The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Ye know yerself, sure! Smartprice skinless budget pork sausingers, one pound twenty six pee a kilogram,” Dymphna rattled off, a come- hither smile playing on her lips. “Sir,” she added, to give him a special little thrill.

  “And where are they meant to be stocked?”

  She had to give the old nancy boy credit, he was certainly playing his role to the hilt, not a trace of lechery on his face, all stern manager incarnate.

  “Between the jumbo premium pork and the Aberdeen Angus beef,” she said. Get on with it, man! Just tell me where to stock them now!

  “Precisely,” Mr. O’Toole said. “Imagine me shock, then, when I went to put some flowers in yer locker this morning, and instead of a pile of freshly-laundered work smocks, I was greeted with these?”

  He brandished the sausages with a curious potpourri of rage, triumph and contempt. Dymphna faltered for a fraction of a second.

  “That Fidelma!” she barked. “That wee bitch’s always rummaging through me private staff locker! Nicking stock from the floor and hiding it away to feed her fat mouth at night.”

  “Ach, Fidelma’s a vegan, sure,” he tutted, squirming with impatience. “Do ye think I'm a bleedin eejit? It’s quite plain to anyone with two flimmin brain cells to rub together the culprit’s no one but yerself. Ye kyanny take the Moorside outta youse thieving stokes!”

  “There’s bottomless stomachs to feed round ours, sure,” Dymphna said with a shrug. “Surely ye didn’t call me into yer office to slap me on the wrists for a wee thing like this?”

  The shamelessness that had so enraptured him one sex act previously now rankled.

  “Ye’ve already had yer final warning. Stroppiness, tardiness, slovenliness, them I can all handle in me staff. Thieving fingers, but! Behavior like this kyanny be tolerated by this establishment!”

  “What about getting randy in the stockroom? Are ye not up for another shag?”

  “Getting...” he sputtered, his face pink with rage and pinched with disbelief. “I musta been outta me mind the other day when I let me body be abused for yer personal pleasure. Ye kyanny get it through yer piggin thick skull, can ye? Ye’re sacked, ye thieving, clarty cunt ye!”

  And he did strip the smock off her.

  “Unfair dismissal!” Dymphna brayed as she struggled out of the sleeves. “I'm hauling ye off to Labor Relations! Ye took advantage of me innocence in the darkness of the stockroom!”

  “Innocence? Ye’ve not a titter of innocence in them gammy bones of yers!”

  “There’ll be a tribunal!”

  Tribunals! The last resort of the lumpen working classes unwilling to lift a finger in the workplace.

  “Aye, you just try it,” Mr. O’Toole said, his lip curling into an ugly sneer. “We’ve packs of solicitors chomping at the bit to fend off vultures the likes of youse!”

  Dymphna turned to go, and reached down for her flowers.

  “I think those would be better left on me desk,” Mr. O’Toole said, straining to compose himself.

  Confusion revealed itself on her face.

  “Ye got em for me, but!”

  “Out! Outta me sight and offa the premises before I call security on ye!”

  Mary Mother of God, Dymphna thought as she headed for the door, arse bandits is wile narky!

  She stropped out of the office, wondering frenziedly if she had come across anything in the staff manual for Redundancy Pay For Recently-Terminated UnWed Mothers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EOIN, RAW WITH WORRY, stood behind a stoke in a bright red track suit with congested lungs. The McDaids were a pack of dead hard hooligans, and would be looking for upwards of £300 when he saw them later that day to pick up more pills.

  He shot glances at the “jobseekers” around him, a sea of swallow tattoos, glazed eyes and three day growth shuffling forward in the queue of the Foyle Jobs and Benefits Office. The deadbeat ahead of him heaved a spluttering cough ripe with nicotine and early death. Eoin wondered if that was to be his own future.

  Half an hour later, some smarmy git in a double breasted suit gave him a smile devoid of pleasure through the scratches of the Plexiglas.

  “And how can I help ye?” the git asked with a frisson of contempt.

  “I’ve to change me address,” Eoin explained. “I’ve been kicked outta me home.”

  The smarmy git raised an eyebrow.

  “Yer name?” he asked. “Aul address and new address?”

