by Simon Bourke
“And I love you.”
He tried to reply, to tell her that he loved her too and that, no matter what happened, he would always love her; that she was the most important person in the world to him and no one would ever replace her. But the words wouldn’t come, they caught in his throat and, before he could get them out, Daryl joined them in the kitchen.
“That nearly ready, Nades? I’m fucking starving.”
The moment was lost. She returned to her cooking, moving out of the way to allow her husband a look inside the oven. Seán slipped away, grabbing a knife and fork as he made his way to his room. He always ate his dinner in his room, preferring it there. When it was ready and his mother brought it up to him, it was sensational; not so much a dinner as a culinary experience, a taste sensation handed down from the gods. When he’d finished he brought the plate out to the kitchen, left it in the sink and returned to his room. How could he ever have doubted her?
12
He arrived to work the next day, tense and on edge. All he wanted was to return to his rightful place, to be allowed to go back to the men’s department; none of this sweeping floors shit. Was that too much to ask? Life was hard enough without being routinely humiliated in his place of work. At least Lorcan wasn’t waiting for him at the entrance today, that was something. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was off today. Seán didn’t wait around to find out, scurrying upstairs to the men’s department, back to his old job. As he mounted the stairs, his heart sank. In the middle of the men’s department, locked in deep conversation, were Lorcan and Brian. The manager appeared to be giving his new charge a pep talk, briefing him on what it took to successfully run such an important section of the shop. Seán could have done that. He could have told Brian what it took, or, better still, he could have just told him to fuck off downstairs for himself.
“Ah, Seán, the very man,” said Lorcan as Seán approached.
There seemed genuine warmth in his voice, not the forced geniality with which he usually addressed his staff. Perhaps Seán had passed his challenge and was now being viewed in a different light.
“Job for you,” Lorcan said, leaving Seán to follow as he scuttled back down the stairs.
Seán gritted his teeth, shot Brian a vengeful look and went back from whence he had come.
He followed Lorcan down the stairs, past the check-out tills and once more into the storeroom.
“This yard,” Lorcan said, pointing outside, “it’s filthy out there. I need it tidied up, properly cleaned and scrubbed and all that clutter taken away. Can you do that for me?”
He phrased it as a question, as if Seán had a choice in the matter. Well, he did have a choice: he could tell him where to stick his poxy job. But no. Not yet.
“I suppose I could,” he replied.
“Good man.”
Then he was gone, leaving Seán to face a yard full of trolleys and containers, pallets and boxes; old junk that had nowhere else to go. He’d been working in the store for almost a year and he could never remember the yard being cleaned. There was no need to clean it; no one saw it apart from the staff and the delivery lads. However, he accepted his chore with grace, reasoning that when Lorcan realised he couldn’t break him he would move on to someone else. It was raining again, though, and heavier than yesterday; within minutes he was soaked. He hurried back inside, assuming even Lorcan wouldn’t have him work in those conditions. His boss was there waiting for him with a set of oilskins in his hand, as if he’d planned the whole thing, weather and all.
“Get them onto you, now,” Lorcan said, his tone almost fatherly.
They were a bright yellow set, like those worn by fishermen. Lorcan watched him put them on, offering the occasional word of encouragement, and then sent him back out into the rain to complete his duties.
Seán toiled away, lifting and pushing, shoving and grunting, every movement made more difficult by the oilskins. So this was what physical labour was like. This was how real men spent their days. Well, they were welcome to it. He’d already got three splinters in his hands from the pallets, he’d bumped his head trying to prise apart two inexplicably entangled combi-trolleys and he was sweating like a dog. Seán wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. He was a delicate sort, more suited to life indoors, using his brain rather than his limited brawn.
When the time came for mid-morning break he climbed out of the oilskins, flung them on the floor and traipsed upstairs to the canteen. Mercifully it was quiet; only Pete from the butcher counter was there, sipping his tea and reading one of those in-house brochures that were always lying around.
“Ah, Seán. How’re you getting on, boy?”
Seán lifted his eyes to heaven in a theatrical fashion.
Pete knew the score; he’d been there long enough.
“That good, eh?”
“Yeah, that fuckin’ prick,” Seán said, nodding his head in the direction of Lorcan’s office.
“Giving you a going-over, is he?”
“Yeah.”
Pete took another sip of his tea, contemplating Seán’s situation. He’d been here since the store had opened fifteen years ago, starting out as the youngest staff member on the meat counter and working his way up to head butcher. His attitude to management contrasted sharply with Lorcan’s: he was firm but fair, never afraid to give someone a bollocking but man enough to admit his own mistakes when he made them. Starting out at the bottom had given him perspective, allowed him to see things from both ends of the spectrum. And he never forgot where he came from. He afforded everyone the same level of respect, from young lads on their first day to colleagues who had been there almost as long as himself. Seán would have applied for a job with him if he hadn’t been so squeamish around blood.
“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Pete said.
“Acting the cunt?” Seán suggested.
“Apart from that, I mean.”
Seán shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what Pete was getting at.
“He can’t sack you, so he’s trying to make you quit,” the older man said sagely.
