by Simon Bourke
This was complete bollocks. Seán had never seen his mother eat a pie in his life, and Kevin just took whatever he was given. In fact, Seán had often seen his stepfather polish off entire packets of pies, four of them or more in one sitting. There was no fixed allocation, it was a case of first come, first served. Daryl should have been grateful he’d left him a couple.
“And what about the crispy pancakes, how many of them have you had?”
Seán looked at his plate, where two pancakes remained. He’d eaten at least three, maybe more. So in answer to Daryl’s question: ‘a lot’.
He shrugged in response.
“You’re some boy, huh,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “Inviting your druggie mates back one night, and eating us out of house and home the next; some boy.”
He whispered the last words, as if in awe at how much of a ‘boy’ Seán was.
The ping of the microwave interrupted his diatribe and sent him lumbering back to the kitchen. At that same moment, Seán heard his mother emerge from the bathroom. He prayed for her return, hoped that she wouldn’t decide to have an early night. Thankfully she rejoined him moments later, plopping down into her chair with a contented hiccup. Somehow she had managed to become more drunk in the time it had taken to go to the toilet and return to her seat.
She sat across from Seán, smiling to herself, content to be at home with her boys.
“Any plans for the weekend, pet?”
“Might go out tomorrow night.”
“Oh, lovely; with Alan, is it?”
“Yeah, and Ginty.”
“Ah, is Cathal home? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Like all mothers, Seán’s mother loved Ginty. He had a certain quality which made him adorable to any woman over the age of thirty.
“He only got back today.”
“Be sure to tell him I said hello.”
“I will.”
Sinéad returned to her drink, her smile growing ever wider as she thought about the loveliness of Cathal Ginty.
By now Seán had eaten himself to a standstill. There was no more than a handful of chips and the shattered remains of a pancake left on his plate, he couldn’t eat another morsel. He left the plate on the coffee table and drained the last of his Coke. It was time for bed now, time to leave them to it. As he rose from his seat, Daryl returned.
“Whoa, where are you going? You’re not getting off that easy, boy.”
“Leave it, Daryl, will you?” Sinéad said wearily.
“No, we need to have a word with him about last night.”
“Can it not wait until the morning?”
“Sit down there,” Daryl instructed, pointing Seán in the direction of the chair he’d just vacated.
Seán remained where he was, looking at his mother for guidance. It was only when she nodded her agreement that he took his seat.
“Do you want to start or will I?” asked Daryl, relishing the opportunity for a certified browbeating of his stepson.
“Relax, love, relax,” said Sinéad, sitting up. “You’re like an antichrist there.”
“And why wouldn’t I be? This fella,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward Seán, “bringing all kinds of scum into this house. The fucking smell of him and all!”
Sinéad turned to her son. “You really need to tell us beforehand if you’re having any of your friends over to stay, Seány.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Not your friend?” Daryl interjected. “Then why the hell did you bring him back?”
Seán ignored him. This was a conversation between himself and his mother.
“Well, whoever he was, Seán, unless it’s someone we know, like Alan or Cathal, then we’d prefer it if you ran it by us beforehand.”
“Okay, Mam, sorry. I will.”
“Good man.”
“Is that it?” Daryl asked. “Is that it?! If you’d seen this fella, Nades; a proper scumbag! Inside our house!”
“I know, Daryl, I know. But sure, look, the poor chap probably hadn’t the price of a taxi home. Was that it, Seán?”
“Yeah, Mam, I think that was it.”
“See, Daryl? Seán was only doing the lad a favour. How many couches have you slept on in your day?”
“That was different. I didn’t stink out someone’s house with me mouldy feet.”
Sinéad nodded sagely. “You should really tell your friend that his feet stink, Seán. There’s all sorts of things you can get nowadays.”
“He’s not my friend, Mam.”
“But still, Seán, if you see him, say it to him.”
While Daryl sat on the couch, frothing at the mouth, ready to consign Seán to the depths of hell, his mother was more concerned about the state of Paudie O’Brien’s feet. If it had been she and not Daryl who had discovered him this morning, he’d probably still be here, with brand-new shoes on his feet, a belly full of soup and a clip round the ear for being such a little scamp.
“If I see him, I’ll say it to him, Mam.”
“Good man. And Seán, in future a phone call or even a text, okay?”
“Okay, Mam.”
“Good lad.”
She rose from her seat, signalling an end to proceedings.
“Now, lads, I’m off to bed. No fighting, d’ya hear me?”
“I’m going myself anyway, Mam,” said Seán, stealing a quick glance at Daryl.
It was a delicious sight. He was crestfallen; his kangaroo court had failed spectacularly. The McLoughlins had sorted it out among themselves like civilised folk, and were now retiring for the night. There’d been so much Daryl had wanted to say, so much he’d wanted to get off his chest, but somehow they’d diffused the situation and made light of his concerns. He watched them go, mother and son, and felt a familiar sense of isolation. No matter what he did or how hard he tried, he could never be part of what they had – and it killed him.
3.
