by Kealan Ryan
‘Fuckin’ freezin’, isn’t it?’ says Wacko.
Danny looks up at the clouds, obstructed slightly by the huge meshing draped from one end of the high walls to the other to stop locals from lashing sliotars filled with drugs over the walls with hurley sticks.
‘It’s cold enough, alright,’ he answers.
Wacko leans uncomfortably close. ‘Here, I’ve a question for ya.’
‘What?’ Danny asks as he looks behind him, half expecting someone to jump on him.
‘Are you nuts?’
‘What?’
‘Are you nuts?’
Danny scowls, ‘No, I heard you; I just don’t understand the question.’
‘Pretty fuckin’ simple question.’
‘Am I nuts?’
‘Righ’.’
‘Why, what did I do?’
‘What did you do?’
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ Danny says, agitated now.
‘Relax, man. I just heard you went crazy. Went fuckin’ nuts. That they brought you down to the psych ward kickin’ and screamin’ about dragons and magic demons and all that shit.’
‘Dragons and demons! What the fuck? No, for Christ’s sake.’
Wacko elbows him. ‘That’s what they’re sayin’, lad. I said you must have been off your head on acid.’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘They brought you in, though; I know that much for a fact.’
‘Yeah, they brought me in, but it wasn’t for no magic shit or dragons.’
‘What then?’
Danny looks away, spits on the ground. ‘What the fuck is it to you?’
Wacko seems surprised by the tone. ‘Just being friendly.’
‘By asking me if I’m crazy?’
‘It’s as good a thing to talk about in this shithole as anythin’ else.’
Danny gives him a weary look. But the guy has a point and it’s the first time anyone has shown any interest in him since he’s arrived.
‘Suppose you’re right.’
‘I’ve ended up there meself a few times, but I’m always off me fuckin’ head,’ he says as he searches his pockets and takes out a smoke. Danny thinks about commenting on how a second ago he’d tried to scab one off him but thinks better of it.
‘Here, do you want one?’ Wacko offers.
‘Thanks,’ Danny says as Wacko moves in so close that Danny can smell his stale breath. He studies Wacko’s face and notices that he is way older than he looks. Because he is skinny, wears tracksuits and acts like such an eejit, he’d assumed that he was in his twenties. But looking at his lined face now, he realises that this fucker is closer to forty.
He whispers, ‘If you want me to sort you out with any shit let me know.’
‘Like what kind of shit?’ Danny whispers.
‘Any shit. Smoke, smack, that acid shit you like – come to me.’
Danny shakes his head. ‘I’m not into acid. I told you that.’
Wacko smiles at him and moves his face away. ‘Yeah, whatever. You’re a fuckin’ header, I saw you fightin’ those wankers when you first got here and I know you’re into droppin’ acid by yourself and shit. You come to me and I’ll hook you up.’
Fuck it, Danny decides, no point explaining anything to this guy; may as well just go along with it. ‘Alright, thanks man. I’m staying the fuck away from acid after the last time, though. Bad, bad trip.’
‘Ah ha, I knew it,’ Wacko says with a look of vindication.
‘But weed, can you get me weed?’ With that Wacko takes a look around and cautiously reaches into his pocket, taking out a pre-rolled joint.
‘Fuck yeah,’ Wacko says as they smile at each other. ‘Well, hash.’
‘Just as good.’
‘Here, come down here so.’ Wacko gets up and Danny follows him to the corner of the courtyard where he sparks up the joint, keeping it hidden in his hand. He takes a bunch of pulls, nearly finishing the thing, before handing it to Danny. ‘Watch it, now,’ he warns. Danny looks around and carefully takes a few quick tokes himself. ‘Fuckin’ good, isn’t it?’
Danny is about to say yes but coughs out a laugh instead, which delights Wacko. ‘Ah ha, told you,’ he smiles.
‘Cheers man, this is good. Fucking powerful.’
Wacko gives him a devilish grin. ‘It’s dipped in opium, so it really fucks you up.’
