“Have ye money on ye? Has wer Padraig money on him? Ye think I have money on me? If it makes ye sleep better at night, ye’re using it because she be’s a Proddy bitch.”
This did seem to make sense. Maureen shuffled off.
“Try to get this coffee down him,” Bridie said, handing Dymphna the steaming coffee and secretly hoping the stupid girl would end up burning the lips off him. Bridie could nurse those lips back to health.
Rory entered the land of the conscious, if not the sober. His eyes creaked open, and he slurred a few things the girls couldn’t make out, no matter how close they placed their ears.
“Bridie, I want him back, so I do,” Dymphna said. “Spindly limbs, spots and all.”
Bridie could keep silent no longer. “Are ye sure it’s him, or is it his mammy’s bank account and yer flash life on the Waterside ye’re after? Once ye moved in with them Orange toerags, we saw neither hide nor hair of ye this side of town. Too good for us, were ye?”
Bridie wanted to smack the look of innocent shock off of Dymphna’s face, but had no chance as Maureen barged into the stockroom again.
“That fecking Orange cunt’s gone and put a stop on this card. The wee girl at the counter said the machine told her to take hold of it and ring the Filth.”
They all shared a wry chuckle; as if phoning the police were likely.
“Musta been the nappies and formula I bought with it yesterday that alerted Zoë,” Dymphna mused. “That pigging Keanu, cause of all me heartache.”
“And,” Maureen continued, “that brother of yers is making a wile show of himself over by the soda machine—”
Padraig himself poked his head in the stockroom. “Me head!” he moaned, clutching said item. “It be’s like knitting needles shoved behind me eyeballs. Please, Dymphna, take me home to Mammy, would ye?”
Bridie thought the child must really be suffering, asking to see that hard-faced cow Fionnuala Flood.
“We’re trying to conduct a conversation here between husband and wife,” Dymphna said, motioning to Rory’s glazed eyes that still stared at nothing.
“Youse isn’t married, but!” Padraig said.
“Near as dammit,” Dymphna intoned. Bridie simmered.
“Yer man there kyanny speak nohow,” Padraig squealed in desperation. “Legless, so he is.”
Bridie put a hand on Dymphna’s shoulder. “Perhaps ye should be off,” she suggested. “It’s gonny be hours before ye get any sense outta this one. And the manager’s sure to be back soon. Youse kyanny set up camp here. I’ll look after him for ye, Dymphna.”
“Ta, Bridie, ye’re a star, so ye are,” Dymphna said with gratitude. She squeezed Rory’s hand one last time and got up from the concrete floor. “Lets get ye home, Granny, and see if we kyanny scrounge up something for ye to get down yer bake. And some painkillers for ye and all, Padraig.”
“Not them beans on toast again,” Maureen huffed, wobbling away.
“I saw cases of tinned vegetables collecting dust in a corner of the scullery. Now where the feck did I set that flimmin Keanu?”
“Och, naw. Them tins of yer mammy’s vegetables kyanny be eaten by humans.”
Their voices trailed off. Bridie shut the storeroom door. Rory groaned and, finally, lucidity shone in his eyes. She gently brushed his bowl cut bangs to the side with her left hand She attempted a smile of warmth and relief, configuring her eyes into a look of compassion. She posed with her right elbow on a drum of industrial-strength decalcifier, hand under her chin, pinkie raised in the air.
“Och, quite a fright ye gave us, boyo,” Bridie breathed, tinkling with dainty laughter (rather at odds to her usual bawdy cackle). “That was some bender ye were on.”
“Wh-where am I?” Rory asked.
“Ye passed out in the loo of Kebabalicious,” Bridie explained.
His eyes, which were like two raisins in ovals of blood-spattered snow, narrowed even more.
“Aren’t ye Dymphna’s mate Birdie?”
“Bridie,” Bridie corrected. “Aye, Bridie McFee from Ineshowen Gardens. And yer Dymphna was here to witness yer fall from grace and all.”
His eyes swiveled, and Bridie bristled at the alarm and mortification in them.
“Dymphna? Where is she?”
“One look at ye and she raced outta here like her quim had been set ablaze. Said she couldn’t be dealing with the likes of ye, ye fairly turned her stomach, so she said. Happy to see the back of ye and yer fascist mother. Had to drag ye in here meself.”