As soon as he woke up the next morning, Seán’s thoughts turned to his stomach. It felt a bit better. He got up and drank a glass of water. It felt a lot better; he felt a lot better. It seemed as if the poitín had worked its way through his system and now, thirty-six hours later, he had finally recovered; which was just as well because it was Saturday, and no one stayed in on a Saturday night.
His mother and Daryl were still in bed, but Kevin was back from his nanny’s and was watching the early kick-off on TV. It was Spurs and someone, one of the lower teams, Bolton maybe. At one point Seán could have named all ninety-two clubs in the English Football League, and most of the players too, but as he’d grown older he’d lost interest. He still followed United and watched them whenever they were on, but it was no longer the all-consuming passion it had once been.
“All right, Kev?”
“Grand.”
“Who scored?”
“Keane.”
“Who else?”
“He got both.”
Kevin didn’t like to talk when there was football on. Unlike Seán he was still very much obsessed with the game, and if there was a match on, any match, he would be watching it. He supported Arsenal passionately. This had led to some interesting evenings as they and United annually battled for the top prizes in the English game. Seán fondly recalled reducing his brother to tears during one encounter in which the Old Trafford club rattled six goals past his beloved Gunners.
“Arsenal playing today, Kev?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Against who?”
“Charlton.”
“Home or away?”
“Home.”
“Reckon they’ll win?”
“Yeah, easily.”
That was as much as he was going to get from his little brother, so he left him to his Spurs match and went out to see what there was for breakfast. He really fancied a few r
asher sandwiches, but his mother wasn’t up yet. He could have made them himself, but they were never as nice. The rashers always turned out too greasy, melding with the butter, soaking up the bread and turning the whole thing into a doughy, congealed mess. No, he’d wait until she got up. Perhaps if he pottered around in the kitchen for a while, she’d hear him and get up to make them for him. There was no fear of waking Daryl, he wouldn’t stir until lunchtime; hungover and spoiling for an argument. Seán would be long gone by then.
He poked around the fridge, and checked to see how much bread there was. These were just precautionary measures, however; he knew there was a fresh sliced pan and two packets of rashers; sausages too, if he wanted them. Maybe he’d have a sausage sandwich and two rasher sandwiches. That’d keep him going. There was still no sign of her getting up, though. He went out to the back garden and sat down, drying the damp off the bench and making himself comfortable. It was warm out, the weather finally turning after a seemingly endless winter. There was a sense of spring in the air, of life resuming; summer was only around the corner. He was definitely going on holidays somewhere this year. They’d talked about Ibiza, but the prices were crazy.
“If you want the best, you have to pay the price,” Pegs had said.
But Seán had heard stories about having to pay fifty quid to get into nightclubs and another twenty for a drink; all that on top of whatever it cost for flights and accommodation. Ginty had suggested a city break, Rome or Barcelona; see the Coliseum, the Sagrada Familia. They’d laughed. All they wanted was a beach, some birds and some drugs; you didn’t get those inside the fucking Coliseum.
“What are you doing out here, Seán?”
She was up. Time for sambos.
“Ah, just getting some sun. It’s lovely out.”
His mother peered outside, shading her eyes from the sun’s weak light.
“I dunno, Seán.”
“It is, Mam. Have a seat,” he said, patting the chair beside him.
“Ah, I won’t now, maybe later. Would you like something to eat?”
“Yeah, please, only if you’re making it, like.”
“What d’you want?”
“What is there?”
“There’s rashers there. Rasher sandwiches?”
“Please, and a sausage one?”
“Okay. One of each?”
“Two rasher and one sausage, that okay?”
“Yeah, of course. Hold on till I see if Kevin is hungry.”
Job done. As soon as he’d finished his sandwiches, he’d call over to Pegs’ house. There’d surely be some stories to tell about last night and plans to make for tonight. Hopefully he’d got some pills for them. Saturday nights were great, but if they didn’t have Es they weren’t worth a fuck.
4.
Pegs had got some pills, good ones too by all accounts.
“Speckled Doves, Seán. They’re supposed to be immense.”
He handed him two of the tablets. Seán looked at them closely, like a jeweller inspecting some expensive diamonds.
“They’ve got little brown bits all over them.”
“Hence the name, you fool.”
“Oh yeah, speckled. Supposed to be good then, yeah?”
“The best.”
“The best? Better than the Rolexes?”
Pegs nodded gravely.
“Fuckin’ hell,” said Seán, looking at the strange brown pills in an entirely different light. “We’re in for some night, so.”
They sat in Pegs’ bedroom, outlining their plans for the night ahead. They regularly went to clubs in Cork, Waterford, Limerick and sometimes Dublin, but tonight they were staying in Dooncurra. There was nothing wrong with Dooncurra, though; Moody Blues was one of the best nightclubs around. Later on they would meet up in Pegs’ house, have a few cans and head into town at around nine to Forde’s, their local, where they would stay until sometime between eleven and midnight. The pills would be kicking in by that point and it’d be time to go elsewhere, somewhere with banging tunes: Moody Blues.
