by Roddy Doyle
—Should we be even watching this, Pete?
—It’s appropriate, said Peter.—I checked.
—But he wants to have sex with the woman.
—So do you, said Peter.
—Okay, said Donal.—Fair enough.
One last story for the file: So do you, he says. Peter was ten. Donal was forty-eight. So were his friends. He liked the precision of that: all his friends were forty-eight. It was the best thing about Ireland, about Dublin anyway; he could still see the men he’d grown up with. He’d gone to school with lads who’d moved to Canada, the States, even South Africa. But no one he knew had ever moved south of the Liffey. They’d either got out of the country or stayed put. And Donal had been lucky. He’d walked out of school in 1977, and straight into a job in the civil service. A few years later, the jobs weren’t there. But Donal had never been out of work. And his friends were like him. They lived in houses a few miles from where they’d all grown up. They could walk to the pub. It wasn’t the same place where they’d had their first pints, but that place was only two miles away.
They met up once a week. All four of them, or three of them, or even just the two. It was an open kind of arrangement, but a bit more organised since they’d started the texting a few years back. Pub? Ye. 9.30? Grnd. Donal never felt tired on Thursday nights. He’d be away on holidays – in France, say, or Portugal, or Orlando, in the States – having a great time. But on the Thursday, wherever, he wished he was at home, on his way up to the pub.
It had always been like that. There was once, early on with Elaine, they’d been on the bed, in his flat. She’d just poured a melted Mars bar into her navel. And she caught him looking at his watch.
—Have you something more important to do?
—God, no. Fuck, no. This is brilliant.
The hot chocolate had burnt his tongue a bit and he’d felt a little bit sick. But it had been great. He could still remember her stomach under his tongue.
—This is the first thing I’ve eaten since me breakfast, he told her, and she laughed and he could feel that too, rippling her skin, lifting her. He’d held her – he told her this years later – he’d held her hips to keep her on her back, so that none of the melted chocolate would drop onto the sheet, because it was the only sheet he had and he didn’t want her to know that. He ate the chocolate, cleaned it all up, and then he didn’t care what way she ended up. It was up to her.
His friends never talked about sex, or health. They never had. Or problems – they didn’t really talk about their problems.
Other people didn’t really get it. Especially women. Grown men getting together like that, as if it was weird or unnatural. Or a bit silly.
—Are you meeting the lads tonight?
—I’m not answering, if you’re going to sneer like that.
—Like what?
—The lads.
She’d even asked him once, when he was putting his shoes on.
—What use are they?
—What?
—The lads, she’d said.—Your friends.
—What about them?
—Why are they your friends?
—I’m not answering that.
—Don’t be so touchy, she said.—I’m curious.
—Well, stay curious.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.
—Why do I have to defend myself?
—You don’t.
—I have to explain why my friends are my friends. Why the fuck should I?
—Don’t, if you don’t want to.
—I never ask you about your friends, he said.
—I know, she said.—You don’t even know their names.
—I do.
She smiled.
—I do, he insisted.—There’s Mary and—
—Stop, she said.—Listen. I suppose what I’m wondering is. What do you talk about?
He looked at her.
—Football, he said.
He knew she’d hate the answer.
—Is that all?
—No.
—What else? she said.—Help me here.
He didn’t know what else to give her. He didn’t know how to explain it. How what they talked about wasn’t important. How they could sit and say nothing much, for most of the night. And he’d still come home feeling great.
Appreciated.
—Jokes, he said.
—You tell jokes.
—Yeah, he said.—If we’ve heard any new ones.
—That’s nice.
She wasn’t sneering.
—Mind you, he said.—You never hear jokes these days. It’s all e-mail stuff. No one makes up jokes any more. Like stories, you know.
She nodded.
—Can I go now? he said.
—Go on.
He smiled. She smiled back.
He was the first in. Their usual table was free. He nodded at the barman, raised one finger. He always liked that. The fact that he could order a pint without talking. He’d been coming here for years. The barman was Polish. He’d only been working here for three months or so, but he knew what Donal’s order was, and Donal had never had to tell him. The Poles were great.
He sat and looked at the snooker on the telly. He hadn’t a clue who was playing. He didn’t know either of the players. They looked younger than his older kids. Hair gel, and little rectangular ads stitched onto their waistcoats. They looked too young to be out in the world on their own, millionaires already, more than likely.
He was out of touch. He knew it.
The lounge girl came up with his pint in the centre of her tray.
—Thanks, said Donal.
—Of course.
She was Lithuanian, as far as Donal remembered. Or Latvian. A lovely young one, lovely attitude.
He gave her a tenner. She gave him his change, and he gave her back some of it.
—Thank you.
—You’re grand.
Donal felt the draught, and saw Gerry closing the door behind him.
The lounge girl was waiting.
—Will you like another pint of Guinness?
—Great, yeah. Thanks.
He felt a bit uncomfortable with her. She was a woman and a girl – that was the problem. And the attraction. And the problem. He’d have been happier with a lounge boy.
—Fuckin’ cold out there, said Gerry.
