by Simon Bourke
He circled the car park a dozen times more, leaving nothing to chance, going over the ground like a forensic scientist at a crime scene. He even picked up a dirty nappy, using a misshapen coat-hanger to ensnare it and carefully dropping it into the fresh sack Lorcan had given him. He crossed the road to pick up rubbish from nearby pathways, lest a gust of wind send it spiralling onto his territory. When he returned there was no doubt in his mind: the car park was spotless, cleaner than it had ever been. That didn’t stop Lorcan from scrutinising it once more, staring outwards like a seaman searching for land, desperately seeking a reason to send Seán back for another go. He couldn’t find one.
“Go on,” Lorcan said, beckoning Seán inside.
It was half nine; he’d worked off the clock for an entire half-hour. He clocked in with great gusto, already thinking about how he might recoup the time he’d just wasted. He worked in the men’s department. A manly job. For a man. It was the only position in the store that held any gravitas. And he worked there. Okay, it wasn’t Savile Row, but working there afforded Seán the kind of status that the plebs in the supermarket could only dream of. He spent his days advising middle-aged men which slacks suited them best, fitting executives into suits and chatting up single mothers while junior tried on his new school shoes. It was a sophisticated role, not the kind of thing everyone could pull off; but he was a sophisticated guy, everyone said so. The customers loved him.
“Where do you think you’re going, Seán?”
Lorcan again. What did he want now?
“Upstairs. Why?”
“What’s upstairs?”
“Erm, that’s where I work,” he said, slowly.
“Not today it’s not,” said Lorcan, waving Seán to follow him as he headed in the general direction of the storeroom.
What was this shit? He didn’t work down here and never had. He’d been at Abbot’s for almost a year now and had never set foot inside the storeroom, but what could he do only follow his superior? He trudged after Lorcan, dread enshrouding him.
“Here you go,” said Lorcan. “I need you to sweep the floors for me.”
He held an industrial-sized sweeping-brush in his hands, and appeared to be waiting for Seán to take it from him.
“Sweep what floors?” Seán asked helplessly.
“The ones outside, of course.”
“But I work upstairs, in Men’s.”
“I’ve decided to move you. I want to try Brian up there for a spell.”
Brian? Fucking Brian! Brian had only been here a month. He hadn’t earned the right to work in the men’s department.
Lorcan held out the sweeping-brush again, jabbing it impatiently in Seán’s direction. He sullenly accepted the brush and turned to go outside. Sweeping floors? He’d never swept a floor in his life, not even at home. What the fuck was going on?
While Seán might have thought he was merely the victim of a staff shake-up, the truth was far more sinister. Lorcan Murphy, staff manager of Abbot’s Stores, had been keeping an eye on Seán for some time now. He remembered his first day, and how impressed he’d been by the smartly-dressed, punctual, polite and assiduous young man. He looked like being a real asset. Within a month, Lorcan had moved him from his position in the hardware department to the men’s clothing section. Someone like Seán needed to be pushed to the front of the store, to a section which traditionally attracted some of their more affluent customers. They would surely be impressed by his gentle manner, his softly-spoken voice and his willingness to go the extra mile. Hopefully, while those men tried on the finest cheap Italian clothing money could buy, their wives would be shopping downstairs, filling their trolleys and vowing to come back next week.
The move worked perfectly, better than Lorcan had imagined. Seán was a hit; there was no other way to describe it. The customers couldn’t get enough of him. The men’s department rang with the sound of happy, contented voices and, more importantly, the ring of the cash register. Takings were up, almost at an all-time high. They brought in new stock, tried out new lines, and it all flew off the shelves. That boy could sell snow to an Eskimo. Then, to Lorcan’s dismay, something changed.