Bridie treasured each line of disappointment that formed on Rory’s face. A head bearing a purple and yellow cap poked inside the storeroom.
“The manager’s back, youse, hi.”
Bridie pulled a face; she had still to scrub out the sundae topping dispensers and would have to take a shortcut in her plan to nab Rory for herself.
“I think....” Bridie ran her finger down the length of his hand shuddering on the concrete as she made a show of conjuring up an idea there on the spot. “I know just what ye need to fill the empty hole in yer life.”
“Not...Alcoholics Anonymous?” Rory inquired, his voice trembling.
Bridie threw back her head to cackle, caught herself, and tinkled instead.
“Catch yerself on, hi! Alkies Anonymous be’s some peculiar Yank invention for those what kyanny handle their drink like hard men and women can. Naw, I’m talking about the self-respect and emotional fulfillment that comes from line-dancing It’s a wile craic, so it is. Me group meets down the Leisure Center on a Wednesday.” It was the only place in Derry a pig-ugly girl like Bridie found appreciation and respect and actual admirers, due to her perfect Boot-Scootin-Boogie, Cotton-Eyed-Joe and wide array of fringed fashion. Where better to show her popularity off to her new conquest?
Rory stared at her, aghast, though he was partial to Shania Twain’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much.”
“Scribble down yer phone number.” She forced a pencil into his hand. “There’s no backing out. Ye’re to cleanse yerself of the demons tormenting ye through the pleasures of the dancefloor. Ye might just discover one of them demons be’s called Dymphna Flood.”
Rory did as instructed. Like most women, Bridie McFee knew how to handle men. And she, too, had an empty hole that needed filling.
CHAPTER 18
CATHERINE MCLAUGHLIN (iPod Girl) skipped happily past a charred refrigerator and some bludgeoned mattresses towards the school playground. Her red hair shimmered in a stint of uncharacteristic sunshine. She eyed the rusty merry-go-round and imagined all the fun she’d be having on it. She’d just have to ignore the filthy words spray-painted across it and stop worrying about what they meant, as her daddy instructed. And steer clear of the splinters from the huge hole that had been hacked into the platform by a sharp instrument of sorts.
She froze with sudden fear, and her Hello Kitty backpack smacked against her shoulder blades.
Between her and the plaything stood the dreaded Siofra Flood and her sidekick Grainne Donaldson. Catherine whimpered. At the sight of Catherine, the two clunked towards her across the litter-strewn tarmac like cheaply-built mini-robots, their movements a close approximation of friendly schoolchildren. Catherine feared they had become pod people.
“’Bout ye, Catherine?” Siofra called out.
Through there seemed no malice in Siofra’s voice, Catherine cowered against the see saw. She wriggled out of her backpack and nudged it towards them, now feet away from her.
“Take it and leave me be!” she pleaded, the straps quivering.
Grainne reached in her pocket—Catherine tensed for the blow—and pulled out a mangled packet of pickled onion potato chips. Siofra held out a tattered roll of Fruit Pastilles.
“Ye wanna be mates, hi?” Siofra asked, her voice as sweet as her personality would allow.
Catherine blinked, unsure whether this was her wildest dream or worst nightmare come true. As her lower lip trembled in confusion and Hello Kitty sagged to the ground, she r
ealized what was odd about them: they were smiling.
“T-them doesn’t be poisoned, does they?” Catherine asked.
Their eyes flickered with a brief annoyance, then the freakish smiles stretched wider further disfiguring their faces. Catherine wished they would just give up the charade; it was like two Halloween masks staring at her.
“Naw,” Siofra said. “Lookit, they still be’s unwrapped, sure.”
Catherine tentatively reached for the snacks, knowing she was leaving her backpack unattended on the tarmac, which might be what they wanted.
“We’ve wanted to be mates with ye for donkey’s,” Grainne explained.
“I’m wile sorry we beat the shite outta ye so many times in the past,” Siofra said. “Jealous, we musta been. Now’s the time to make up for it, but. Could ye not forgive us for wer sins against ye? I’ve been paying attention to Father Hogan’s sermons at St. Molaug’s, so I have.”