  Eoin gave him the particulars, and the change was quickly made in the computer. The git perused the Eoin Flood file, then smirked up at him.

  “Ye pick yer benefits up at the post office, sure, so ye had no need to tell us of yer change of address. What are ye really doing here, hi?”

  Eoin squirmed.

  “I was hoping I might be able to get an advance on me next week’s benefits.”

  The git raised another eyebrow.

  “Ye seem terrible certain ye won’t be employed next week,” he said. “Perhaps we can find ye employment as a psychic? From a glance at yer records, I see ye’ve been drawing the brew since yer last day of school. I kyanny fathom how ye’ve not yet found a job. As I'm sure ye’re aware, compulsory steps are meant to be taken to try to get yerself a job if ye wanny continue drawing the brew. I don’t suppose ye’ve darkened the doorway of the job center as of late? There’s loads of jobs going, I saw em on the bulletin board meself not two days since.”

  Eoin tapped his hand impatiently. All of this carry-on to pocket £33.85 a week? Was it any wonder young lads turned to peddling drugs on the cobblestones?

  “Aye, I'm never outta the place, like,” Eoin said with a thin-lipped non-smile.

  The git gave him the once over, taking in the haggard eyes, the unwashed football jersey. His eyes became slits.

  “Haven’t I seen ye at the Craglooner?”

  Eoin wasn’t about to fall for that trick. There was no way this overly coiffed nancy boy would step one polished Oxford in the Craglooner; a swank wine bar over on the Waterside was more likely his watering hole. Did he think he was thick?

  “I’ve no money to waste on drink, like,” Eoin said quickly. “Not when I'm meant to support meself on £33.85 week.”

  “Well, ye must be spending yer free time somewhere,” the git said, “and I doubt it’s spent at the job center. Have ye considered registering for a training course to learn some special skills to finally join the national workforce, like?”

  “I already took loads,” Eoin snapped. “There was the Keyboard Skills, the Brickwork, the Beauty Skills, the Plastering, the Extended Childminding Practice, the Carpentry and Joinery, the Scullery Portering, and the Engineering Maintenance.”

  “Aye, and?”

  “I failed em all.”

  The git stared at the computer screen to verify this sad truth, then turned back to Eoin with disbelief.

  “We’ve stacks more to suit every taste. Have ye tried Preparation for Nursing?”

  “Aye.”

  “Footwear Design?”

  “Aye.”

  “The National Certificate for Floristry?”

  “I have it, sure.”

  “The National Certificate for Door Supervisors?”

  “I have that and all.”

  “And ye kyanny find employment with all that training and all them skills?”

  “Me body’s not big enough to be a door supervisor, sure!”

  “C’mere till I tell ye, wee boy, I'm glad ye’ve stepped foot into wer office. Sometimes ones the likes of youse gets lost in the bureaucratic shuffle.”

  “The likes of me?”

  “Aye, filthy druggy street scum without an ounce of sense in their brains, them what wanny lollygag around the town pumping the drugs and the drink into their bodies, them that’s taking the mick outta the government. Ye have the bold-faced cheek to march into this office and demand an advance on yer allowance when it’s obvious to all but a thick headed gack that ye’re taking advantage—”

 
“Steady on!” Eoin said. “I’ve been trying to find a job, like! I'm bleedin desperate for a few quid!”

  “Ye’re dead right there, lad, and ye’re about to be even more desperate for a few quid, as I’ve just sanctioned ye!”

  “What the bleedin feck does sanctioned mean?”

  “Yer benefits is to be stopped for 26 weeks,” the git said. “That’ll teach ye to take the mick outta the jobseeker’s allowance!”

  Gone were all thoughts of taking a minicab up to Creggan to meet the thugs. He couldn’t even afford the bus. He’d have to hoof it. And of course it started lashing down the moment he left the Jobs Office. Buying an umbrella was out of his budget.

  £ £ £ £

  Ursula took a tentative step into the rectory office at St. Eugene’s Cathedral. It had taken her long enough, but she had finally found a window of opportunity in her busy schedule where she could confront Father Hogan for transferring her to St. Moluag’s choir. The priest was poring over a pile of papers on his desk, still slightly pale from his encounters in the confessional that evening. Ursula cleared her throat.