“But why does he want to sack me? I’m good at my job.”
“Ssh,” Pete said, pressing his finger to his lips. “These walls have ears.”
He motioned Seán close, lowering his voice. “You want to be careful what you’re telling people around here, boy.”
Seán nodded, but still didn’t understand.
“Think about it, Seán. The stories you do be telling the lads, the craic with the young wans.”
Seán remained nonplussed, at a complete loss.
“Y’know, about the yokes and that,” Pete whispered, moving his hand towards his mouth in a pill-popping motion.
“But what business is that of his?”
“Oh, Seán,” Pete laughed. “You’ve a lot to learn about this place, boy.”
“Why should he give a fuck what I get up to when I’m not here?”
“Doesn’t matter where you’re doing it, Seán; as far as he’s concerned, you’re a druggie and he doesn’t want you here. And he won’t stop until you’re gone.”
Pete rose from his seat and emptied the remains of his tea down the sink.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, leaning in for a final piece of advice. “He can’t sack you unless you give him a reason to. So don’t give in, you hear me?”
“Okay, Pete,” Seán whispered. “Thanks.”
“No bother,” he replied, winking at Seán and heading back downstairs.
Seán sat back in his chair, digesting this latest revelation. He had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He, a humble department store worker, was the subject of secret, clandestine plotting. ‘Operation McLoughlin’, that was probably what he called it; speaking in code, issuing directives, planning Seán’s demise, the ultimate goal to rid the store of his repugnant presence. Well, f
uck him; he definitely wasn’t quitting now. He’d actually been considering it earlier that morning, but now there was no way he was leaving. He went for a quick piss and headed back down to the yard, not even flinching as he climbed into the soaking wet oilskins. He shook off whatever rain still clung to them and headed outside, whistling as he went.
Sometime later, he couldn’t be sure exactly how long, he heard a voice calling him. He pretended not to hear. He was too busy, whoever it was. With his hood up and the rain drumming down, he had become lost in his own little world; seeing only what lay in front of him, hearing nothing but his own grunts and groans as he toiled away. He’d even begun to sing to himself, a nameless tune with bouts of humming and whistling thrown in at various interludes. It wasn’t so bad, this physical labour. The voice continued to call his name, insistently now. He knew it was Lorcan but still pretended not to hear. The little fucker could come out in the rain if he wanted him. Eventually though, after the cries grew louder, almost desperate, Seán relented; he’d made his point. He pulled down his hood and looked towards the storeroom.
“I think you’ve done enough out there now, Seán,” Lorcan called out.
Seán heard him loud and clear but nevertheless put a hand to his ear, mouthing the words ‘Can’t hear you,’ before resuming his duties. As the rain continued to tumble down, he afforded himself a little chuckle under his hood. This Lorcan fella didn’t know who he was messing with.
“Seán!” shouted Lorcan, exasperated. “Come in out of it. You’ve enough done.”
Seán shot him a glance, apparently irritated by this distraction. “Yeah, just a minute now, Lorcan. I’ve a few more things to do and I’ll be with you then.”
“Come in out of it,” Lorcan repeated firmly.
Seán carefully placed a trolley into the corner of the yard and came inside out of the pouring rain, away from his lovingly tended yard. He’d done an incredible job. The yard, once home to every rodent within a five-mile radius, was now pristine. The rain enhanced the effect. Even Lorcan, a stickler for details and a neat-freak obsessive, was taken aback by Seán’s efforts.
“That looks well now, Seán,” he said quietly.
“I’m not quite finished, Lorcan. I might go back out after lunch.”
“It’s grand, Seán,” Lorcan muttered.
He’d spent all night coming up with ideas, dirty jobs designed to test Seán’s will, and been certain that this would be the one to finish him off. They’d even promised rain on the weather forecast. Instead it seemed to have brought out the best in Seán, revealing a side of him Lorcan hadn’t realised existed. He might have been a drug-addled wastrel, but he couldn’t half work when the mood took him.
“What do you want me to do now, Lorcan? I’d say the floor out there needs a good sweeping at this stage?”
“Yes, Seán, it does,” said Lorcan distractedly.
“Grand so,” he said, stepping out of the oilskins. “I’ll get right onto it.”
He grabbed the nearest sweeping-brush and went out to the shop floor, resisting the temptation to click his heels as he went. Lorcan watched him go, a puzzled expression on his face. He was going to have to rethink this one.
13
With so much going on at his place of work, Seán thought it best to wait until the weekend to make his important phone call. He was far too stressed to deal with it right now; better to wait until there were no distractions, to do it with a clear head. But the coming weekend promised to be a busy one in its own right: they were going to Wexford, a big bus-load of them, to a new club: Ambience. The jaunt had been planned for months in advance. When the club had first opened, they’d been sceptical. It may have had four different rooms, been flying in some of the best DJs from all over the world and had revellers travelling from every part of the country to sample its unique experience, but it was in Wexford. Wexford, for fuck’s sake! All that place was good for was strawberries. As the weeks passed, however, the legend grew. Friends returned speaking of a mecca for dance-music enthusiasts, a multi-storied arena where anything went, a place unlike any other. They had to see it for themselves. They set a date, Friday the twelfth of April, and left it to Pegs to organise everything. Not that he objected, he wouldn’t have it any other way. In his mind, no one else could be trusted to look after the finer details. He would hire the bus, take the names, collect the money, and tell everyone where to be and when to be there.