Grainne nodded eagerly.
“Aye, me and all.”
The Flood family sat in the next pew to the McLaughlins every Sunday, but the feeling of comfort and reassurance Catherine received from weekly mass was always tempered by their sniggering and their abuse of the hymnals; there was something not right about the Floods’ presence in a house of God. But perhaps Siofra had indeed heard the call of the Lord. Catherine was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. She unwrapped the Fruit Pastilles (she’d eat the chips later alone; pickled onion was her favorite) and offered them to Siofra and Grainne. They took one each to put her mind at ease about poison.
Siofra said: “The other night, I had a dream of an angel.”
Catherine's face lit up with interest, and she began to relax as she chewed.
“Ye don’t say?”
“Aye,” Siofra said, chewing as well. “It was wile strange. I told Grainne all about it the day, so I did. I was in Heaven, minding me own business, jumping happily from cloud to cloud, when an angel appeared before me, hovering about the next cloud but one. ‘Siofra Flood,’ goes the angel, ‘I’ve something to tell ye, something to help ye avoid the clutches of the Devil. Ye might be in Heaven now, but don’t think ye’re safe. The Devil be’s terrible powerful and be’s everywhere, so he does. Even here in Heaven.’”
Catherine’s eyes widened like saucers. Grainne took another candy.
“I looked around the clouds, suddenly afeared. Where was the Devil hiding in heaven? I started to cry, so I did, but the angel flapped her wings, it was a she, ye see, and she goes, ‘Don’t cry, Siofra, I’ll show ye what ye need to avoid the road to Hell,’ She reached into some pocket of her angel garb and pulled out a press pass. ‘Ye’re to find one of these press passes,’ the angel says, ‘and when the Devil approaches ye, ye just wave it at him and he withers and be’s in terrible pain and be’s forced to go back to his lair in Hell.’ I was happy. ‘Ta very much for telling me,’ I says, ‘that’s wile civil of ye,’ and I reached out me hand to take it. But the angel snatched it away and says, ‘Naw, Siofra, this be’s mines. Ye’re to find yer own. I’m letting ye know what ye need to avoid eternal damnation, just.’ And away she flew, playing her harp. And then, from another cloud, I saw a pitchfork and some horns and a pointy tail. It was the Devil, plain as day, and he was coming for me, and I hadn’t the special press pass to protect meself. And I was heartscared and sobbing and begging yer man to not drag me down to the burny pits of Hell.”
Catherine was hanging on every word, fascinated and scared.
“And then?” she dared to ask.
“And then she woke up,” Grainne snapped.
The three stood in silence for a moment. It was certainly strange, Catherine thought, but she knew the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Wasn’t there the woman down in Cork who had seen the Virgin Mary in a bowl of raisin oatmeal? She reached for another candy, but Grainne had finished them all.
“And why is ye telling me this?” Catherine wondered.
“Doesn’t yer mammy have one of them press passes?” Grainne said, her voice ringing with impatience. “Ye brought it in for show and tell, sure.”
“A-aye, but...?”
“Ye’re to get yer mammy’s press pass and give it to me, to save me from the Devil,” Siofra announced.
Catherine couldn’t have been more surprised if they asked her to be best mates with her. Oh! They just had. Catherine’s face grew with alarm. Her mother hadn't been well since Catherine's collapse at her first Holy Communion the year before. She had had to step down from her job as a journalist, and was pumped full of medication.
Catherine wriggled with discomfort as she aired some dirty laundry: “Just after me mammy went away in the head, she used to sneak outta the house with her press pass and use it to gain entry into posh events in town she wasn’t invited to. Strangely, she behaved at em. That press pass be’s locked up in me daddy’s safe in his study now. I kyanny get at it. He’s the keys on him all the time, sure.”
“Yer daddy has a study?” Grainne looked in disbelief at Siofra. Siofra nudged her to be silent.
“I suggest ye find a way to get them keys to unlock the press pass,” Siofra said, “if ye wanny save yer new best mate from the Devil’s cloven hooves.”
“...that be’s thieving, but...”
“Aye, and?” Siofra asked, hand on hip.
“Thieving be’s a sin against God,” Catherine whimpered.