Danny’s eyes widen. ‘Holy shit.’
Wacko starts walking away, so Danny follows. ‘Where we going?’
‘Pool.’
‘For a swim?’ Danny asks, astonished. For a second he wonders how he could have gone six months in this place and missed the fact that it has a swimming pool.
Wacko looks back at Danny, laughing, and gives him a you-poor-clueless-bastard wrap around the shoulders. ‘No, not a swim, you gobshite. A game of pool.’
Danny blinks and he’s standing with a pool cue in his hand.
‘What colour am I?’ is met by a blank stare. Wacko starts laughing at him as Danny grows more frustrated. ‘What colour am I?’ he repeats.
‘Just hit the fuckin’ ball, you plank,’ Wacko cries.
Danny looks down at the table and realises that the game hasn’t begun yet and it is his break. ‘Oh fuck.’ He starts laughing himself. ‘I thought … I thought we had already started.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Just fuckin’ break, will ya?’
He lines up his shot for ages then lashes into it, scuffing the side of the white ball, which somehow manages to miss everything else on the table.
Wacko pisses himself again and says, ‘Here, watch this.’ He struts to the table; it’s clear that he genuinely believes he’s going to blast the triangle of balls into oblivion and pocket at least five of them. He does look the part, to be fair. Once ready, he strikes down forcefully on the cue, but manages to miss every ball as well. ‘What the fuck!’ he says, looking at the pool cue as if it is somehow to blame. He puts some chalk on it, then hunches over to retake his shot, this time lightly breaking up the bunch.
‘Your go.’
It’s the longest game of pool ever. One is as bad as the other. The longer they play the more they start to get on with each other. When either one of them finally pots something it’s met with ‘good shot’ compliments and all that. But, God, they are shite. I expected this of Danny, but I’m surprised at Wacko.
‘What’s your favourite sport?’ Wacko asks, handing Danny the pool cue.
‘Don’t know; rugby, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, yeah – fuckin’ tough sport man. Them pricks really hit each other.’
‘What’s yours?’ Danny asks as he misses another sitter.
‘Football. I support Arsenal, like.’ He goes on and on about football and Danny can’t keep up. He doesn’t follow it, anyway, but trying to decipher all this football talk while off his face on an opium-hash concoction is impossible. All he can do is nod, smile and throw in the odd Roy Keane in Saipan comment.
‘What do you reckon the shittest sports are?’ Danny asks to try and get away from the football talk.
‘Don’t know. Fencin’ or some shit.’
‘Well at least that has swords.’
‘Yeah suppose. Runnin’s pretty shit.’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of the one where they make the horse dance around in a square.’
‘Wha’?’
‘You know, it’s in the Olympics. The horse kind of walks around in a square and they give him points.’
‘What the fuck are you on about? That’s the fuckin’ circus you’re thinkin’ of. The Olympics,’ Wacko says with a big smile. ‘You’re fuckin’ mad.’
‘No, no. Seriously, it is a sport – they have them walking around kind of skipping.’
Wacko bursts out laughing. ‘They w
arm them up before the races, you gobshite!’
‘No, Christ. I know the difference, I’m telling you it’s a sport … what’s it fucking called?’ Dressage, and I agree – totally shit.
Wacko can’t stop smiling. ‘Whatever, man, your shot.’ Danny takes the cue as Wacko falls into deep thought for a moment before saying, ‘Sumo is pretty shite.’
‘Sumo wrestling?’
‘Yeah, did you ever see it? The chinks are gas, two fat blokes giving each other wedgies and they make a sport out of it.’
‘I never thought of it like that, you’re fuckin’ spot on,’ Danny says, grinning.
‘It’s disgustin’.’
Danny smiles at Wacko and hands back the cue. This has been by far the best day he’s had since being locked up. Since way before that, even. Maybe since the night he met me. The crazy laced hash that Wacko gave him has definitely helped, but mainly it’s down to Wacko himself.
