Bullfighting

by Roddy Doyle

  They finished the game and went walking. The excitement was still in the street. The young lads, bashing against one another, thumping their chests. There was no sign of the bull, although there was dung in the air and – Donal saw it now – blood on the street. A topic for the phone call home in the morning. The marching band was still marching, but they still hadn’t seen it. There were stalls down both sides of the main street, and Donal saw some of the stuff he’d bring home, the small presents the kids used to charge down the hall for when they heard him coming in the door, after he’d been away for a day or two because of work.

  They found a place and ate well. Good, big steaks.

  —Straight off the fuckin’ bull.

  The waiter recognised Gerry, smiled at him.

  —Irish, yes?

  —Yeah; good man.

  —How are you? said the waiter.

  —Good, said Gerry.—Yeah. How’s business?

  —You are my business.

  He clapped his hands.

  —Business is good.

  They stopped at another bar. Another few drinks, at a table outside. The loud young lads were gone. There were families strolling, proud men pushing buggies.

  —It’s after one.

  —A different world.

  —It’s very civilised.

  —If this was Dublin, we’d be watching the fight.

  —We’d be at home.

  They walked back to the house at about three.

  —A swim?

  —Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.

  They slept through the dogs. The room was still dark when Donal woke. But there was a day outside; he could feel it pressing against the shutter. He got out of the bed, and he was grand. No bother. He went out to the hall and looked at his phone. One o’clock. He’d woken up in the afternoon. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Long before kids, before marriage. He went out to the pool, and Gerry was there, listening to his iPod.

  Donal sat beside him.

  —What’re you listening to?

  —The Cure.

  —The Cure? Are they still good?

  —They’re great. Hang on. I can link this up to the speakers inside. It’ll wake the other pair up.

  He went inside and, a minute later, Donal was listening to ‘The Love Cats’. Gerry came back with a pot of good, solid coffee. The other two got up. They chatted. They swam. They read. They ate some bread and cheese. They got bored with the Cure, so Gerry changed it to Echo and the Bunnymen. Donal was definitely getting an iPod. He’d forgotten these bands had existed.

  —D’you remember Japan?

  —They haven’t aged well.

  —Have they not? What about Madness?

  —Kids love Madness.

  —I love Madness. Talking Heads?

  —They’re next.

  The sun started dipping, and Seán came out with four bottles of Stella.

  That was their week in Spain. Their routine. Like heaven, in the Talking Heads song. Where nothing ever happened.

  The songs were queuing up.

  He rang home every day, walked around the pool while he talked to Elaine and Peter, and the older boys if they were at home. He texted them too. Hw’r things? They usually got back to him. Gnd, or Gud, or Fin. U? But he didn’t really miss them. He didn’t think about them. He didn’t ache to hold them as they used to be, their weight in his arms, their smells under his nose. He didn’t mind being alone in the bed, when he woke. He liked it, just himself, nothing to remember or catch up on. He stopped hearing the dogs.

  The three lads were up before him one of the mornings. Gerry was walking around the pool, worrying the hoover with the butt of a brush, pushing it out towards the centre. Ken had his BlackBerry, was poking away at it with the little plastic stick.

  He put it on the table.

  —There now, he said.—That should keep the economy afloat.

  —Day’s work done?

  —And no one even knows I’m here. This is the world we live in, men.

  Ken had rigged his life so that where he actually was rarely mattered. And Gerry was the same. Gerry and Ken had slid into self-employment, about fifteen years before. Donal hadn’t noticed – too busy changing nappies. And he was happy enough where he was, in the Revenue. He still liked it, going after the farmers. He’d found bogus accounts and all sorts of hidden accounts. Hairy men with shite on their boots, with millions stashed away in the Caymans and Bermuda, or in biscuit tins under their beds. A few years back, he’d been asked into an office, for a chat. Had he ever thought of the CAB? He must have looked a bit slack-jawed, because the man in a better suit than Donal’s added a word to each of the letters.

