The Scrapper

by Brendan O'Carroll

‘What? Off who?’ Michael asked.

  Kieran stared at him, one of those stares that says, Why are you asking such a stupid question?

  ‘Off his chauffeur … in there, you idiot!’ Kieran again nodded to the doorway.

  ‘You mean that’s a …’

  Clancy simply nodded again.

  ‘Well, my God! I didn’t even know that place existed,’ exclaimed Michael slowly, careful not to let Clancy see him jot the phone number of the Medusa Massage Parlour on the palm of his hand. ‘And how much would a wank be?’ Michael wondered.

  Clancy gave him that look again. ‘Are you asking me to quote you? How the hell would I know?’

  Michael didn’t pursue it. Clancy threw his cigarette on the footpath and stood on it. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and stamped his feet to keep warm. As he did this he glanced around at the main street.

  ‘God almighty, this place is desperate!’

  ‘It’s a kip, all right! I’m glad we’re not stationed out here in Snuggstown.’

  ‘Yes, Michael, that would be terrible – we might have to pretend to be policemen.’

  ‘You’re in great form, aren’t you?’

  The doorway of a building across the street opened and a man stepped out. His hair was thin on top, and he had a moustache; he was wearing denim trousers and a bomber jacket. He was carrying a sports bag. Kieran watched him as he walked towards them up the street. His face seemed vaguely familiar. Kieran frowned, then the dawning of recognition made his eyebrows rise.

  ‘Look! Isn’t that Sparrow McCabe over there, Michael?’

  Michael turned and looked at the figure walking in their direction on the far side of the street.

  ‘It is, indeed. God, he was some boxer.’

  ‘He sure was.’ They watched as Sparrow walked a short way down the street and inserted a key into the door of a black Jaguar.

  ‘I wonder did he take a dive that time in Spain?’ Michael asked Clancy.

  Clancy continued to watch Sparrow. ‘He must be doing all right now, driving a Jag.’

  ‘That’s not his.’

  Kieran now looked at Michael. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know because before you got me this cushy number, I was in Traffic. The Jag belongs to that scumbag Simon Williams – Simple Simon. He runs Snuggstown.’ Michael turned and nodded towards Medusa’s. ‘He probably owns that place. Sparrow drives for him. He has done for about the last six years.’

  As Sparrow climbed into the Jaguar the two men watched him with interest, but were interrupted by the Minister as he exited from the massage parlour. Without a word to either his chauffeur or his bodyguards, the Minister climbed straight back into the ministerial car. The two detectives got into their car and Kieran started the engine, his eyes still fixed on Sparrow. As they set off down the street, they drove past the Jaguar. Kieran Clancy stared at Sparrow. Sparrow met his stare and frowned. The first meeting of these two men was over. It would not be the last.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thursday, 5 December

  The McCabe home, Snuggstown West, 9.45pm

  Sparrow McCabe lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house in Meadowmist housing estate. Although this area was still referred to as the ‘new estate’, it was actually twelve years old, but hung on to its name because it was the final phase of the Snuggstown West housing plan. Just two years after their marriage, Sparrow and Eileen had applied for one of the new houses. Less than a year later they had moved in. The design of the houses was simple. Upstairs there was one large bedroom in which Eileen and Sparrow slept. Next to it was a bathroom and toilet. At that moment Sparrow was standing at the door of the second, smaller bedroom. Inside this room lay the family jewel. After the tragic loss of her daughter in Madrid, it was seven years before Eileen gave birth again. The pregnancy was a tense and tortured time for both of them. When the boy was born he was greeted with a huge sigh of relief rather than open joy. Eileen named him Michael, after her father, but this had quickly been shortened to Mickey. As the boy grew into a seven-year-old scamp, the name suited him perfectly.

  Sparrow pushed Mickey’s bedroom door open softly. The light from the single bulb on the landing spilled in. Mickey’s room was typical of a seven-year-old’s bedroom. His clothes were scattered along the floor where he had tossed them, for like most seven-year-olds he undressed on his way to the bed. Quietly Sparrow gathered up the clothes and folded them. He picked up the child’s things as well – a football and a tiny TV with a computer game console attached to it. The monitor was on and Sparrow clicked it off. The walls were adorned with various posters showing the diversity of Mickey’s interests: Hulk Hogan, the Irish football team, various players in various poses from Aston Villa FC, and a huge Spice Girls poster reflecting Mickey’s anticipation of future adolescence rather than his musical taste.