‘Why do they call you Wacko anyway?’ Danny wants to know.
‘Have a guess,’ Wacko says standing up straight.
‘Because you’re a wacko?’
‘That’s what everyone says. It’s ’cos I used to love Michael Jackson. Would show up to school with only the one glove and the whole lot,’ Wacko says as he lashes into another shot, this time potting the 6 ball.
‘Brilliant,’ Danny declares. This guy is brilliant, he decides; his face now sore as his smile muscles are not used to the exercise.
39
Pam’s feeling pretty good this morning as it’s such a sunny day. The past few years the summers have been terrible and this one is an exception only in that it has been beyond terrible. Instead, it has been absolutely catastrophic. It has rained every day. Most years you’d open up the blinds in the morning with the hope that it would be sunny – don’t get me wrong; usually it would still be raining, but at least you had hope. This year, though, even the hope has gone. So this morning Pam opened up the blinds expecting to see the same grey sky, but instead the sun glistened off everything. To make matters even better it’s a Saturday, which means that she can do something nice with Robbie. Get him out of the house.
She decides to take him to a fun fair for kids at the local leisure centre.
The place is packed when she arrives, kids screaming and going mental. I hated this shit when I was alive, but it looks pretty appealing to me now. Well, not appealing, exactly; I just wish that I could be here properly. Be one of the dads getting involved in tug-of-wars and the three-legged races. Last time I was at one of these things I laughed my ass off at all those fools actively participating – now I just wish that I was one of them. Happy assholes. The state of them, falling over each other, their bellies exposed when they hit the ground. Laughing as they pull their T-shirts back down to cover their guts. Worse still are the fit dads. The ones who keep themselves in shape. Taking everything so seriously, trying their best and being visibly peeved if they don’t win.
As I scan the crowd, I feel myself getting more and more pissed off – at least, until I notice how happy Pam looks. I haven’t seen her this happy since before I died. She’s grinning from ear to ear. Any time one of these dummies falls over during the three-legged race she bursts out laughing. She cheers mad for whatever team she decides to support in the tug-of-war, then laughs at them if they lose. Everyone here is having fun and Pam feels it and is soaking it up. I can feel it too – and slowly I let my hatred and jealousy go and enjoy being there with my family.
Robbie wants to try everything. The bouncy slides, of course – up and down, up and down; Pam smiling and waving with every go. He’s drawn to any game that has a ball, constantly skipping the queue to get his next go. He also gets his face painted as Spider-Man – although the kid that paints him is only about thirteen and does a shit job, if you ask me. He looks more like a basketball than Spider-Man. There are obstacle courses, wet sponge games, and Robbie has to try them all. He’s too small for a lot of them, but Pam always manages to find a way to make him feel like he’s taken part.
After several activities, Pam kneels down beside Robbie to give him a juice as she cracks open a can of diet coke for herself. Pam always orders diet coke instead of normal coke – as if it makes a damn bit of difference. We’d be at the cinema and she’d order the large nachos with cheese, the giant popcorn with extra butter, and a diet coke. As Robbie takes a sip from his juice, she bites into a hot dog she’s just bought off a sweaty-looking van chef. Ketchup oozes out all over her hands and she’s about to start looking for a tissue in her handbag when it begins to piss from the heavens without any warning.
Shelter is a good bit away and gathering everything up proves difficult as she doesn’t want to get rid of the hot dog. It’s too tasty and she’s starving. She can’t just grab Robbie either because she’ll get ketchup all over him – plus her hands are full, anyway, between the handbag, hot dog and can of diet coke. In the end, she picks him up with her right arm, but it’s precarious, so she only makes it a few steps before putting him down to reposition him as all the while people scurry past, rushing for shelter.
A man stops and says, ‘Here, let me help you.’ Before she has a chance to answer he has picked up Robbie and is jogging slowly towards the nearby canopy. Her first reaction is of slight annoyance at your man’s presumption and she feels awkward that a stranger has picked up her kid. At the same time, she’s grateful for the help.
