by Simon Bourke
“What a load of bollocks! I hadn’t a clue, Lockie, not a clue!”
“Haha, me neither, boy. I’m definitely after failing.”
“Fuck it, man, you can worry about that in September. We’re free now. We’re FUCKIN’ FREE!”
Pegs charged out of the building with his hands in the air, screaming at the top of his voice:
“WE’RE FREE, WE’RE FREE. WE’RE FUCKIN’ FREEEEEEEEE!!”
“Fuck’s sake, Pegs, keep quiet till we’re away from the school.”
But he was already gone; out through the school gates and down the road, arms aloft as he roared in triumph.
He was right though, they were free. There would be no more exams, no more studying, no more school and no more teachers; for the next three months they could do whatever the hell they wanted. Before all that, though, there was the end-of-exams party in the woods. It was to be the party to end all parties; there would be booze and drugs, there would be music and there would also be Leanne. She had finished her own exams the previous day and would be joining him to celebrate later tonight. Not only would this be the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, it would also be their official coming-out party, the night they announced to the world that they were a couple.
“Are we going to the off-licence, then?” Seán asked, catching up with Pegs.
“Yes,” he declared, brandishing a crisp twenty-pound note. “What good is freedom without booze, after all?”
Seán had a twenty-pound note of his own to match Pegs’, but he still couldn’t decide what to spend it on. That was his biggest dilemma; choosing his poison. Unlike most boys his age, he didn’t have to worry about the actual procurement of alcohol; he had Alan Pegg. They all had him; Ginty, Murt and half the third-year students at Dooncurra Vocational School. Pegs was a regular in all the local off-licences. He got so much drink for so many people that it was presumed he was a raging alcoholic.
“What about the lads?”
“Ah, I’ve their stuff got already. Poor Ginty didn’t know what to get, so I bought him two flagons of cider. He’ll be on his back after one.”
“I can’t believe he’s actually coming.”
“I know. Can’t wait to see what he’s like pissed.”
“He told me he’s always drinking at home, has a glass of whiskey with the father of a Sunday.”
“Don’t mind that fucker! The size of him, the smell of whiskey would have him in the horrors.”
“What time we gonna head up there?”
“Soon as I buy this drink, get home, eat me dinner and wash me bollix, I’ll be ready.”
“Grand.”
“There’s probably people up there already. All the ones who finished their exams this morning were talking about heading up at twelve.”
“Twelve? They’ll be fuckin’ hammered already!”
“I know, yeah; plenty of disorientated young wans for Alan Pegg to take advantage of,” said Pegs, rubbing his hands together.
“Gonna be plenty there for you tonight, lad.”
“Oh yes, but what about you, Lockie? Will Alice be there?” he said with a smirk.
“Nah.”
Seán had intentionally avoided all talk of Alice since his raunchy, fabricated account of their first study night. His friends had asked about her time and time again, but no more information had been forthcoming. This had frustrated Pegs no end. He became convinced Seán was withholding valuable information and continued to pester him long after Ginty and Murt had lost interest.
“You’re up to something, boy. I know you.”
“I’m not, Pegs, honest. It just didn’t work out with her.”
He intentionally emphasised her, it was only fair to give the dog a bone.
“With her? What do you mean? Did it work out with someone else? You’re full of mysteries, boy.”
Seán grinned widely, the delicious grin of someone about to reveal a long-held secret.
“What the fuck are ya smiling for? Tell me or you’ll get no drink!”
“It’s her sister.”
“What? Whose sister? What are ya on about?”
“Alice’s sister, Leanne.”
Pegs stopped dead in his tracks. “Yeah, right. Leanne Tiernan? Fuck off.”
“It’s the truth, man.”
He stared at Seán, scanning his face for signs of a wind-up. He looked him up and down, this way and that, waiting for him to break into a smile and tell him he was only kidding. To his utter amazement it seemed that his friend was telling the truth.
“Fuck off,” he repeated, trying to come to terms with this bombshell.
