by Simon Bourke
“Seán, who the fuck is that in the sitting-room?” hissed Daryl, his head appearing in the doorway.
Please be Pegs or Hooch or Saddam Hussein; be anyone but Paudie O’Brien.
“What?”
“Get him out. Now,” Daryl whispered, doing his best to convey annoyance without disturbing the sleeping interloper.
“Okay, okay,” replied Seán irritably, brushing past him to see whom he’d brought home. Maybe he’d got lucky and brought home a girl, given her a good seeing-to and then banished her to the sofa, like a true gent? If only. It was Paudie; psychotic, poitín-drinking Paudie, curled up on their couch like butter wouldn’t melt. And it turned out that Paudie was a snorer, only it wasn’t like the normal snoring of normal people, more like the feral cries of a wild boar as it rutted its mate to near-death. Seán had to cover his ears to stop the angry grunts from worming their way inside his throbbing head. You could get used to the snoring, though, but the smell was something else entirely. It was like the smell in Paudie’s house but somehow worse, the kind of smell you’d expect to find on exhuming a graveyard full of recently-buried corpses. It filled Seán’s nostrils, stung his eyes and caused his stomach to lurch dangerously.
Paudie sighed and shifted his position. A shawl, which had been draped over him, slipped, revealing two stockinged feet. The culprits. It was they who were responsible for this crime against humanity. They were clad in a pair of thick grey socks, but that was just the outer layer; at least three other pairs lay beneath those, each of varying degrees of thickness and each smellier than the last. Why he wore four pair of socks was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he added or removed a pair depending on the weather, the bottom pair remaining in situ all year round. Smelly feet or not, though, Seán had to wake him up and get him out of here as soon as possible. He gently shook Paudie’s shoulder, trying to wake him without waking him, as it were.
“Paudie,” he whispered. “Paudie!”
The guest snuffled testily, wrapping the shawl tightly around him.
Seán shook him a little harder, readying himself for flight at the first sign of an adverse reaction.
“Paudie, come on. You have to go home now.”
“Blurgh,” Paudie replied loudly, turning his back on Seán and emitting a surprisingly dainty fart.
Seán was getting annoyed now. He didn’t need this shit. He had a hangover of his own to deal with, he had to go to work and he was in the shit with his stepfather. Paudie O’Brien could just fuck off for himself. He grabbed the shawl firmly and pulled it from Paudie’s grasp.
“Up,” he demanded. “Now!”
“Wha? Fuck off,” Paudie responded, opening his eyes for the first time.
“You’ve to go now, Paudie,” Seán said coldly.
Paudie looked at him, blinking, confused.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my parent’s house and you need to go.”
“McLoughlin, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah. Seán.”
“Ah yeah, Seán McLoughlin. Any fags, Seán?”
“No, sorry, I’ve nothing.”
“Drink?” he asked hopefully.
“Come on, Paudie. You have to go.”
“All right, boy, relax,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Where’s me shoes?”
Seán pointed to them on the floor, unwilling to step any closer for fear of catching whatever it was that lingered within.
Paudie put them on, stood up and grabbed his jacket from the chair. “Nice place ye have here.”
It was, thought Seán, until you came in with your disgusting feet.
“Anyway, I’d best be off,” Paudie said, making his way out. “Sure I might see ya for a few after.”
“Yeah,” replied Seán, the mere thought enough to send his stomach on another merry jaunt.
Visitor departed, Seán tried to assess the situation. He opened a window and sprayed a bit of air-freshener where Paudie’s feet had been, all he could manage in his current state.
“What the fuck’s going on, Seán?” asked Daryl, reappearing.
“What?” replied Seán defensively.
“You can’t just invite any Tom, Dick or Harry into our house.”
“I didn’t invite him.”
“How the fuck did he get in, so?”
“I dunno.”
“And the smell! Jesus Christ, is he a tinker or something?”
Seán sighed heavily.
“Oh, this is an ordeal for you, is it? Are you the one that’s going to clean up after him? I doubt that very much.”
“I will clean up after him.”
“Well, go on then,” Daryl beckoned, spreading his arms theatrically.
Seán hesitated, how did you clean up something you couldn’t see? This was all very abstract.
“I’ll do it later,” he offered.
“Oh, yeah,” Daryl said, raising his eyes. “I’d say you will, all right. Nah, it’ll be fuckin’ me that has to do it, clean up after some knacker that you brought in off the street. Who the fuck do you think you are, boy, really?”
Seán tutted irritably; this shit again.
“God, you really have it bad, don’t ya, boy?” Daryl continued. “What a terrible life you have, out drinking till all hours, coming home drunk out of your mind with some scumbag in tow; just another night in the life of Seán fuckin’ McLoughlin.”
“Give it a rest, will ya?”
“I won’t give it a rest, no. Why should I?”
