogan shite.
I assume he’s sayin all this for Maggit’s benefit. Franno looks to be itchin for the fight to start. His head is twitchin and his tongue is flickin over his lips.
—Shake hands, lads, says the oulfella.
Franno offers his hand and Maggit takes it. They shake for fuckin ages, like in a film, each pair of eyes, Maggit’s pale blue and Franno’s dark brown, starin directly into the other before they finally let go.
And then the oulfella steps back.
—Fight!
Immediately Franno lunges forward and Maggit barely has time to throw up his guard and take the wild right on his forearms. Pajo flinches beside me and closes his eyes and Franno hops backwards, his surprise attack foiled. He shuffles from one foot to the other, his head low and his eyes peerin at Maggit from over his bunched fists. Maggit rubs his arm before liftin his fists to just under his chin. He takes a step towards the centre and Franno flies forward, his feet actually leavin the ground as he launches himself from his half-crouched position. His wide right-hander catches Maggit on the ear and he stumbles back, takin a flurry of rights and lefts to the stomach and chest before he throws his arms around Franno, huggin him to his winded body.
—Fuckin hell, says Ned. —He’s gettin battered.
—Will I stop it? I say.
Ned shrugs. I think o Bret Hart wrestlin Bob Backlund, years ago, and Bret’s brother Owen gettin his ma to throw in the towel when Bret was caught in the crossface chickenwing. Bret went mad at Owen for doin it, so maybe I should leave it.