by Simon Bourke
“Of course,” she said, leaning in to kiss him then thinking better of it. “But let’s not flaunt it, eh?”
They found a place at the edge of the campfire on the opposite side to Alice, and made themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted. It wasn’t easy, though; every time he looked at her he wanted to kiss her, touch her. They settled for holding hands, their fingers interlaced in the grass as they kept their distance. He couldn’t relax. Maybe she’d find someone herself, and disappear into the woods with them; that would be a favourable outcome for all parties. He furtively searched the crowd for her, his hopes rising the longer it took. There she was, still very much here, and still very much in their line of sight. She looked as if she were enjoying herself, though. He could barely keep track of her movements. One minute she was encircled by ‘Fat’ Eddie Donovan and his mates, shrieking with laughter, scolding their brazenness. The next she was lying down in the grass with Terry O’Toole, playing with her hair and listening attentively as he regaled her with stories about whatever insufferable Japanese anime he was currently obsessed with. She was revelling in the attention, even if it was only from those drunk, unwanted souls who had reached this ungodly hour without getting the shift. It was a new experience for her, being fancied by boys. Living in the long shadow cast by her older sister had led her to believe that she was unattractive, undesirable, and Seán hadn’t done much to debunk this theory. He was happy for her, though. She could hate him all she wanted, he still wished her well and it cheered his heart to see her coolly work her way through his classmates, leading them on and then denying them their goal at the last. Wherever had she learned that?
He sought her out once more. By now she’d reached the end of the line: Skid Row, aka Michael ‘Murt’ Walsh. This would not end well. He watched her hunker down and strike up a conversation with his brooding friend. Remarkably, they appeared to hit it off. Within seconds she’d managed to raise a smile from the previously morose Murt, and he was now more animated than he had been all night. Seán watched on in wonder as polite introductions gave way to gentle flirting, then to rather saucy play-fighting with hands and legs everywhere, laughter and eye contact. And then the inevitable. They kissed. The whole business had taken less than three minutes. He had to hand it to Murt, he’d underestimated him; the cold and distant outsider thing had obviously been a ploy, a way to pique the interest of the few remaining young wans. Who’s that guy over there? He looks so dark and mysterious. Whatever could be going through his mind? I have to know.
Now all four of them had pulled, which was a first; a momentous night. Murt and Alice, though? Wasn’t that dangerous? In his happy, drunken haze Seán decided it could only be a positive thing. A happy, paired-off Alice would benefit his relationship with Leanne. She’d be too wrapped up in her own affairs to give them any grief. And with Murt. One of his friends. It was perfect, really; he could get Murt to tell her what a great guy he was, and in turn he’d tell Leanne that Murt was a fantastic match for her little sister. The two of them would charm the pants off the whole Tiernan family and before long they’d be over for dinner, sitting down with Mr. Tiernan and Gerard, watching the football while the women did the washing-up. It might even help repair his friendship with Murt; they’d have something in common now, a Tiernan woman on their respective arms.
As he pondered this idyllic future, imagining double weddings and holidays together in the Caribbean, his hopes and dreams were dashed. Murt, having decided he wanted more than just a kiss, had begun what could only be described as a sexual assault on Alice. How many pairs of hands does he have? thought Seán as he looked on in horror. One hand disappeared up her top and was shoved away, only to reappear at her arse, grabbing and mauling, before again being rebuffed. And his other hand, his free one, diligently worked away at the button of her jeans, completely oblivious to the slaps it was receiving from their demure occupant. Eventually Alice, fed up of being manhandled, held up her hands in warning and delivered a stern lecture to the over-eager Murt. Point taken, they returned to kissing; within seconds, though, Murt had resumed his onslaught. He pawed, groped and did everything in his power to compromise her integrity. She shoved him away and stood up to leave. However, Murt had clearly left his chivalrous hat at home and wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He rose to face her and an argument ensued. Seán couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he tensed as they became more and more heated, hoping and praying that the matter could be ended amicably and he wouldn’t have to step in.