Seán began to relax, to get comfortable and take his role for granted. No longer was he a mild-mannered sales assistant, always on hand to help a customer in need; now he was a Jack the Lad, engaging in witty banter with the store’s patrons, laughing and joking, not taking things seriously at all. He sauntered around the store as if he owned the place, a real strut in his stride. His appearance began to change, too. When he’d started he’d been doe-eyed and dewy, a fresh-faced cherub; now he wore a slightly vacant look, an empty stare. He looked spaced out. He was either in love or there was something more sinister at play.
Lorcan had seen it all before, of course; youngsters like Seán were ten-a-penny in his line of work. Before he could take further action, he would need to do some detective work. In order to decide what to do with Seán, he had to ascertain the cause of the young man’s malaise. For all he knew, it could be something entirely harmless, but he had to find out nonetheless. He liked to keep tabs on all his staff, find out as much about them as he could. The only problem was that they couldn’t stand him. Any attempts to engage them in conversation were met with terse, cautious replies. So Lorcan improvised, using the kind of cunning needed if you were ever to get ahead in this life. He became a master at eavesdropping, always finding a reason to linger in the background whenever a couple of the lads had a good old chat in the stockroom, hovering nearby when the women gathered for their hourly gossip sessions and generally keeping his ear to the ground. Gradually he began to learn more about his underlings. He learned that Daphne, the middle-aged woman from the homeware section, had caught her husband in bed with another man. He learned that Mike, a part-timer studying for his sociology degree, had failed all his exams and would have to resit them in the summer. And that Chloe, the dim-witted checkout girl with the lazy eye, had failed her driving test for the ninth time in a row. He also learned far more than he needed to know about the love lives, drinking habits and musical tastes of the store’s many twenty-somethings.
Seán, however, remained an enigma. He couldn’t find out anything about him. Occasionally he’d see him locked in conversation with Mike or one of the other young lads and he’d swoop in, ears pricked, ready to gather valuable intel; but they were just talking about football or work or what they had for their lunch. None of that was any use to him. It was as if Seán had sensors; whenever Lorcan got within hearing distance, the conversation immediately switched to mundane matters.
Lorcan didn’t give up, though. He bided his time, stayed alert and waited for something, anything, which might shed some light on the lifestyle of the mysterious Seán McLoughlin. And one day in the canteen he made a breakthrough. He finally got what he was looking for. Lorcan always sat by himself in a quiet little corner during his breaks, his newspaper in front of him and a cup of tea in his hand. People thought he did this because he enjoyed being alone, because he needed to rest his overworked brain before returning to the fray. None of that was true. He took himself away from the crowds so that he could listen. The paper was just a prop; he never even read it. Instead he listened. Whether there were twenty people in the canteen or two, he always listened, and during one of these surreptitious paper-shuffling sessions he struck gold. The canteen was quiet that day, as it generally was at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning, but a couple of girls from the deli counter were sitting at a table across from him.
As usual he was listening, but after ten minutes of ‘this lad got off with this wan,’ and ‘that fucker didn’t even text me,’ Lorcan had started to tune out. Then he heard them mention Seán, or ‘that nice-looking lad in Men’s’ as they called him. Lorcan didn’t think Seán was particularly nice-looking, certainly not nicer looking than him. He wondered if they discussed him when he wasn’t around. What terms did they use to desc
ribe him? But he’d think about that later. He continued to listen, turning the pages of his paper ever so quietly as the girls discussed the nice-looking lad in Men’s. They said he was funny and a right flirt, and that he’d kissed such-and-such a girl; nothing of note. And then, the bombshell.
“Mad into drugs, that fella.”
Those were their exact words: “mad into drugs.”
He should have known. Lorcan continued ‘reading’ his paper and sipping his tea, rapt by this casual conversation. They continued talking, on and on, digging an increasingly deeper hole for Seán.
“Yeah, he do be fucked on a Monday, worn out after taking yokes all weekend.”
“Always off his face, sure.”
“He told me he smokes a couple of joints at lunchtime, most days.”
“Ha, wouldn’t surprise me. Sure he’s off his head, that fella.”