“Ye can visit Faller Hogan in the confessional on a Wednesday evening and confess afterwards, sure,” Grainne said. “Then yer sins be’s cleared by God. Like a magic trick, so it is.”
“Me penance, but will last hours and—”
“Coke-drinking cunts!” “Fenian bastards!” “Minging arseholes!”
They jumped as a unit at the yells and whipped around. A horde of girls, seven or more, raced across the tarmac towards them, young faces stretched with hatred.
“Themmuns is Pepsi-slurping gits!” Siofra screamed.
“Themmuns’ve balloons with em!” Grainne wailed. “Let’s clear outta here!”
The three girls screamed and scattered like sheep caught in a war-zone, knowing the liquid in those balloons came from no tap. An arsenal of balloons sailed through the air, and roars of laughter rang out as fountains of piss exploded all around the see saw. A balloon hit Grainne in the face, the plastic ripping and liquid exploding.
“I’m soaked in Proddy urine!” Grainne wailed, racing for the doors of the school.
Catherine cried as something putrid and brown sailed through the air.
“They’ve dog mess and all!” she screamed, splats erupting around her on the tarmac.
They scrabbled towards the doors, and still the bloated missiles kept coming. Siofra and Grainne banged on the filthy glass.
“Let us in! Let us in!”
Catherine fell on the gravel leading up to the steps, tears pouring down her face as she scraped her knee. Blood seeped through her white tights, and the hateful bastards pointed and roared with cruel laughter. And moved in, balloons exploding and feces spattering on her struggling body.
“Leave her be!” Siofra roared.
“Leave her be! Leave her be!” mimicked the girls as the door flew open and the startled janitor dragged Catherine inside.
“Och, fer the love of God!” Siofra heaved a grunt of fury and raced back, dragging Catherine by the arms and hauling her up the steps. A balloon ruptured against Siofra’s back, the urine trickling down. She hauled Catherine into the safety of the school.
“Clear on off outta here!” roared the janitor into the yard. “Get yerselves back to yer Proddy school and leave wer wanes be!”
The girls roared with laughter, flipping them all off, and raced out of the playground.
“Are youse alright?” the janitor asked, lips taught with anger.
“I’m drenched in Proddy wee, so am are,” Siofra said. “I’m gonny spew.”
“Another attack from them jumped-up minted cunts from the How Great Thou Art, no doubt!” the jani
tor fumed. “Hours, it took me, to clear up all the egg they flung on the windows of the science lab last week.”
He stormed off down the hallway, presumably to get a bucket and mop to clear up this new filth on the playground. Grainne and Siofra had hearty constitutions and were used to such violence, but Catherine slumped against a drugs awareness poster, sopping and shell-shocked. She had the presence of mind, however, to pass Siofra a look of gratitude.
“Ta, for saving me,” she said weakly. The jury was still out on Grainne, but perhaps Siofra Flood was her new best mate after all.
“Get me that flimmin press pass as thanks, just,” Siofra said.
As they struggled down the hallway to the girls room to clean the mess off them, Grainne blabbering on and on about her new Little Miss Princess top being ruined, Catherine wondered why Siofra seemed distracted. She couldn’t know Siofra had recognized one of the seven, and was fuming with thoughts of revenge. The ringleader of the group, the girl who had flung the most dog mess and the biggest balloons, including the purple one that had exploded on her back, was none other than PinkPetals.
CHAPTER 19
PADDY DOZING AT HER side, Fionnuala sat in the waiting room of the Health Clinic, flipping through her favorite glossy celebrity magazine and resenting not only Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but also her existence in that room at that moment. There were many things she could be doing with her precious time, and taking Padraig to the doctor’s, especially this doctor, wasn’t one of them. Dr. Khudiadadzai had asked Fionnuala if she wanted to accompany the child into the consulting room, but Fionnuala wanted to be as far away from him as she could.
“He’s been doing me head in, outta his bleeding fecking mind,” Fionnuala had explained to the doctor when she asked what was wrong with her son. “I’m half-afeared we’ll have to haul him off to Gransha.” The mental institution on the hill.
Fionnuala was irritated by the sound of the receptionist clicking on her keyboard, and of the pensioners in the orange chairs nattering away to each other. Then she pricked up her ears:
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