  On Mickey’s bedside table were two framed photographs. One was of the boy himself in football gear, holding a ball. He was laughing and covered from head to toe in mud. Sparrow picked it up and smiled as he looked at this little bundle of energy. He then quietly replaced it beside the photo of himself, a black-and-white one, in full boxing regalia. Sparrow lost his smile.

  Mickey was sound asleep but still wearing the headphones of his walkman, so Sparrow leaned over and gently lifted the headphones from the boy’s head. He smiled down at his son lovingly, and bending over him placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. ‘Goodnight, Mickey the Gick!’

  Sparrow made his way downstairs, on the way tossing Mickey’s clothes into the washbasket in the bathroom. He flicked on the kettle, then went to the fireplace. It was freezing cold outside, so he heaped some more coal onto the fire, to have the room nice and warm for Eileen when she returned from bingo. Thursday night was bingo night and Eileen made it her night out with her mother, Dolly. Over the hearth the entire wall was covered with photographs, framed press clippings and other memorabilia from Sparrow’s boxing years. Eileen called this Sparrow’s Wall.

  The kettle began to dance. Sparrow hurried to the kitchen counter and switched it off. He tossed a tea bag into a mug, then two sugars, finally adding the scalding water. As the tea ‘brewed’ in the mug he made himself some sandwiches. Within minutes Sparrow was closing the kitchen door with his leg, and holding the tea in one hand, a sandwich in the other and another sandwich in his mouth, he settled himself into his armchair.

  He reached down to the floor beside his chair and his hand found the remote control. Then like a gunslinger he began to flick through the channels until he found Sky Sports. A handsome sports announcer with plastic features announced: ‘Coming up next here on Sky Sports we have Fight Night, tonight featuring the European Heavyweight Title Fight between Karim Smith of London, and Spain’s Enzo Vala. That’s after the break.’ As an advert began, Sparrow’s eyes drifted to the fire flickering in the hearth, then up to the wall over the mantelpiece. He noticed that one of the frames hanging there was crooked. It was a press cutting, with the headline: ‘McCABE LOSES OUT’. As if from a distance he heard Jimmy Magee’s voice boom out:

  ‘The little Irishman is going to work, a left, a right, he’s pushing the Spaniard towards the ropes. I see blood coming from the cut in Sparrow’s eye but it’s not stopping him! Another cruncher from the Irish champ to the body. Surely, it’s all over now. The Spaniard’s guard comes down …’

  How many times had he replayed that commentary? Sparrow asked himself.

  The ‘ding, ding, ding’ of the bell startled Sparrow back to reality. The fight on television was about to begin. He turned to go back to his chair and saw Eileen standing in the kitchen doorway watching him. She removed her satin headscarf and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. Even after fifteen years of marriage Sparrow thought she was still beautiful. Quite beautiful.

  ‘Fighting the Spaniard again?’ Eileen asked flatly.

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘And who won?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yeh. Aga
in.’

  Eileen went to the kitchen counter and flicked the kettle on. ‘Was Mickey okay?’

  Sparrow was settling back down in the armchair. ‘Yeh, he was grand, he’s asleep. How was bingo?’

  ‘Okay. D’yeh want some more tea?’

  ‘Yeh please. This is gone cold.’

  Eileen walked to Sparrow’s armchair, took his mug and made her way back to the sink. She poured out the cold tea and rinsed the mug out. While she was wiping it with the dishcloth Sparrow stared at her. Her body language told him that she was not a happy girl. But she’d not been a happy girl for many years now.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Sparrow tried by way of conversation.

  Eileen again answered without turning, still busying herself making tea. ‘Oh yeh know, still the same, still giving out.’ She brought Sparrow’s tea over to him. As she placed it on the arm of the chair she looked into his face. ‘She says I should leave you.’

  Sparrow looked in her eyes, and saw they were sad. ‘Maybe she’s right, Eileen.’

  They looked at each other.

  Eileen’s ears pinned back and her nose flared. ‘Sparrow, will yeh fuck off!’ She began to take off her coat and leave the room at the same time.