They had taken Ecstasy for the first time three months previously, and had both immediately declared it the single greatest thing on earth. This was the life for them, they’d found their calling. The drug opened up a whole new world to them, a world where life’s stresses and worries faded into obscurity. On Ecstasy all that mattered was the here and now, living in the moment – and what a moment it was. For Seán it felt like the music existed within him, this house music from the streets of Chicago, flowing through his veins, infusing him with life, with joy, bringing him to another dimension, a wonderful place where all was well and love and happiness were the norm. Previously too shy to dance, he had joined the throngs on the dance floor, at one with them and yet in a beautiful universe of his own creation. The beat belonged to him, the floor belonged to him, Moody Blues, the world – it all belonged to him. Each groove, chord and vocal was assimilated, taken on board and sent forth in the form of perfectly projected movements. He could dance now, dance like he’d never danced before. Perhaps it wasn’t really dancing; dancing was something you thought about it, practised and choreographed. He was just moving unconsciously, allowing himself to be controlled by something else, something intangible. It wasn’t just about the dancing, though, it was the people too. He was a part of something; everyone who took it was. You only had to look at them to know that they knew, they understood. Nothing needed to be said, it was right there in your face. People from all walks of life were brought together by this wonderful drug. There was nothing to be afraid of, no reason to be self-conscious, you could be yourself here and no one would judge you. It was peace and love, and if you couldn’t buy into that then more fool you. Speaking to girls was easier too, there was none of the messiness that came with alcohol. His head was clear, his thoughts lucid. He approached women with confidence and if they knocked him back, so what? He was just chancing his arm, living in the moment, going from girl to girl until he found one that liked the cut of his jib. He wasn’t after anything serious, just someone to spend the night with if he was lucky. There would be no second dates, not here, not in this world.
The only shame was that the night eventually had to come to an end, but even when the lights came up and the music stopped, it wasn’t over. They spilled out onto the street like children entering a theme park and went off in search of sessions, house parties, anywhere that would have them. And, thanks to Pegs’ ubiquity, they invariably found them, gaining access to all but the most exclusive soirées. In this new environment, in the living-rooms, bedrooms and kitchens of Dooncurra, where the music was that little bit lower and the conversations more meaningful, Seán came into his own. He loved how the drug allowed him to open up, to speak freely about things he’d never mention under normal circumstances. He shared his deepest, innermost thoughts with these people, these strangers, these new friends. He opened up about his situation at home, how he hated his stepfather and didn’t know who his real father was. He told them about his low self-esteem and his feelings of worthlessness Those he spoke to understood; they nodded attentively, sympathising, not judging, because they had shit of their own, shit they wanted to share when they’d finished listening to his shit. And he listened, glad to do so, only too happy to offer what advice he could. There was nothing to be ashamed of; everyone had their own shit to deal with, and talking about it made it better.
Eventually, with the sun peeping out over the horizon, they’d slink home, the living dead returning to their graves. They’d crawl into their beds, heads still ringing with the sounds of the night they’d left behind, and lapse into a fitful sleep. When they woke, it was to the same old world they’d left behind the day before, back to reality. The next day would be torture, and the one after that and the whole week, for that matter; but it was worth it, it was always worth it. Those few hours made everything else in their lives seem insignificant, and at the same time
made it all worthwhile. They would shuffle through their nine-to-five, through their low-skilled, minimum-wage jobs from Monday to Friday, because they knew that at the end of the week there was a prize waiting for them, a prize like no other. Saturday night was when it all came together. That was when they came alive.
5
A few hours later Seán and Ginty arrived at Pegs’ door in their finest threads, smelling like a pair of fifty-dollar whores.
“Howya, Mrs. Pegg. Is Alan in?”
“Yes, lads, of course he is. Go on up.”
There was an open-door policy in the Pegg household. Usually they would just have walked in through the front door and straight up to Pegs’ room, but Ginty had insisted they knock and announce their arrival.
“How are you, Cathal?” asked Mrs. Pegg, as Seán waved a greeting to Mr. Pegg and thundered up the stairs.
“I’m grand, Mrs. Pegg, thanks.”
“And college? Up in Dublin, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s going really well so far, fingers crossed!”
“Oh, you won’t need to cross any fingers, a chap like you!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Pegg. I’d better head up,” he said, nodding in the direction of Pegs’ room.
“Of course, Cathal. Have a good night now and take care.”
“I will, Mrs. Pegg.”
Ginty followed Seán upstairs and into Pegs’ domain. It hadn’t changed much over the years; the posters of Ryan Giggs and the Gallagher brothers had been replaced by ones of Che Guevara and Marvin Gaye, but it was essentially the same. There were still CD cases scattered on every available surface, piles of clothes kicked into all four corners, and dirty plates, cups and spoons lying in wait, ready to soil someone’s polished shoes. Ginty took a seat on the edge of the bed and listened in on Seán and Hooch’s conversation. They were talking about Es again; they were obsessed with Es. He was happy enough with his pints, and maybe a brandy at last orders if he was feeling adventurous. He’d smoked hash with them a few times and enjoyed it, but Ecstasy was something else entirely. It had long-term effects, he’d read up on it. People died after taking it too. But his friends knew what they were doing and they seemed to enjoy it, so he didn’t try to stop them.