Eventually the conversation drifted back to more mundane matters; their favourite type of foundation, a nice handbag they’d seen in town, things Lorcan had no interest in. He’d heard enough. He drained his mug and left them to their chitchat. So that was it: Seán was a druggie. It was no surprise, really; a youngster like that, from an underprivileged background, with no prospects, no skills. Why wouldn’t he turn to drugs? That didn’t mean Lorcan had to tolerate it though. Certainly not; he didn’t want him working in his store, giving the company a bad name. However, without any proof he couldn’t sack Seán; he couldn’t just call him to the office and give him his marching orders. He couldn’t breathalyse him or test him for drugs, either. Unless he caught him on the premises doing something he shouldn’t, Lorcan’s hands were tied.
He had a plan, though; he’d just do what he’d done last time and the time before that: he would hound Seán out. He’d make his life unbearable, pick on him for no good reason, change his shifts without any notice, assign him mundane, soul-destroying work and act as if nothing had happened. He could do what he liked. He was the manager, this was his domain, and something, someone, unsavoury had infiltrated it. Someone who had to be dispensed of. Yes, in time he would break the young man’s spirit, he would send the ‘nice-looking lad in Men’s’ packing. It was as inevitable as night following day.
11
Seán began the long walk around the store, sweeping-brush in tow. It felt as if all eyes were on him, not just the customers but the other members of staff too. They’d be looking at him, wondering why the lad with the strut in his step was down here sweeping the floors. Sweeping the floors! It was the kind of work usually assigned to lads on their first day, idiots who couldn’t be trusted to do anything else, not someone like Seán; someone who’d helped the local councillor chose a new tie for his nephew’s wedding a couple of days previously. Here he was, a lowly floor-sweeper; this was his life now. A couple of the lads stopped him to ask what he was doing down there. Like a disgraced star having fallen from grace, he made up an excuse, told them it was just a temporary thing and he’d be back upstairs before the end of the day. He fucking would be, too. He wasn’t staying down here doing this shit.
After completing one lonely circuit he returned to the storeroom, and hung out there for a bit, wondering what to do next. As if by magic, Lorcan appeared. The rubbish compacter needed clearing: could Seán possibly do it? Seán wanted to take the sweeping-brush, break it in half and jam its splintered end up Lorcan’s hole. Instead he grimly accepted his assignment, heading outside into the mist to the rubbish compacter. He sometimes came out here for a joint, sneaking round the back of the prehistoric machine where he knew he couldn’t be spotted, blowing the smoke into the slot from which he now had to wrestle rubbish. There were no joints today though, no feckless displays of insubordination. He stuck to his task, ignoring the rain and the damp shirt on his back. When he was finished he headed back inside, took the sweeping-brush and went out for another circuit. He understood how this worked; Lorcan was testing him, seeing what he was made of. Well, he wasn’t going to break. He was made of stern stuff.
The only advantage of such mundane work was that it allowed him to take his mind elsewhere, to the future and his father, this strange, otherworldly being he’d built up in his mind almost subconsciously, never imagining that they might one day meet. It had taken Danielle, with all her innocence and forthrightness, to point out how simple it was: look for him, find him and meet him. Coming from her it sounded straightforward, the easiest thing in the world. She had cut through the nonsense, made his reservations seem trifling and ultimately given him the courage to do it. And now he was on the cusp of finding him. He already had the number; all he had to do was ring it and take things from there. How would they react to hearing from him? With surprise certainly, but perhaps excitement as well. The long-lost relative, the prodigal son, the one they dare not mention. They’d tell him where his father was, but not before insisting they meet him first. The whole lot of them, the entire Fitzgerald clan, gathering around the sitting-room awaiting his arrival. He’d get a taxi out to Belkee, arrive in style and bashfully make his way up to the door, knowing they were all clustering around the window for a look at him. Come in, come in, they’d say. Look at you there now, only the head off him; a proper Fitzgerald to be sure. He’d sit there with a cup of tea and biscuits, on his best behaviour, fielding questions, being a charming bastard, until they said: We have a surprise for you, wait there. A figure at the door, tall, formidable and instantly familiar, the man himself: James. Dad. His father. He’d rise to his feet and there’d be manly handshakes and some awkwardness, then all of a sudden his father would grab him in a great big hug and hold him tight with tears in his eyes, and all the woman would go: ‘Aw, isn’t that lovely.’ He was getting ahead of himself, though; he hadn’t even rung the number yet. Maybe he’d do it tonight after work when he got home.