  Sparrow jumped up and caught her arm, but she pulled away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eileen, I was only messing. Really love, I’m sorry.’

  Eileen looked into Sparrow’s eyes and spoke angrily. ‘Sparrow, don’t even say things like that, not even as a joke. Sometimes I don’t know with you.’ He could see she was holding back tears. She pointed to the mantelpiece. ‘You fight that fuckin’ Spaniard every day. And every day you lose! That was years ago. Throw the fuckin’ punch, Sparrow, for God’s sake, and let us get on with our lives!’

  Sparrow took Eileen in his arms. ‘It’s not like that, love,’ he began. ‘I’m just remembering –’

  Eileen pushed him away. ‘It is like that, Sparrow. You just can’t forget it. The fight is over, Sparrow. You lost. I’m warning you, Sparrow McCabe, we’ve had just about as much of this shit as we can take. Mickey adores you and as much as I love you too one of these days you’re going to look into your corner and we won’t be there! That’ll give you something else to blame on the Spaniard!’

  Sparrow turned away and leaned on the fireplace with his back to his wife. The memorabilia of the wall seemed stark to him now. Sparrow in action – press clippings: ‘McCABE, THE BEST I’VE EVER SEEN’; ‘YOUNGEST EVER NATIONAL CHAMPION’; ‘TEN IN A ROW FOR THE SPARROW’.

  Eileen went over to him and spoke to his back. Waving her hand across the memorabilia, she said, ‘Turn it around, Sparrow. All of this must count for something – there are people out there that remember the best of Sparrow McCabe.’

  Sparrow spun around to face her. He was perspiring and the pain was obvious in his face. ‘The loser,’ he blurted out.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sparrow, you lost one fight! What about the fifty you won?’

  ‘Yeh, what about them? I’ll tell yeh, Eileen, I’ll tell yeh about them. They count for nothing! Eileen, before I left for Spain, your brother-in-law offered me a sales manager’s job. Sales fuckin’ manager.’ Sparrow spat this out.

  ‘And he still wants you to work for him!’ Eileen’s voice had gone up a pitch.

  Sparrow smirked and slowly sank into his armchair. ‘Yeh, as a security man. What happened to the sales manager? I’ll tell you what happened, Eileen, he’s still lying on the canvas in Madrid because he couldn’t finish the job. He hadn’t got the bottle. Don’t yeh see, Eileen, nobody wants a loser!’

  But Eileen wasn’t giving up. ‘The only one in this house that thinks you’re a loser is you! And what’s wrong with being a security man, anyway? It would be better than me sitting here worrying every day if you’re going to come home. Or if I’ll have to explain to Mickey why his father is in prison. Or worse – dead! And will Simon Williams give a shit? Will he?’

  Sparrow jumped to a standing position, not to continue the argument but because behind Eileen young Mickey was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

  Eileen turned to see what Sparrow was looking at, and still hyped up from her outburst, she turned on the boy and shouted, ‘What are you doing up?’

  Startled, Mickey began to sob. ‘I had a nightmare!’

  Sparrow pushed past Eileen and hugged the boy into his body.

  ‘It’s all right, Mickey boy, dreams can’t hurt yeh!’ Sparrow began to usher the boy out of the room towards the stairs. ‘Come on, Mickey, I’ll lie down with you for a while.’

  ‘Are you going to prison, Dad?’ the boy asked in a scared voice.

  ‘No, son, I’m not going to prison. Mammy’s just trying to make a point.’ Sparrow laughed.

  When the two had left the room, Eileen walked slowly to the mantelpiece, tears of frustration in her eyes. She looked at the framed picture of the fight in Madrid and then in an outburst of tears punched the picture, shattering the glass.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Monday, 9 December

  St John’s Church, 11.00am

  Eileen and Sparrow made their way down the aisle of the church towards the coffin. Eileen glanced around at the large gathering that had come to see old Eddie off. There was a great number of old and young boxers; Eileen had never seen such a large collection of battered ears and noses in one place.

  ‘Are these all boxers?’ she whispered to Sparrow.

  ‘Yeh. If you see a fella here with two ears he’s a fuckin’ sissy,’ Sparrow replied.