“Yeah, it happened a few weeks ago but we’ve been keeping it quiet ‘cos of the circumstances,” Seán confirmed.
Pegs raised his hands to the top of his head, left them there a moment and then pulled them over his face. He remained like that for some time, breathing heavily. After another lengthy pause he rubbed his face vigorously, as if trying to wake himself up, and grabbed Seán by the shoulders. “Tell me everything, you little shit, and don’t leave anything out now, you hear me?”
Seán couldn’t tell him everything, not just yet; he wasn’t sure if he should even have told him this much.
“It just kind of happened,” he said.
“What d’ya mean ‘it just kind of happened’? Leanne Tiernan, for fuck’s sake!”
“Ah, I can’t say any more till later. It’s awkward, y’know, with the sister and all.”
“Oh, yeah! I bet she’s fuckin’ raging. No sooner has she her hands down your pants when her big sister swoops in and takes young McLoughlin for herself!”
“She doesn’t know yet; that’s why we’ve been keeping it quiet.”
“Ah, I see,” replied Pegs, tapping his nose. “Is this another one of your secrets I’m expected to keep, then?”
“For the time being, anyway.”
They carried on towards the off-licence, Pegs shaking his head and muttering ‘Leanne fuckin’ Tiernan’ under his breath.
“So what’ll it be, young McLoughlin?” he asked once they’d reached their destination.
They stood in an alleyway a few doors down from the off-licence. Here Seán would remain until his friend returned with their beverages.
“I still can’t make me mind up, Pegs.”
“For fuck’s sake man, you’ve had all week!”
“I know, but it’s different this time. Leanne is going to be there. I want to be drunk, but not mouldy drunk.”
“Gimme that money,” said Pegs, grabbing the twenty out of Seán’s hand. “I know the very thing for a chap in your situation.”
He sauntered into the off-licence, to return with God knows what. Seán walked down to the end of the alley, away from prying eyes. He wondered if he’d done the right thing, telling Pegs about Leanne. It wouldn’t have difficult to keep it quiet for just a few more hours, but fuck it, he was on a high. After all, how much damage could Pegs do between now and the party? He dared not answer his own question.
Minutes later Pegs came jogging down the alley, laden with bags.
“Whatcha get me?”
He handed Seán one of the bags.
“What the fuck is this shit?” said Seán pulling out a cloudy, rather effeminate bottle.
“Shit?! That, my dear boy, is peach schnapps.”
“Peach schnapps? Sounds a bit gay.”
“Try it, man, you’ll love it.”
Seán fingered the bottle dubiously before opening the cap and having a little sniff.
“Schnapps, eh?”
“Yep. Perfect for the horny young gent who wishes to get inebriated but not too inebriated.”
“How much was that? Had you enough for a few cans as well?”
“We’ve loads of cans, boy, relax,” Pegs said, lifti
ng the bulging bags as proof.
“Jaysus, this stuff’s not bad,” said Seán, taking a sip of the schnapps.
“What did I tell you, boy? Aren’t you lucky to have a connoisseur of fine spirits for a friend?”
“I am, boy,” replied Seán, taking a longer slug of the schnapps and screwing the bottle shut. It didn’t even taste like alcohol. Though he’d never admit it, Seán didn’t really like the taste of booze. Cider was okay but most beers were vile, and spirits were best downed in one go so as not to taste them at all. But this schnapps was tasty, almost refreshing. He checked the front of the bottle for its alcohol content.
“Eighteen per cent, too. You wouldn’t even taste the booze in it.”
“And there’s the danger,” Pegs said sagely.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if it doesn’t taste like booze you’re not going to give it the respect it deserves, are ya?”
“I don’t get ya, Pegs.”
“What I’m saying is here’s young Seán, slugging away on his schnapps, having a great time and thinking to himself ‘God, this stuff is lovely, not like booze at all.’ Before he knows it, half the bottle is gone. He stands up to go for a slash and falls on his arse. He’s fucked. Peach schnapps One, Seán McLoughlin Nil.”