By the day’s end he’d completed innumerable circuits of the shop-floor, cleared the rubbish compacter at least a dozen times, and cleaned up four spillages – one of them so bad it had threatened to submerge the entire township of Dooncurra in Coca-Cola. It had been a hard day, no doubt. But tomorrow he’d be back upstairs, he was sure of it. However, the evening ahead threatened to be as difficult as the day which had preceded it. He’d be returning home to an atmosphere even more fraught than usual. He was nervous. It was bad enough living with someone who bullied him, who did his utmost to make his life as miserable as possible, but he couldn’t abide being on bad terms with his mother. He hated fighting with her. It served only to deepen his sense of isolation and made him feel that he hadn’t a friend in the world. She was the only person he spoke to in the house these days. Kevin, who had once idolised him, had become a distant figure, preferring to hang out with his own mates or be left alone entirely. Seán put this down to his getting older, but he also wondered whether his half-brother was following in his father’s footsteps; now more Cassidy than McLoughlin, a fully-fledged member of the opposing forces. Obviously Seán didn’t speak to Daryl unless he had to, and would never speak to him again if given the choice. That just left his mother, and even then it was difficult to get her on her own, to have a conversation that was just theirs. Someone was always butting in: Daryl emerging from the sitting-room in search of a biscuit to go with his tea, Kevin hassling her for money she never had. Now it wouldn’t matter if they butted in, because he and his mother probably weren’t talking. Maybe he would live in total isolation from this point forth, live in his room, mute and alone. They wouldn’t bother him and he wouldn’t bother them. His exclusion from the family would be complete.
As he turned the key and entered the house, his mood instantly lifted. Something smelled good, amazing, in fact; lasagne, his favourite. A peace-offering or just a coincidence? He stuck his head in the kitchen door to see how soon dinner would be ready.
“Hi,” he said, cautiously.
“Hiya, pet.”
Her tone told him all he needed to know. They were friends again; last night h
ad been forgotten. He should have been relieved and he was, but this wasn’t something that could just be swept under the carpet. They had to deal with it.
“Lasagne, eh?” he asked.
“Yeah, we haven’t had it in ages.”
“Chips?” he asked. “Homemade?”
She nodded.
“Listen, Mam, about last night.”
“It’s okay, Seán. I understand.”
“No, Mam, I should have been more considerate.”
“Seán,” she said, stepping away from the oven and moving towards him, “it’s my fault for not saying anything. It was selfish.”
Seán winced, unused to such candid speech from his mother.
“I should I have said something to you before now,” she continued. “I owed you that, but the longer it went without you mentioning it the less I thought about it, and it got to the stage where I just thought you weren’t interested. Or at least, I hoped you weren’t interested.”
“Why, Mam? Why did you hope I wasn’t interested?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Seán,” she said sadly. “I suppose I don’t have very fond memories of your father.”
“But that shouldn’t mean you don’t want me to meet him.”
“That’s true, but I’m worried about you too. I’m worried that he won’t want anything to do with you.”
“Well, I can handle that if it happens, but to be honest, I haven’t even decided yet if I want to look for him.”
That wasn’t entirely true but it felt like the right thing to say, something she needed to hear.
“Well, if you do, Seán, you don’t have to make a secret of it. Okay?”
“Okay, Mam, thanks.”
She looked at him tenderly, raising a hand to his cheek. “You’re a good lad, Seán, y’know that?”
“Ah Mam,” he said, pushing her away.