  “Father?” she ventured.

  He looked up, his impatience masked by a benign smile.

  “Aye?” he managed. He peered further and saw all the signs of one mentally distraught, living hell on earth: the tautness of her lips, the searching eyes, the disheveled aubergine bob.

  Your woman’s long overdue a trip to the hair salon, Father Hogan thought. Ach, aye! It was the one they had all come into his office to complain about recently; the lotto winner who had generously aided the church a few months back.

  “Ursula, isn’t it? And how may I be of help?”

  “I'm here about the choir,” Ursula explained. “Ye’ve had me transferred to St. Moluag’s down in the Moorside?”

  Father Hogan raised an eyelid and motioned to the plastic orange chair. Ursula perched, clutching and unclutching her handbag.

  “Is it me singing that’s the problem?” she asked. “I’ve tried to improve. That Mrs. Gee’s terrible tone deaf, but, and I'm always stood next to her.

  “Ye’re a Moorside girl,” he said. “I thought I was doing ye a favor.

  Ursula nodded haltingly. “I don’t think I'm up for it, Father,” she said. “And I need to tell ye why.”

  Father Hogan avoided a glance at his watch and settled in his chair for the duration.

  “Aye?” he sighed.

  “I grew up there, aye, and I don’t think I'm better than the likes of them Moorside people down there now after me lotto win; I know that’s what ones might think. Me family, but, them is never outta St. Moluag’s Chapel on a Sunday, letting on they’ve decent Christian hearts, when all the while they troop down the aisle like the pack of right hard stokes they really is. I kyanny face em every week. I'm fear-hearted they’ll point up at me and roar with laughter. I’ll be terrible persecuted every Sunday.”

  He passed her a tissue, his heart going out to her, but he could hide the sorry truth no longer. He hated saying every word.

  “It saddens me heart to say it, Ursula. The ladies of the choir here don’t want ye singing beside em no longer.”

  She had heard it from their own mouths, but was still hoping she had misunderstood.

  “Themmuns is me friends,” she attempted, the tissue crumpled in her fist.

  Father Hogan regarded her with pity. The poor old soul was clueless.

  “The choir ladies say ye’ve not been the same since yer lotto win.”

  Ursula’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve been nothing but wile kind and generous! I had em over to me house for tea, I...I...”

  “I'm on yer side. I kyanny keep ye here, but, with all the girls whinging and moaning about ye every week. Ye’ll haveta forgive them their trespasses, and they’ll haveta look deep in their hearts and realize what evil they’ve done.”

  Father Hogan opened his palms to her.

  “The Lord works, Ursula, in—”

  “Aye, in mysterious ways,” she snapped in sudden anger. “So I’ve heard. I hadn’t a clue that them ways is so torturous to those of us that never put a foot wrong in wer lives. Persecuted and crucified, we are, just like wer Lord hanging on the cross!”

  She flashed him a narrow glance over the sopping tissue.

  “And I gave a sizable contribution to the parish and all, if ye recall.”

  He sat silently in his chair, then finally leaned forward.

  “If it’s new friends ye’re after, might I suggest wer new Alzheimer’s Round Em Up program that’s looking for volunteers? The afflicted have a terrible habit of wandering away from their homes, and fully half of em not rounded up within twenty-four hours is likely to suffer serious personal injury or even death.”

  Ursula gawped at him in disbelief.

  “Ach, catch yerself on, Father! Years I worked for OsteoCare, years I tell ye, and I'm sick, sore and tired of that aul Mrs. Feeney! And now ye expect me to traipse round the town searching for aul ones outta their minds? Ye must think I'm a right eejit! I’ve spent all me life helping all and sundry, and nobody pays me one blind bit of notice! I'm through helping others!”

  She wrenched open her handbag and tore clumsily though its contents.

  “And here’s the money I collected for the new hymnals, peddling them forget-me-nots all round the town,” Ursula said, bitterly tossing over three crisp twenties. She had binned the flowers and withdrawn the money out of her own ravaged bank account. “It’s the last flimmin quid I'm gonny hand over without expecting something in return. I'm through with the whole sorry lot of youse!”

  And out she stomped of the rectory. Father Hogan watched her go with a twinge of relief and a quick shuffle of his papers.