  —Criminal Assets Bureau. Would you be up for it?

  —Are they not the Guards? said Donal.—Cops. Going after gangsters?

  —It’s liquid, said his boss’s boss.—You’d be on secondment. And, now, you wouldn’t be breaking down doors or anything like that. It wouldn’t be The Untouchables. Will you think about it, anyway? We wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t think you were the man they needed.

  —Thanks.

  —You’ll think about it?

  —Yeah, he said.—I will.

  —I’ll leave it with you.

  He didn’t tell Elaine; he told no one. He was flattered, thrilled. He actually saw himself in the part; he felt the door give way against his shoulder. Felt the weight of the shotgun. Felt – saw – his eyes match the look coming at him from the drugs baron across the room.

  They never came back to him about it, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t have gone to work knowing that Elaine or the kids were worried about him. He didn’t think it was just an excuse, or a lie. He didn’t think it then – he wasn’t sure. It was six or seven years ago. Six. And, actually, he was sure. He’d wanted nothing to do with gangland warlords or major drug dealers. He was happier with the farmers.

  Gerry had always been a bit more daring, or mad. Donal could see him now. He rolled – he multitasked. He scooped the dead stuff out of the pool with a net while he sold a guy in Dublin an insurance policy, or something. An update, Gerry called it.

  —You’re what? said Gerry, to the phone.—Fifty-two?

  Now he was shoving the hoover back to the middle of the pool.

  —It’s not about the years you’ve left, Mick, he said.

  He was wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, nearly faded to nothing. One of his kid’s, Donal guessed.

  —It’s about the years you’ve already lived, he said.—What you have to show for them, what there is to protect. Are you with me?

  He sat down and picked up one of the bottles.

  —It’s not going to get cheaper because you’ve less years to live. It’s insurance I’m selling, not milk. And look, I’m not even selling it. You’re already well covered. I’m just telling you about it. I have to. It’s the law.

  He took a swig from the bottle.

  —Spain, he said.—Yeah, it’s great. Just me and a few lads. No. No golf. Fuck golf. You know about me and golf. So, anyway, grand, there’s no hurry. You phone me, Mick. Either way, yeah. I will, yeah. Good luck.

  He put the phone on the table. He said nothing. It was just work, the way he did it now, what he used to do at a desk, or in a pub or a restaurant, five years ago. He’d adjusted. He could work beside a swimming pool in Spain, with his best friends.

  —The world, said Ken, one of the nights they were out.

  —What about it?

  —It’s grand, said Ken.—But I worry a bit sometimes.

  —Why?

  —Not about global warming or that, said Ken.—That’ll sort itself out. There’ll be good and bad there.

  They nodded. They all kind of agreed, and none of them wanted to talk about global warming. They were wearing shorts and sandals. It was boring.

  —Just, said Ken.—The future. Like, I’ve complete faith in us. Our age group. And the very young. Kids, like.

  Donal knew what
he meant.

  —It’s the ones in between, he said.

  And Ken nodded.

  —Exactly, he said.—D’you know many people in their thirties?

  —One or two, said Seán.

  —Fuckin’ eejits, said Ken.—Every one of them. I’m right, amn’t I?

  —Yeah, said Donal.—But you’re right about kids as well. They’re brilliant.

  They were talking shite, enjoying themselves. But, still and all, Donal nearly cried. He was talking about his own kids. Moving away from him, setting off on their own. He loved it and hated it. He’d never get over it. But he’d have to.

  Gerry looked at him.

  —Are you alright? he said, quietly.

  —I’m grand, said Donal.

  And he was. They’d never talk about it. Except agree, and move on.