“Let it go, Murt, for fuck’s sake let it go,” he muttered under his breath. What had started out as a minor incident was beginning to escalate into an episode. It was only a matter of time before it became a scene. Mercifully, no one besides Seán had noticed what was happening. If he got there in time, the whole thing could be sorted out with a minimum of fuss. He moved quickly, leaving Leanne dozing by the fire and making a beeline for the quarrelling duo. They were shouting at one another now, gesticulating and accusing. Alice’s face was contorted with indignation but Murt shrugged his shoulders, as if above reproach. It was only then that Seán realised what was happening. He began to sprint toward them, praying he wasn’t too late. He ran harder than he’d ever run, hurdling bodies, knocking over bottles of booze. As he approached them he saw that his efforts had been in vain. He was too late. Alice’s anger was no longer directed at Murt; her gaze was now fixed upon him, Seán McLoughlin, the boy who’d been making up stories about her.
30
He slowed to a jog and then to a stop. Alice was coming towards him, fists balled up at her sides. There was no escape.
“What the FUCK have you been saying about me?”
He raised his hands in submission, ready to plead innocence; but he was wasting his time, she had heard it all. His defence, if he even had any, was paper-thin.
“What the fuck have you been saying, Seán? Tell me!”
“I... what?” Seán stammered, looking around for assistance, for inspiration.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about! Your friend Murt over there told me all about it,” she said, jabbing her thumb towards Murt who had returned to his drink, oblivious to what he’d set in motion.
“Hey, Alice,” said Leanne, strolling up to join them. “You two back chatting again? Aw, that’s great.”
Seán stared at her in horror. “I thought you were asleep!”
“I was, Seán, but I’m awake now,” she replied. “So what are we chatting about?”
“We’re chatting about him and what he’s been saying about me,” Alice hissed.
“Oh, Alice, we’ve been over this already,” said Leanne, rolling her eyes. “It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“A misunderstanding? Is that what you’d call it?”
She was now breathless with rage; apoplectic.
“Yes,” replied Leanne, offering her a placating smile. “Seán liked you, but not in the way you thought.”
She delivered the line with the utmost condescension, like a parent trying to explain the intricacies of the adult world to a confused child.
“That didn’t stop him spreading lies about me,” Alice retorted.
“What lies, Alice?”
She hesitated, unable to repeat the words such were their awfulness.
“What lies, Alice?”
“He said ...”
Her voice faltered, and for a fleeting moment it appeared that she might tell them to forget about it, that it was all just a misunderstanding. Then she took a deep breath, composed herself and went on.
“He told his pals that he and I did stuff in the spare room, that I came on to him and let him feel me up and ...”
“And what, Alice? Tell me!”
She hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it, ashamed by the mere notion of it. “And he said that I wanked him off.” Her voice dropped on the last words as she dipped her head in emb
arrassment.
Leanne studied her sister closely. “Are you sure, Alice?”
She nodded solemnly, tears welling in her eyes.
Seán had stood aside during this exchange, but he knew that very soon he would be returning to centre stage. He was fucked, and he had no one to blame but himself. The girl of his dreams turned to face him. She looked different now; gone was the winsome smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes. In their stead was something else; not quite hatred, more disgust, or maybe even pity.
“Seán?” she said grimly.
“It’s not what you think. If you’d just let me explain ...”
Even now amid this unfolding tragedy he still thought she might forgive him, that they could salvage their relationship. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, he’d just wanted to get his friends off his back. Pegs? You know what he’s like! I had to tell him something! But they didn’t know; all they knew was that he was a snivelling little creep who had spread shameful lies about an innocent girl. And, once he’d done that, he’d taken up with her sister, probably hoping to drive a wedge between them.
Leanne shook her head ruefully, unable to credit how stupid she’d been. Once more she’d picked the wrong guy, and this one had seemed so nice; a bit young, yes, but really sweet, kind and good-natured. As it turned out, he was none of those things; he was evil. He was scum and he was disgusting.
“Come on, pet,” she said, putting a consoling arm around her sister.
“Leanne, please,” begged Seán, in tears himself now.
She looked at him witheringly. “Go away, Seán, and leave us alone from now on, eh?”
He watched them go, the older sister escorting the younger, upset girl away from the scene of the crime. They didn’t look back, just kept on going, away from the party; away from him. He sank to his knees, crying like a child, softly repeating her name over and over again. He had never known what true pain was like until this moment.