“Ah, I’ll share it with Leanne; maybe we’ll fall down together,” replied Seán with a smirk.
Pegs returned the smile. He wasn’t averse to plying young wans with drink when the occasion called for it; the two extra naggins of vodka in his bag were testament to that.
They parted ways at Pegs’ house, arranging to meet outside the woods at six that evening. Seán continued up the hill by himself, a spring in his step at the prospect of the night ahead and the summer that would follow. Summers were great: stifling hot days spent lolling around in the park, playing football with his mates, summer drinks as they cooled off at half-time. Then the evening, drinking cans down the river bank, smoking a joint or two if they had it; getting stoned and deciding a dip in the water was a good idea, stripping down to their underwear and plunging in to the icy, murky water and then out, shivering and soaked, running around in their smalls to get warm again. All that stuff was great, but this year he had a girlfriend, a proper one. A girlfriend that would lie around in the park with him and watch him play football, watch him fly into tackles, try bicycle kicks and spectacular volleys in a desperate attempt to impress her, and plant a congratulatory kiss upon his cheek when he collapsed down beside her, sweaty and panting, to take a break from the action. A girlfriend that would jump into the river with him, both of them stripped down, their near-naked bodies touching under the water as they rose for a kiss. That he could huddle close to as they tried to dry off, and walk back home with as dusk finally fell. That he could kiss goodnight and lie in bed thinking of, unable to sleep, his stomach doing somersaults as he relived the day over and over again.
His mother and grandmother were waiting for him when he got home. Sinéad’s presence came as something of a surprise; they hadn’t made any concrete plans to meet up once his exams were over.
“Hi, Mam,” he said, as he fended off Patricia’s kisses. “Wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“And why not?” interjected his grandmother. “Sure, doesn’t she want to congratulate the little scholar as well?”
“I’d hold off on them congratulations till I get my results if I were you, Nan.”
“Nonsense, you’ll do brilliantly, Seán. I’m sure of it.”
“How was today’s exam, love?” his mother asked.
“Ah, sure ’twas all right, I suppose.”
“Science, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he replied, rolling his eyes to heaven.
“Never your strong point.”
“No, Mam.”
He’d noticed her holding something the minute he’d walked in the door; an envelope. It was surely for him and it hopefully contained money, but he pretended not to have seen it and did his best to look surprised when she handed it to him.
“A little something for you, pet.”
“Ah thanks, Mam,” he said, stuffing it in his pocket.
“Well, open it, Seán, for goodness’ sake!” said Patricia.
“Okay, okay,” he said, pulling it out and opening the crumpled envelope. It was a ‘congratulations’ card which depicted a dog, or at least a caricature of a dog with a pencil in its paw, sitting at a desk with a big grin on its face and, in bright red letters, ‘Congratulations on your exams’. He barely scanned that, going straight inside to see what lay within. A twenty; not bad.
“You’ll get the rest when you’ve passed,” said Sinéad.
“Thanks, Mam,” he said, offering her a half-hearted hug.
She drew him to her and he stood, allowing himself to be hugged, until Patricia broke up the party with a gift of her own.
“Here, Seán,” she said, solemnly handing him a large parcel. It was square and satisfyingly heavy. He wasted no time in opening it, but had only nicked the paper before he turned to Patricia in shock. “Nan! You didn’t?”
“I did, Seán,” she simpered.
He tore off the rest of the paper. A PlayStation! He couldn’t believe it. He’d asked for one the previous Christmas, but had been told they were too expensive.
“Mammy! The price of them things!” Sinéad protested, her gift now meagre and insignificant.
“Hush now, Sinéad,” Patricia said, revelling in her grandson’s delight.
Seán studied the box excitedly, wondering if she’d managed to buy him a couple of games while she was at it. All thoughts of drinking in the woods and relations with seventeen-year-old girls now far from his mind.