  The day before they went home, they went into Valencia. They got up in time to catch the bus. Past half-built apartment blocks and wasteland – no real countryside, and no sea. They yawned and chatted till Gerry stood up, and they followed him off the bus. They wandered around for a couple of hours. They went into the cathedral. Donal put fifty cent in a slot and watched the electric candles come on. He walked away before they went off again. They went to an old market, the plaça redonda, and decided not to buy any bootleg DVDs because they didn’t want to carry them around all day and lose them. They went into a tapas place and ate about fifty euros’ worth of the little things along the counter. They went to a bar with a big screen, to watch the English football. They had their first beers, slowly, and a few more, slowly, till the match was over, and they went for a stroll. They found a small corner bar with a very good-looking waitress, and they stayed there till it was dark. They talked more than they had all week. Got pissed slowly, enjoyed the fact that they knew they were getting pissed. They couldn’t come back from the jacks without slapping a back. The talk got a bit mad. The first ride, the best ride, the weirdest, the longest.

  —Four minutes.

  —Four and a half.

  —Good man.

  Ever with another man.

  —No.

  —No way.

  Ever curious.

  —No. Not really.

  Ever with a relation.

  —Does it have to be a blood relation?

  —Yeah.

  —Then no.

  —Who, but?

  —Her ma.

  —Your mother-in-law?

  —Yeah.

  —You’re jesting.

  —I’m not.

  —You are.

  —Yeah. I am. But it was touch and go. At her da’s funeral, you know. Back at the house.

  They were the only ones laughing in the bar. They left, and moved on to another one. David Bowie and another good-looking waitress. Donal told them about the job in the CAB. They told him he’d been right not to take it. They all told him that. They had more tapas in another place. Seán told Donal that his marriage was on the rocks. Gerry told Donal that his marriage was on the rocks. Donal told Gerry that his own had been rocky for a while, but that things were grand now, much better. Then he told Seán. And Ken. Then they were in a taxi, heading back to the town. Laughing. Three of them squashed into the back. Gerry in the front beside the driver.

  It was three in the morning. There was still a bar open, the one just down from the bullring. Ken went in, came back out with four bottles. They sat. They heard the marching band. It might have been a different band. They still hadn’t seen it.

  —At this time? said Seán.

  —The town that never sleeps.

  Donal stood up. He left his bottle on the table. He’d had enough. He wanted the bed.

  He walked.

  There was some sort of action going on at the bullring. The exit gates were open. It was lit, inside. He could see people, lots of young lads, standing in the ring. There was a barrier between him and the ring, like the metal bars of a jail. The bars were wide enough apart for people to get through, but – he supposed – solid enough to stop a bull. He went in, sideways, between two of the bars. He walked onto the ring. It was quiet – he couldn’t hear the band – but the seats all around seemed full. A double gate at the other side was wide open, but he couldn’t see anything beyond it. The young lads were just standing there.

  He heard an engine. A truck, a big one, reversed slowly through the double gates. Lads got out of the way. A man in a black T-shirt jumped out of the cab and went to the back of the truck. There was another man there with him. They lowered the tailgate – Donal heard chains and a rumble – and they stood back. The crowd roared, and he saw the bull charge down the ramp, then stop. Dead still. Like the bull on a wine bottle. Black and huge, and still. The young lads didn’t move any nearer, but no one ran. Donal moved a step closer. The truck was leaving, slowly. He watched till it was gone, and the double gates were shut behind it. The bull had moved. Not much – he didn’t think – the angle was different, turned more towards Donal. Then the strange thing happened. A man with a burning torch – Donal hadn’t seen him arrive – walked right up to the bull and set fire to it. The two horns were on fire. Red flames roared over its head.

  There was a hand on Donal’s shoulder.

  —You might want to step back a bit.

  It was Gerry.

  —Yeah, said Donal.

  —Behind the barrier.

  —Yeah.

  He looked behind him. He’d gone further than he’d thought – he hadn’t thought at all. He was turning away when the bull moved.

  —Fuckin’ Jesus.