31
He was walking down a road, that was all he knew. The trees and the darkness had been replaced by neon lights and the occasional whoosh of a car. There was a bottle in his hand, its contents swilling around as he stumbled blindly forwards. He raised it to his lips and took a long swig, ignoring the burning in his throat which carried on into his stomach, causing him to retch. Then it settled, warming, soothing and strengthening him. He stopped. A moment of clarity. Where was he? He looked around, squinting like an old man trying to read without his glasses. There were fields and houses and then more fields, but nothing familiar. He sat by the roadside, plonking down heavily in some grass, and began to cry. Maybe if he cried loudly enough someone would come to rescue him; maybe she would come. He wailed and called out her name in a long, tortured lament, but he might as well have been the last person on earth. He was all alone; neither she nor anyone else was coming to save him. At least it was comfortable here in this grass, a fine place to die. He curled up in a ball, shivering but tired enough for it not to matter. Just a little rest and he’d be on his way. He closed his eyes and felt sleep’s gentle embrace beckon him forth. All he had to do was to nestle into its arms and everything would be okay.
Then he remembered what he’d been doing: he’d been going to her. That was it; he’d been on his way and had somehow got side-tracked. What a silly thing to do. He rose to his feet, full of renewed hope, and came crashing back down to earth. Did that hurt? He couldn’t tell; alcohol had cocooned him, made him impervious to pain. Good old alcohol. He sat in the middle of the road for a while. It was nice there; comfortable, for a road. Wasn’t this absurd? Wasn’t it all absurd: life, his circumstances, everything? He cackled loudly. Absurd. He got up again, but this time he was more careful and found solid ground. The bottle was still in the grass, so he picked it up and continued on his way. He had a purpose now, and to think he’d almost given up, accepted defeat and lain on the side of the road like a pauper. No, not he, not Seán McLoughlin; he was no quitter.
He went on, sticking to the verge, following the lights. He took another tumble, a bad one this time; there was blood. He was okay, though. Up he got, not forgetting the bottle, and moved forward once more. There was a wall by his side now. He used it for leverage, bouncing off it, scratching his cheek against its gritty surface. More cuts, no doubt, but a small price to pay. Pausing for breath, he noticed something familiar in the distance; a building. He’d been in there once, but he couldn’t remember why. He was on the right track. Not far now. It was getting bright and there were more cars on the road, their back-draft whipping around his legs as they zipped by. He would have to be careful; it wouldn’t do to drunkenly meander into the path of an oncoming truck, not when he was so close. He forced his eyes open, tried to channel his thoughts, but it wasn’t easy. A couple of times he jolted awake in mid-stride to find himself in the middle of an empty motorway. Scolding himself, he returned to the hard shoulder and redoubled his efforts. He overcompensated, trying too hard to stay off the road; he veered inwards and tumbled into ditches, over walls and fences and down soft grassy inclines. With each landing, every fall, it felt as if he’d just flopped into bed. Rocks were as comfy as pillows, briars and branches like a warm inviting mattress. Seán refused to give in, hauling himself up each time and stolidly marching on. The bottle was gone. He didn’t know what had happened to it. He missed it. The rest of the journey would have to be tackled alone. Finally, the hard shoulder turned into a path and the motorway into a normal, regular street. So close! He began to jog, excited now. A car beeped at him and he waved, not breaking his stride. No time to stop and chat. Things to do, people to see. He knew where he was now, could have run the rest of the way blindfolded. There was the hill, the hill to Ard Aulinn. One more push and it’d be over. She was up there. As soon as she saw him, her heart would melt. She’d bring him inside, tend to his wounds, bathe him and tuck him into bed; her bed, where he belonged. Her parents would come in to see him, awed by his bravery, by the lengths he’d gone to in order to reach her. It must be love, they’d say.