“You can use Patrick’s old TV for it. I have it set up for you and all.”
“This is amazing, Nan. Thank you,” he said as he pecked her on the cheek and bounded up the stairs to try out his new toy.
Sinéad stared at her mother, wondering how long it would take to strangle her to death.
26
“Here he comes, boys,” shouted Pegs.
There in the distance was the unmistakable figure of Cathal Ginty, his sprightly gait immediately recognisable to his friends. Seán, Pegs and Murt sat on a wall by the side of the road, awaiting their friend. Once the final member of the gang had arrived, they could proceed to the woods and the party therein.
“Come on, ya little shit, there’s drinking to be done!” roared Murt.
Ginty broke into a little jog and then a trot until he drew up beside his friends.
He stared disbelievingly at the four bulging bags of booze on the ground. “They can’t all be for us, are they, lads?”
“Oh, they’re for us, all right,” said Pegs. “And there’s a couple of lovely flagons in there for you, boy.”
“Flagons? Is that what you got me?”
This pleased Ginty no end; he drank flagons now.
Pegs hopped down from the wall and gathered up the bags. “Gimme a hand, will ye? Wasn’t enough I had to buy them all, I’m supposed to carry ‘em as well?”
They each grabbed a bag and began the short walk across the fields and into the woods.
“Many up here already, d’ye reckon?” Ginty asked, hurrying along behind the rest of them, the bag of cans knocking against his legs as he struggled to keep up.
“The lads were saying there’s been sessions going on since twelve this morning,” Murt replied.
“Twelve! Wow, they’re gonna be intoxicated!”
The other three looked at him in bemusement. “Intoxicated?” asked Seán. “Is that the scientific term for being langers?”
Ginty looked on in confusion as they all laughed at his expense.
“I reckon you’ll be intoxicated yourself tonight, Ginty,” remarked Pegs.
“I think I will, Pegs. Two flagons
! Do you think I could just drink one and save the other one for another night?”
“For fuck’s sake, Ginty, it’s a party! There won’t be any drink left!”
“Ah. I might give it to one of ye, so. I’ll see how I’m feeling after the first one.”
Pegs shook his head in disbelief but said nothing. As far as he was concerned, Ginty was getting shit-faced and there was nothing the little fella could do about it.
Approaching the edge of the woods, they saw the remnants of an earlier gathering. Empty drink cans littered the ground and someone appeared to have lost their jeans, a girl by the looks of things. Murt picked them up.
“Jaysus, lads, we should try looking for the owner of these.”
“Fuckin’ dirty bitch couldn’t wait to get ‘em off, I bet,” said Pegs, taking the jeans from his friend and examining them. He sniffed the crotch. “Nah, can’t say I recognise that scent to be honest.”
“Come on, lads,” said Seán, moving ahead. “I think I hear people over there.”
“Wait!” said Pegs, holding his hand up to halt them. He tilted his head to one side, a picture of concentration. Listening to the sounds coming from afar, he quelled any interruptions with a forceful movement of his raised hand.
“Not our party, lads,” he said finally.
“How d’ya know?” asked Seán.
“Fatboy fuckin’ Slim, that’s how I know.”
They nodded in agreement, glad of their friend’s keen ear.
“Fuck that shit,” said Murt. “Probably them scumbags from 6B.”
“Yeah, no taste whatsoever, them lads.”
“What music are we listening out for?” asked Ginty, usually a year or two behind the trends when it came to music, and indeed everything else.
“Never you mind, Gintasaurus,” said Pegs. “When we hear it, we’ll know it.”
Ginty screwed up his face in disappointment. A couple of band names would have been nice, keep him in the loop and that.
“Ciarán O’Donnell said he was bringing his stereo; if he has, then they’ll be easy to find,” Seán reminded them.
“Good man, Ciarán. He gave me a lend of that new Roots album the other day, unfuckingbelievable,” enthused Murt. “He’d better have brought that with him.”