This was how it happened. They arrived in a clump, from one man to four inside a minute or two. As if they’d been hiding behind the bushes outside until one of them made the move and went in. Or something, an instinct, told the four of them to get up from the telly and go, at the same time every Thursday.
Donal watched the other two, Ken and Seán, wrap the wires around their iPods and put them into their jacket pockets. He decided again; he’d get an iPod.
—What were yis listening to? he asked.
—Springsteen, said Ken.
—The new album?
—Yep.
—Any good?
—His best since the last one.
The young one brought the pints. Donal paid her, and tipped her again. He’d given her €4, for one round. It made him feel seedy, and generous.
They’d have four pints. They might go to five. Four was automatic. The fifth was always a decision. It used to be more. They used to drink all day, days in a row, weekends drunk, into work on Monday, drunk. Donal and Gerry had gone twenty-four hours once, in Majorca. They’d found a bar that would let them drink till daylight. They’d had breakfast – Traditional English Breakfast – on the way back to the apartment. He remembered being surprised that he could hold the knife and fork.
Seán looked around.
—How many in here would you say have snorted cocaine?
—None, said Gerry.
He was probably right.
—Not according to the news, said Seán.—We’re all fuckin’ snorting.
—I’ve never even seen cocaine, said Gerry.—Have any of youse?
Th
ey shook their heads.
Some young one, a model, had died, and two other kids in Wexford or Waterford – they’d eaten damp cocaine. The radio was full of it, and the television. Middle-class men, their faces fuzzy and their voices disguised, describing their cocaine hells. ‘It’s on the cheeseboard. Every dinner party I’ve been to.’ And hidden cameras, in pub toilets. More fuzzy faces, leaning over cisterns, with rolled-up euros.
—What about your kids? said Ken.
They all had kids, teenagers and older.
Donal shrugged.
—Don’t know, he said.—Don’t think so.
—How do you know?
—I don’t, said Donal.—But I think I would. Gerry nodded.
—How would we know? he said.—Unless they went crazy, or something.
—A swab, said Seán.
—What?
—A swab. Of the cistern, or a shelf. For traces of cocaine.
They laughed. Three of them laughed.
—You couldn’t do that in my house, said Gerry.—The jacks is never empty.
—I did, said Seán.
They looked at him. They stared at him.
—You did a – what? – a test? A fuckin’ swab?
—Yep, said Seán.
—Did you get a kit or something? Gerry asked him.—Do you not have to be a fuckin’ forensics expert or something?
—Not at all, said Seán.—All you need is a cotton bud. I ran one across the top of the jacks. The cistern, like.
—And?
—It was filthy.
They laughed again.
—White particles, said Seán.
—Dust, said Donal.—Talc. The jacks would be full of it. Any room. The air’s full of dust.
—Did you have them tested? The white particles.
—No, said Seán.
—So? said Gerry.—What did you prove?
—I sniffed the bud, said Seán.—Snorted it, like. So to speak.
—And?
—I was high as a fuckin’ kite.
He was joking.
—Dancing with the fridge. Seriously though, he said.—I’ve been watching my girls since it got into the news. And they’re the same as they’ve ever been. So they either aren’t using cocaine or they’ve always been using cocaine.
He shrugged.
—They’re grand, he said.—The only one that might be snorting is Maeve.
Maeve was his wife.
—D’you reckon?
—It would explain quite a lot, said Seán.
He left it at that. They didn’t talk about the wives. They drifted from cocaine to football, and on to the film that Gerry had seen at the weekend and the others wanted to see.
—How was Denzel?
—Brilliant.
And on to international affairs.
—Poor oul’ Benazir.
—What a place.
—Mad. Would you have given her one?
—Oh, yeah. Absolutely.
—Too late now, an’anyway.
—She was a fine thing. I liked her headscarf.
—That’s the thing though, said Donal.—Women don’t wear them here any more.
—Not even at mass.
—They’ll make a comeback, said Ken.—Wait and see. Abercrombie and Fitch or somebody will bring back the headscarf.
—Benazir but, said Gerry.—She was a lot better looking than any of the women politicians in this country.
—That’s for sure.
—What about Hillary Clinton?
—No.
—A few years back, maybe. Not now, though.
—She’d be saying the same thing about us.
—She hasn’t a clue.
—Would you ride Obama?
—Not unless he was a woman.
—I have a dream.
That was the same night the idea was planted. They’d go away together, to Spain.
—The four of us?
—Why not? said Gerry.
—Sounds good.
Gerry’s brother had a place down there.
—Where?
—Valencia. Near there. A half-hour or so. Inland. No sand or shite. It’s great.
There was no decision that night, nothing firm. Donal said nothing to Elaine about it. He waited for Gerry to bring it up the next Thursday.
—Did yis give any more thought to that?
—What? said Ken.
—Spain.
—Your brother’s gaff?
—Yeah.
They looked at one another, and shrugged, and smiled.
—Well, I’m going, said Gerry.
—Grand.