  It ran, dashed, in a broken stop – start – fast. Every move covered distance. They wouldn’t have had a hope. But it didn’t come at them. It went across the ring, then away and out a different gate that Donal hadn’t seen. The horns three times higher, because of the flames. It was gone just as Donal realised he was falling. His chest hit the ground, his chin. He felt grit in his hands. But he was fine, standing up again, grand. He felt his chin. The ring was empty.

  —Where’s he gone?

  There was no blood in his mouth. He rubbed his hands clean.

  —That was great, said Donal.—Fuckin’ great.

  What he’d just seen. What he’d just done.

  —I didn’t know they set fire to the poor fuckers as well, said Seán.

  —Why do they?

  —Fuck knows, said Gerry.—It’s mad.

  They walked to the house. One more beer, out at the pool. Gerry stuck on the music. Donal held the bottle against his chin.

  The way the bull had stood absolutely still.

  He put the bottle on the table.

  Then the movement. Across the ring. The speed. The flames.

  He went over to the pool.

  The feeling he’d had, before the bull moved. Not caring. But knowing he was safe – it hadn’t felt stupid.

  He puked into the pool. On his knees. Straight in.

  Echo and the Bunnymen. The dogs howling.

  There was no more. He lay down. He could hear the hoover under the water.

  Gerry was beside him.

  —Feeling better?

  —Sorry.

  —No bother.

  —How do you get vomit out of water?

  —Don’t worry about it. We’ll throw in a bucket of chlorine. That should fix it. It’ll eat it or something.

  Gerry was sitting beside him.

  —Alright?

  —Grand, said Donal.—Thanks.

  —No bother.

  —A great day, said Donal.—Wasn’t it?

  —Yeah, said Gerry.—Brilliant.

  —Brilliant.

  He lay there for a while longer, his face on his arm. He felt good – clear. He’d get up in a minute. He might finish the bottle. He was fine.

  —Fuckin’ brilliant.

  This was living, he thought. This was happiness.

  Sleep

  It was the thing he’d always loved about her. The way she could sleep. Even when they’d just start
ed going with each other, before they really knew each other, he’d lie awake, hoping she’d wake up, praying for it, dying. But even then he’d loved to look at her while she slept. There was something about it that made him feel lucky, or privileged. Or trusted. She could do that beside him, turn everything off, all the defences, and let him watch her.

  It wasn’t just the drink that knocked Tara out. They drank a lot in the early days. They’d get drunk and braver two nights a week, Fridays and Saturdays. There’d be a taxi or the last bus home, to his flat or hers. Hers was nicer. Tom’s flat was a kip, and the bed sagged badly in the middle. They’d paw at each other in the taxi. There was once, a mad night, she took the belt off his trousers, and put it around her neck and pulled. The driver swerved off the road, up onto the path, and stopped.

  —Out.

  —Ah, come on, she said. She gave him her accent and smile.—We were joking.

  —Out, the driver said to the mirror.—Now, or I’ll drive yis to the cop shop. It’s only around the corner.

  Her flat was around the corner too, so they got out and walked the rest of the way. Holding each other, trying to walk side by side. The belt wasn’t around her neck and it wasn’t around his waist.

  —We left it in the fucking taxi.

  She pronounced her ‘g’s. All of them. She was the only person he knew who did that. It still made him weak. Even when she was telling him he was fucking useless. There was one night – it might have been the same night; there were a lot of new, weird nights then – she fell asleep on Friday and woke up on Sunday morning. He was awake on Saturday, as usual. Alert, alive, gasping for water and sex, but content enough with the water. He got out of the bed and went to the kitchen. She had a kitchen, and a jacks. He didn’t, not then. His flat was just the one room, and it wasn’t big. He had a bed, a table, two chairs, a Baby Belling cooker, and a fridge so small it could only take a salad cream bottle if he sat it on its side. He shared the toilet and bath with three other bedsits, which was fine some times and fuckin’ desperate other times.