I don’t like the dickhead.
By the time she gets under the canopy she’s drenched. She looks damn good soaking wet in her summer clothes. The have-a-go hero hadn’t noticed just how good-looking she was when he first offered his help. He notices now.
‘I believe this is yours,’ he says, flashing his pearly white teeth and putting Robbie on the ground. Robbie can’t get out of his arms quick enough; he didn’t appreciate being thrown about the place without any warning. He shoots your man a dirty look and takes a step away to watch the rain bounce off the grass outside the cover of the canopy.
‘Thanks,’ Pam replies and glances down at Robbie, making sure he doesn’t wander back out into the rain. As she glances down, your man looks at her tits. Quick as a flash, eyes back in polite position by the time Pam looks back at him. I actually can’t blame him on this one – it was more reflex than anything else.
‘I’m Ger,’ he says, holding out his hand.
‘Pam,’ she responds, shaking his hand.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ he says, referring to the rain.
‘I know, serves me right for not bringing a coat.’ There’s something different in how she’s speaking to him. There is an air of flirtation about it; she’s looking right into Ger’s eyes and her smile has a sexier tilt to it than her usual big happy grin. Ger picks up on it too and holds her gaze.
‘No, what you’re wearing looks good,’ he says with a laugh.
This line hurts – he’s clearly taking the conversation to another level. Her T-shirt is welded on to her from the rain so you can see the exact shape of her tits and this stranger is making light of it. What’s worse is that Pam is into it.
‘Oh, thanks very much, I’m drowned here,’ she says, looking down at herself, pretending she isn’t aware of what Ger means.
Pam is getting embarrassed, holding the hot dog; she thinks it makes her look unattractive, so she glances around for a bin.
‘What’re you looking for?’ Ger asks.
‘I need to dump this thing – it’s as wet as me.’ He gives a sly little grin and almost says something provocative, then thinks twice about it. Instead he just says, ‘Here, give it to me.’ He takes it and disappears into the huddled-up crowd.
I can feel the knots forming in Pam’s stomach. She has such a mix of emotions as she waits for him to return. She liked the look of him straight away and recognised how he was looking at her. While they were talking she didn’t think of me once; a
ll she could think about was that your man was a big ride.
‘Now!’ he says on his return. ‘Hot dog gone, will there be anything else I can help you with today?’
Tosser.
‘Stick around; I’ll call you when I need you,’ she answers, smiling.
‘Well maybe I should give you my number so?’
Pam’s flustered; she wasn’t expecting that. He notices and draws back, ‘Oh sorry, not to worry.’ Looking down at Robbie, ‘Of course, you’re married.’ Pam says nothing for a while; she just looks out on the rain and Ger starts to feel a little uncomfortable. He has nowhere to go and is stuck beside this supposedly married chick, who he now realises he can’t score with. He can’t just piss off either because then he’d look a right wanker.
‘Really bucketing down,’ he says lamely, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.
‘Sure is.’
Now she is thinking of me – finally! – and thinking about what to say to Ger. She starts to regret not telling him that she isn’t married anymore. Even if it just meant staying talking to him, to keep him interested. It felt nice, having someone look at her like that again; it didn’t have to go anywhere, but for the first time in a long time she has enjoyed the feeling of being desired. But it’s too late to say anything now. She can’t just blurt it out. The awkwardness between them is growing – she can see Ger’s reddening complexion from the corner of her eye.
Ger can feel his cheeks burning, which makes him more embarrassed, thus turning his face even redder. Fuck this, he thinks, haven’t taken a redner in years. He’d started off so smooth too, he thought; and he really liked the look of this girl. Standing so close now he can smell her T-shirt, the rain mixed with her own odour. She smells amazing; it makes him want her more, but it also makes him want to get the hell out of there because he made such an ass out of himself.
‘I’m actually not married anymore.’
Like a hollow-point bullet straight through my fucking heart.