He reached the top, the morning sun coming to greet him as he crested the summit; it felt lovely and warm on his face. Now it was simply a matter of making sure he went to the right house. Green gate, brown door, red Volvo in the drive: the Tiernans. He opened the gate, wincing as it creaked, and crept round the side of the building. In the back garden, he paused and looked at the house. Her bedroom was upstairs on the left, she’d told him so. The curtains were drawn. Asleep? Not for long. He grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and gently lobbed one at her window. It fell short, landing back in front of him. Steadying himself he threw another, this time with more force, but it sailed over the roof of the house and into the front garden. For fuck’s sake! He’d come all this way, and now he couldn’t even throw a pebble a few feet in front of him. Taking a few steps back, he lined up his shot with as much precision as he could muster, and this time his aim was true. He had thrown it harder than he’d intended, but the outcome was more than satisfactory; it bounced off the window with a satisfying crack. He waited for the curtains to open and her head to appear, but nothing happened. Not to worry, he had his range now. A handful of carefully-aimed projectiles later, he finally saw the pink curtains twitch. It was her; she had answered his call.
Leanne looked down at the drunken, dishevelled young man in her garden. It was him; the boy she had, up until a few hours ago, harboured deep feelings for. The boy she had fancied, pursued and ensnared, and with whom she had intended to ‘go all the way’ before the summer’s end. She opened the window with a jolt.
Seán looked up at her, gratitude in his eyes. “Leanne!”
“What do you want?” she asked him in a hushed tone.
“Leanne,” he repeated, “can we talk?”
“We have nothing to talk about,” she said, slamming the window shut.
He stared up at where she’d just been, confused and dismayed. There was no need to be like
that. What was her problem? He picked up some more pebbles, larger ones this time, and threw them towards her window. They all found their target – maybe he’d take up darts after this. But she didn’t reappear. He wanted to tell her he loved her; if he could do that, then she would finally understand. They’d laugh about it in years to come, and tell their grandchildren about the time Granddad threw stones at Nanny’s window and told her he loved her. Aw, Granddad, you big softie. He bounced stone after stone against her window without any response. Still no Leanne. Was she fucking deaf? He glared up at her window, annoyed now, not noticing the curtains move in the bedroom opposite.
“Well, fuck ya so, girl,” he said bitterly, as he picked up what could only be classed as a rock; the time for pebbles had passed. Cocking back his hand, he readied himself for the sound of breaking glass when the back door sprang open.
“Put that rock down, you little shit!” roared Pascal Tiernan.
Seán spun round in surprise, the rock dropping harmlessly to the ground. Mr. Tiernan, the very man. A quick chat with the father and all this would be resolved.
“Ah, Mr. Tiernan,” he smiled. “I was hoping for a quick word with your daughter.”
“You’re to stay well away from my daughters, and I’ll be having a word with your grandparents about you too.”
Seán had no idea what his grandparents had to do with anything, but he played along; best to humour him given the circumstances.
“Okay, Mr. Tiernan, I won’t be a second,” he said, weaving past him towards the open back door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Pascal Tiernan demanded, outraged.
“I’ll only be a second, boy, relax,” replied Seán blithely.
Seán felt the ground come towards him. He was on the grass; Mr. Tiernan had put him there, the fucker. As he lay flat on his back in the middle of the Tiernans’ back garden, he looked at Leanne’s window once more. They were both there, the two sisters, staring down at him. The fuckin’ bitches. He scrambled to his feet and picked up the rock he’d had earlier. How dare they do this to him, make such a fool of him? He flung the rock at the kitchen window and it sailed right through, leaving a perfect, rock-shaped, hole in its wake. How about that, Tiernans? Not so funny now, is it? And he wasn’t finished yet. By the time he was done, the Tiernan house would be draughtier than the local bus-shelter on a cold winter’s night. He searched around for another rock, but before he could find a decent-sized one he felt arms going around his shoulders. Ah, a hug, that was more like it. But these weren’t friendly arms, they were rough arms, hostile arms. He struggled to shake them off, becoming increasingly irate, flailing and windmilling defiantly. But these arms were stronger than his and once more he met the ground. Not again! Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? They wouldn’t be happy until they’d broken every bone in his body. He lay still for a moment, feigning surrender, and then shoved upwards with all his might. It worked, and he stood victoriously back on both feet. Mr. Tiernan was spread-eagled in the grass, his shrivelled manhood peeping out of his pyjama bottoms. This was Seán’s chance. The back door was open and unguarded. He bolted towards it, but Mrs. Tiernan (who’d obviously been loitering in the kitchen) got there before him and slammed it in his face. He pounded on the door in frustration.