They went a few weeks after Easter. A Ryanair flight to Valencia, then a hired car. Donal had driven in France, but in his own car; they’d always got the ferry. They’d been to France four times. Always the same place, camping. The last time was five years ago. The year after that, the eldest, Matthew, said he wouldn’t go. They couldn’t make him – he was fifteen – and he was too young to leave behind.
They drove into the town. It seemed deserted, and a bit ugly.
—Is this the siesta?
—Suppose so.
It was early afternoon.
Gerry parked outside a bar.
—There’s people in there, so they’re not all asleep.
They sat outside, with four bottles of beer that cost the same as one bottle at home. Seán took off his jumper.
—That’s it, lads. I’m on me holidays.
—Good man.
—How far is the house?
—Three minutes.
—Grand.
—This is fuckin’ great, said Donal.
But he was disappointed. It was great, a week away from everything. But the town itself was shite. It was dead. Their table was on a street, but it didn’t matter because the street was empty. He sat up and looked properly.
—What’s that?
—What?
—The wall down there. The curved wall.
—The bullring, said Gerry.
—For bullfighting?
—Yeah.
—Serious?
—Yeah.
—Great.
—No, said Gerry.—It’s a pain in the hole. Boring.
—Still, though, said Donal.
—Do they kill the bulls?
—Yeah.
—Cool.
—They, like, release them first, said Gerry.—Let them run through the streets.
—And that’s fuckin’ boring, is it? said Seán.
—It is, said Gerry.—Believe me.
—Still though, said Donal.
—It’s the fiesta, said Gerry.—The annual festival. Saint something. Or the Virgin Mary.
—They slaughter bulls for the Virgin Mary?
—Wait’ll you see it later, said Gerry.—It’s good. The fiesta bit. He stood up.
They got back in the car. Gerry took them out of the town, past a field full of solar panels, and behind a small industrial estate. In Dublin, this was where you would dump the body or the fridge. Here it was a row of flatroofed houses, under palm trees.
—Here we are.
It was the last house in the row.
Gerry got out and unlocked the gate. They got out and followed him. They saw the pool but kept behind Gerry as he got the front door open and walked into hot dead air.
—Fuckin’ hell.
They hoisted the shutters and opened all the windows. There weren’t many; it wasn’t a big house. They threw bags on the beds and then they went out to the pool.
—It’s nice and clean.
—There’s a chap keeps an eye on it for Declan. Declan was Gerry’s brother.
—He throws in the chlorine and scoops out the flies and that.
—What’s that?
There was a white machine, like a fat pup with a trunk, moving very slowly along the bottom.
—It’s a hoover, said Gerry.
—For fuck sake. Is it on all the time?
—Think so, yeah.
—Clever.
—It’s useless, said Gerry.—If it’s the same one. It just moves into a corner and stays there. So the corner’s spotless and the rest of it gets covered in fuckin’ goo.
They got into the togs and sat looking at the water and, one at a time, they got in because there wasn’t really room for more than one man, the way they swam. They sat with their backs to the industrial estate and let themselves get hungry. They chatted and kept an eye on the sun. The watches were off, thrown onto the beds. They had one more swim, then showered and put on the shorts and T-shirts. The shorts were new. They never wore shorts at home.
—Is that a bruise?
—Varicose vein.
—Lovely.
—You can show it to whatever young one you pick up tonight in town.
—I’ll tell yeh. Show a bird your varicose veins and she’ll be on you like a fuckin’ barnacle.
They waited till Gerry locked the gate.
—Dogs, he said.—Have to keep them out.
—What? said Donal.—Wild?
—Kind of.
—Jaysis.
—It’s the one bad thing, said Gerry.—The way they treat the dogs.
And now they could hear them. Dogs howling, baying – whatever it was.
—Are they all wild?
—No, said Gerry.—Just fuckin’ miserable.
Gerry showed them the lane that would get them to town. They walked, all four men in a row. The sandals slapped the dust.
They went past the industrial estate and the tied-up dogs.
—What gets made in there?
—Nothing. As far as I know.
—Distribution?
—Maybe. But I’ve never seen a truck.
—Who feeds the dogs?
—There’s an automatic feeder. It releases enough food every day. And water. They all have them. Most of the houses are empty during the week.
—That’s terrible.
—Talkin’ about feeders, said Donal,—I’m fuckin’ starving.
They all were.
—A few scoops, a game of pool and the nosebag. How’s that for a plan?
They ignored the bullfighting. It was on the telly, a local channel, in the bar. And it was outside. There were people running down the street, and back up the street. And a marching band, somewhere. Donal wanted to have a look, but Gerry was the local and he didn’t even look out the window. And, fair enough, it all looked shite on the telly. There was a bull standing still, outside a church – it looked like. And young lads, all young lads, were walking carefully up to it, and touching it and dashing back. It looked like something anyone could do. The young lads all wore red T-shirts. Trying to provoke the bull, he supposed. But the bull wasn’t having any of it. He just stood there, still. Then he was gone, off the screen, in the time it took Donal to bend down at the table and pretend he was sizing up his shot – he hadn’t a clue, really. The commentator was going mad but all Donal could see was the door of the church.