More rhetorical questions. If only he had the answers.
“Look, do what you like, clean it or don’t, but I’ve to go to work,” he said, attempting to push past Daryl but finding his path blocked.
“Excuse me,” he said, as politely as he could manage.
“You’re skating on very thin ice, boy, do you know that?”
Now idioms to go with the rhetorical questions.
“Am I, yeah?”
“Yeah, you fuckin’ are.”
“What’ll I do at all?” Seán asked, trying out some rhetoric of his own.
“You’ll fucking watch yourself, that’s what.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”
Ah yes, there it was, the threat of violence; his stepfather’s favourite method of intimidation.
“Well, hurry on if you’re doing it. Like I said, I’ve a job to go to.”
There was a brief stand-off, Seán the picture of compliance as he waited for his jaw to be detached from the rest of his face, and Daryl sizing up his foe, wondering whether this was the time to take hostilities to the next level.
“Fuck off for yourself,” Daryl said finally, deciding against some early-morning fisticuffs and moving over to the couch for a closer look at the damage.
That was Seán’s signal to leave and he did so, slouching to the bathroom for a shower which he hoped would pour some life into him.
When he emerged, feeling marginally better, the house was ripe with the smell of air-freshener. In addition, Daryl had opened every window and both the front and back doors. The chill of the fresh, spring morning snaked its way through the house and into every room. As Seán grabbed his coat his mother appeared in the hallway, fuzzy-haired, eyes thick with sleep.
“What’s going on? Why are all the doors open?”
“Nothing Mam. Go back to bed.”
He left her there, in her pyjamas, scratching her head in confusion. As usual, she didn’t have a clue.
2.
“What the hell?” laughed Ginty. “You had that headcase in your house?”
“I know,” said Seán. “We’re lucky he didn’t rob us blind or kill us.”
“Jesus Christ, Lockie,” Pegs muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
&nbs
p; They were settling into their first pints of the weekend, having hit the pub early to mark Ginty’s return from Dublin. That is to say, Ginty and Pegs were settling into their first pints; Seán had opted for an orange juice, his stomach too dodgy to even countenance alcohol.
“You seemed grand when we left you,” said Pegs.
“What time was that at?”
“’Bout half two.”
“And why didn’t ye bring me with ye?”
“You wouldn’t come, boy. Yourself and Paudie were stood to attention, singing rebel songs to beat the band. There was no talking to ya.”
“Fuckin’ hell, I don’t even like trad music.”
“You did last night.”
They thought the whole thing was hysterical. Seán, however, was struggling to see the funny side. He was still nursing the hangover from hell and there was a shit-storm brewing at home. His headache had receded as the day progressed, but his stomach showed no signs of recovery. There was a chance he’d done irreparable damage to it. For all he knew, he’d burned the lining of his gut or poisoned his lower intestine, you heard about stuff like that happening to young lads after too much drinking. Fucking Paudie O’Brien and his poitín, and on a Thursday night, too. That was the end of Thursday night drinking. It just wasn’t worth it.
“Daryl must have been bulling, was he?” asked Ginty.
Seán rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah yeah, the usual story.”
Ginty smiled apologetically, he knew what Daryl could be like. When they were younger, Seán had invited his friend to stay over one Saturday night. They’d stayed up late, watching movies and eating rubbish, until Sinéad and Daryl had returned home from the pub. Rather than leave the boys to it, Daryl had decided to gatecrash the sleepover, ordering them to ‘turn off that racket and get the fuck to bed’. Seán had tried to protest, but his mother’s pleading look convinced him to stay quiet. So they’d gone to bed at 11.30, with over half of Jurassic Park still to watch and Seán more embarrassed than he’d ever been in his young life. In the morning Ginty hadn’t been able to get out of the house quick enough, and there’d never been any question of him coming to stay again. In fact, Paudie was probably the first person Seán had had over since.
“Well, if he gives you any grief he’ll have me to answer to,” proclaimed Ginty, puffing out his pigeon-chest and flexing his non-existent biceps.
“Ha, thanks, Ginty.”
Seán appreciated the gesture even though that was all it was, a gesture. They always tried to offer their support when he was going through a difficult spell at home, but they were teenage lads and expressing themselves didn’t come naturally. Once or twice while under the influence he’d opened up to them and told them about the bullying, the verbal abuse and how he hated Daryl more than anyone in the world. They’d consoled him, told him they’d help in whatever way they could and joked about helping him ‘kill the bastard’, ending with uncomfortable but well-meant hugs. Then it was forgotten about until a few months down the line, when someone else felt like sharing his feelings and the process was repeated again. It drew them closer and strengthened their friendships, but they hadn’t reached the point where they could discuss their innermost anguish without chemical assistance.