  £ £ £ £

  Dymphna clutched Bridie’s arm as they skirted through the trail of filthy syringes that led to the Health Clinic. It should have been her mother at her side, but Fionnuala had banished her daughter from the family home and forbidden her from uttering a word to any Flood or Heggarty she came into contact with (besides Eoin). It was all her auntie Ursula’s fault.

  If the useless creature had just handed over the money for a termination, Dymphna could have made the journey to Liverpool and nobody would be the wiser. No need to scour the city for a fit Catholic lad, no need to entice a mincing old queen like O’Toole to take her in the stockroom, and no need to now visit the Health Clinic, with seven and a half months of torture ahead of her.

  “I wouldn’t mind been sacked,” Dymphna confided in Bridie, “but them sausingers I nicked was for the family dinner, and I'm not even allowed the creature comforts of me own home anymore. Kicked out of the house like a right slapper I was, and I'm still expected to provide for the family.”

  “Never you mind,” Bridie said with a pat on her arm. “Working behind the counter of the ChipKebab with me will be a laugh, so it will.”

  “It was wile civil of ye to recommend me for the job. Them staff lockers looks dead wee, but. I'm wondering how the staff’s meant to nick food for the family dinner.”

  “Ye just make like it’s yer staff meal and pack it all into a takeaway bag at the end of yer shift. It’s wile simple, I’ll show ye how. I’ve been feeding me family for months on TofuDippers and Hot Dog Baguettes.”

  “Thanks for coming with me, Bridie,” Dymphna said as she opened the door.

  “Ach, sure, no bother a tall. Are ye up for paying yer brother Eoin a wee visit when we’re through?”

  Bridie was hungering for more E’s.

  “Easy enough done, as we be living together at the moment. Does the ChipKebab pay for wer holidays, then?”

  After giving a name at the counter, Dymphna flipped through some dog-eared Hello! Magazines while Bridie inspected the sign above the broken telly which threatened: We are here to help you, but in no way will we tolerate drunkenness, verbal abuse, threatened or actual violence.

  “I see Brad Pitt’s gone on holiday again,” Dymphna said, pointing wistfully at a
page.

  “C’mere a wee moment, hi. Have ye no clue who the father of this wane might be?”

  “Aye,” Dymphna said, bracing her lips to lie to her best mate. “Mr. O’Toole from the Top-Yer-Trolly.”

  Bridie threw back her head and roared with laughter.

  “Attracta Ni Oigthierna!” called the girl at the counter through the fag in her mouth.

  They stared around the waiting room, nosy, until Dymphna realized that that was the name she had given.

  “Ach, that’s me,” she said, gratefully scuttling off beyond the swinging door.

  Dymphna would’ve preferred the Pakistani nurse, as they were all shipped over from Manchester and didn’t have a clue who in Derry was who. She was saddled instead with Nurse Sheila Bryant, whom she knew from the Top-Yer-Trolly. She had the tartan shopping cart and the type of face you longed to slap.

  Dymphna suffering the indignity of much heavy-handed prodding and poking, then was left frittering away on the examination table for a full thirty minutes, gown untied at the back, as the tests were gone over. Finally, the door opened, and Nurse Bryant marched back in.

  “Let’s see what sort of bother ye’ve gotten yerself into,” she sighed, the weight of the world on her shoulders, flipping through some charts on a clipboard.

  Dymphna braced herself for the news she already knew.

  “Give me strength dear Jesus,” Nurse Bryant muttered, shaking her head. “Ye are indeed pregnant, aye. If youse wanes the day only had more respect for the laws of the Catholic Church! What I kyanny get me head around is that youse heathens demanded the disgrace of condom machines in all the pubs and clubs in wer town, and now that ye’ve got yer filthy pagan way, ye never make any use of em!”

  “How far along am I?” Dymphna asked.

  “Two weeks.”

  Dymphna’s brain couldn’t comprehend what her ears had just heard.

  “Ye mean six weeks, surely?” she asked.

  “Two weeks, I’ve told ye.”

  Dymphna’s face was vacant.

  “But...”

  “Two weeks, a fortnight, fourteen days,” Nurse Bryant said as though English weren’t Dymphna’s native tongue.