  Eileen dug her elbow into Sparrow’s side. ‘Sparrow, watch your language in the church.’ But she giggled all the same.

  There was to be no requiem mass, just a simple sending off and blessing of the coffin. Sparrow and Eileen took their places, about ten rows from the front of the church. The priest in full vestments stood at the head of the coffin facing the congregation. To one side was Eddie’s widow, dressed suitably in black and sniffling. On the other side stood Eddie’s son, looking awkward. The priest genuflected at the altar and descended to the coffin, where an altar boy proffered a small brass bucket containing holy water on a tray. Beside the bucket was a brass rod with a sphere on the end of it. The priest dipped the sphere in the bucket and made the Sign of the Cross over the coffin with it. The blessed water landed silently on old Eddie’s coffin.

  The priest then handed the sphere to Eddie’s son. The altar boy went to Eddie’s son’s side. Slightly puzzled, the son dipped the sphere in the bucket and made the Sign of the Cross, looking at the priest for approval. The priest nodded and smiled. He handed the rod back to the priest.

  The priest turned to Eddie’s widow whose face was buried in her handkerchief. He tapped her gently on the shoulder and handed her the rod, while the altar boy moved to her side. She was completely puzzled. She looked at the rod, but didn’t take it from the priest. The priest offered it again, more forcefully. She took it. She stared at it for a moment or two. The priest straightened himself and joined his hands in front of his chest. Eddie’s widow held the sphere up to her lips and began to make a speech:

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. Eddie was a good husband and will be very proud to see so many of his friends coming to his funeral!’ She held the rod and sphere as Tom Jones would hold a microphone.

  The reaction of the congregation was mixed. Some were embarrassed, some laughed under their breath. Sparrow and Eileen grinned at each other, then to relieve the now-awkward silence Sparrow began to clap. Everybody joined in. The widow smiled. Puzzled at first, the priest then smiled and clapped along too. He put his hand over to receive the rod back from the widow, but she held onto it. ‘Eh – thank you all very much!’ The widow now smiled a self-satisfied smile, completing her task with relish.

  * * *

  The Clancy home – 11.15am

  Moya Clancy was preparing a late breakfast for Kieran and the girls. Her two beautiful young daughters – Claire, seven, and M
ary, four – sat at the breakfast table, their faces deep into their cereal bowls. Moya shuttled between the sink, the cooker and the fridge. She seemed agitated. It had taken three house-moves over the years of their marriage to find the home that Moya really liked. This was it. There was plenty of space for the children to play in. Good neighbours. And, most important of all, a first-class kitchen and large dining room for entertaining. Cooking and entertaining were two of Moya Clancy’s passions, something she had inherited from her mother and a talent that was essential for the wife of every ambitious policeman.

  The children heard the footsteps of their father coming down the stairs. They looked at each other and smiled. Seconds later the kitchen door burst open and Kieran stepped in, singing.

  ‘Who put the bop in the bop do wah de bop?’ He stopped and waited, pointing at the children.

  ‘Who put the ram in the ram a lam a ding bam?’ the children sang back, and all three laughed.

  ‘Good morning, my princesses!’ Kieran greeted his ladies.

  ‘Good morning, father of the princesses,’ Claire replied formally as if reciting Shakespeare.

  Kieran took his seat at the breakfast table and Moya placed a big fry of sausages, rashers and grilled tomatoes in front of him. As she poured out his tea she seemed distracted.

  ‘I do wish you’d stop this carry-on, Kieran. The children will have to learn that the table is for eating and not for fun and games. It’s difficult for me to teach them that if you arrive in here every morning like Jerry Lee Lewis!’ She put the teapot down and went back to the cooker.

  ‘You’re quite right, love, and I’m sorry,’ Kieran replied, then he winked at the children and they both winked back.

  ‘Wait a minute – how come you two aren’t at school?’ Kieran asked the girls.

  ‘It’s a Holy Day, Daddy. And after mass, Mum is taking us into town to see Santa Claus!’ Claire answered. Young Mary was looking at Claire all the time she spoke and as she said the name Santa Claus, Mary stiffened and squinted her eyes with excitement. Kieran laughed. Moya returned to the table with a cup of tea for herself and began to shoo the kids away.