As the night progressed Hooch and a few other friends joined them and Seán, frustrated at missing out on the fun, even tried a pint of cider. After a couple of sips, however, he admitted defeat and gave it to Pegs. His major concern now was being well enough to drink the following night. He certainly couldn’t face another night like this, being the only sober person in a pub full of riotous drunks. It was utterly depressing.
“I’m gonna fuck off home, lads,” he announced sadly.
“Ah, come on, Lockie, for fuck’s sake, get a few drinks into you!” roared Hooch, to the agreement of everyone else at the table.
But Seán’s mind was made up; he’d cut his losses and hope to fight another day. He waved goodbye to the clamour of the pub and made his way home.
He returned to an empty house. Kevin was spending the night at his grandparents’, his mother was working in the pub and Daryl was there with her, staring daggers at any man foolish enough to engage her in conversation. He had the place to himself, for now at least. The smell hadn’t gone away, he noticed it as soon as he opened the door. Whatever Daryl had done; it hadn’t been enough. That stink was here to stay. It caused his keeling stomach to take another unhappy turn; it wasn’t enough for Paudie to almost kill him with his fuckin’ poitín, he was still tormenting him long after he’d departed. Ignoring the odour, Seán went out to the kitchen. Perhaps some food would settle his insides? He hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t been able to. Today was Friday, shopping day; chances were there’d be some decent grub in the fridge.
A quick search brought up a good score: microwave pies, frozen chips and crispy pancakes, exactly what he’d been hoping for. His stomach growled in anticipation. This would be just the job; a nice feed and then an early night. He tore open the chips and scattered a generous helping onto an oven tray, setting aside the pies and pancakes for the time being. When the chips began to brown he chucked a few pancakes on top of them and put two of the pies in the microwave. He filled a pint glass with chilled Coke from the bottle in the fridge, and made a place for himself in front of the TV. Friday night telly was always decent, with the distinct possibility of tits throughout. With any luck, they wouldn’t be home for a few hours yet. The ping of the microwave signalled dinner-time, and with an overflowing plate he returned to the TV just in time for The Jonathan Ross Show.
He took a couple of hesitant mouthfuls, but everything seemed fine. There was no sign of it coming back up, so he attacked his plate in earnest. He slathered ketchup over everything – he loved ketchup – and began cramming pie and chips into his mouth. He pierced the crispy pancakes and let their red-hot innards ooze all over the chips, the beautiful, beefy sauce perfectly complementing the ketchup, and then added them to the party inside his mouth. It was sublime. He couldn’t be sure, but this may have been the greatest meal he’d ever had. And then he heard the key in the door.
He stopped chewing, listening to see if she was with him. Hearing the scuffing of boots on the mat, his heart sank. Then he heard his mother’s voice, soft and cajoling. Relief. Pure relief. He would be spared the worst of it. Sure, Daryl would probably still have a go, still have a few things to say, but the presence of his mother would ensure things didn’t go beyond name-calling and insults.
“Hi, Seán,” said his mother as she came in.
She’d had a couple of drinks, he could tell straight away. It only took one or two to make her tipsy, and it looked like she’d had at least three. He couldn’t abide her when she was drunk. She fawned all over him, pestered him for hugs and got irate when he didn’t reciprocate her displays of affection. If she were as tactile when sober, he wouldn’t have minded dishing out the odd hug here and there; but what irritated him was the fact that because she was drunk and felt like connecting with her son, she thought he should comply.
“Well, Mam.”
“What have you there?” she said, peering into his plate.
“Ah, a few pies and that.”
“Good man. I got them for you. Are they nice?”
“Lovely, Mam, thanks.”
Daryl had made his way out to the kitchen and already Seán could hear him slamming press doors, rattling cutlery, snarling, swearing, sighing and ensuring that everyone realised just how unhappy he was. The cause of his unhappiness was in the sitting-room eating his food, Daryl’s food, the food Daryl had paid for, and the food Seán had no right to be eating.
“Nades!” he called out.
“What?” Sinéad replied irritably, having just sat down with the bottle she’d brought back from the pub.
“C’mere!”
She shook her head dramatically and went out to see
what ailed her husband. Seán continued eating, hoping he’d be finished before Daryl’s grand entrance. True, there was no point in disposing of the evidence, he’d been caught red-handed, but it’d be better if he didn’t have to eat it in front of him. As he ate he listened intently, trying to gauge the mood out in the kitchen. But there was nothing, just the sound of the microwave humming away. He heard the bathroom door close. Who had gone in there? If it was his mother, then Daryl would surely avail of the opportunity. The footsteps in the hallway confirmed that he would.
“Enjoying that, Seán, yeah?”
“It’s all right.”
“Ever think that some of the rest of us might like some pies?”
“I only had two.”
“Yeah, and there were four in the pack; one for you, one for me, one for Kevin and one for your mother.”