In this instance, it was Forde’s at half seven on Friday evening. You were to bring your own alcohol for the journey, and smoking was prohibited on the bus. A whip-round would be arranged for the driver on the way home. That was all you had to remember. He would take care of everything else, including the procurement of drugs. According to Pegs the Speckled Doves were inbound once more, and their regular dealer would be taking delivery of a large shipment on Wednesday evening. Ever the facilitator, he had even agreed to collect pills for many of those travelling on the bus. It was all part of the ‘Alan Pegg Fun Bus to Wexford’ experience.
It was likely to be a night of great debauchery and decadence, one which would take most of the following day to recover from; but as long as he could speak in a clear and coherent manner, Seán was going to call his long-lost family on Saturday. He was going to take the next step and ring the number he’d found in the phone book for the Fitzgeralds of Belkee. Friday night would be all about getting off his head and enjoying himself, forgetting about the week he’d just had. On Saturday, he would set about meeting his maker, tracking down the man who’d sired him. Sunday – who knew?
Before any of that, he had to make it to the end of the working week in one piece. His task was made a whole lot easier when he arrived on Wednesday morning to discover that Lorcan was off for the next two days. Apparently he’d booked the leave to visit a sick relative on the other side of the country. Seán knew better, though; he’d obviously been so crushed by Seán’s show of strength that he’d had to take time off to recover, the poor craythur. While Lorcan sat at home licking his wounds, Seán would grow stronger. He would use the two days to reassert himself, to show everyone that despite locking horns with the big bad boss-man, he wasn’t at all downtrodden. And he would start by regaining his spot in the men’s department.
It wouldn’t be difficult. Lorcan’s second-in-command, the store’s assistant manager, was quite pally with Seán. Much like Pete from the butcher’s, Niall Molloy had come up through the ranks at Abbot’s and was therefore far more approachable than his superior officer. You could have a laugh with Niall, even mess about a bit, as long as you didn’t take it too far. Seán had instantly warmed to him. He enjoyed his company but respected his authority. Niall was his boss and Seán obeyed his orders, but theirs was a harmonious working relationship, built on trust and camaraderie rather than fear and intimidation.
“Well, Seán, are you down here again today?”
“I was hoping to talk to you about that, Niall.”
“Oh, yes?” Niall replied, raising an eyebrow.
He already had an idea where this was going.
“Listen, Niall,” Seán continued. “You know I’m not supposed to be down here as well as I do. That men’s department is nothing without me. Brian’s a nice enough fella and all, but he doesn’t know the job like I do.”
Niall was silent, weighing up his options. He knew that Brian hadn’t earned the right to be up there, and that Seán had a way with the customers which reflected well on the store and on all of them; but he also knew that his boss, Lorcan, was conducting some sort of crusade against Seán. Niall didn’t want to get involved, and he certainly didn’t want his boss giving him grief when he returned in a couple of days’ time. But he was in charge now. When Lorcan wasn’t there, it was up to him to run the store as he saw fit.
“Leave it with me, Seán,” he said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Great, Niall, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet, boy. And give that floor an oul’ sweep, will you?” he said, laughing.
Niall disappeared, presumably to break the bad news to Brian. Seán picked up a brush, certain that it’d be the last floor he’d be sweeping for a couple of days at least.
True to his word, Niall delivered the goods. Seán had barely reached the third aisle when he saw Brian slowly making his way towards him. Seán carried on sweeping, pretending not to see him.
“Niall says you’re go upstairs to Men’s.”
Seán stopped in his tracks, feigning surprise. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” Brian said, holding his hands out for the brush. “I guess I’m back on sweeping duties.”
Seán handed him the brush with a sympathetic shrug and made a beeline for the stairs. It paid to have friends in high places.
14
A few regulars came in, looking thrilled to see him. They’d wondered where he’d got to. That other fella had been no help at all; they had queries only Seán could answer.
“When will those cufflinks be back in stock?”
“Is it worth my while buying these now, or should I wait for the sale?”
“How much would it cost to take these in? I’m after losing a few pounds.”
Seán answered them all, because he had all the answers. This was his beat, these were his people. He was back. The day flew; it was the best day he’d ever had in work. He was actually enjoying himself. You never appreciated what you had until it was taken away. By five o’clock he had everything back in order, the way he liked it, all traces of Brian washed away.
The next morning he didn’t even bother to ask, he just went straight upstairs and continued where he’d left off. Brian knew his place now; he wouldn’t be coming back, not while Seán was around. How would Brian have dealt with the elderly couple that came in just after midday? Not as deftly as Seán did, that was for certain.
They were old, older than his grandparents. Seán loved these situations. The elderly generally didn’t know what they wanted, and were always open to whatever suggestions he had for them. These two were off to Australia to see their new grandson for the first time, and needed to purchase suitable attire for the trip.