by Simon Bourke
“We need to get him shorts and some new shirts, because of the heat,” the lady explained.
“Don’t worry,” said Seán. “I’ve got just the thing.”
He returned moments later with an array of bright floral shirts and some army-style combat shorts. The man looked at him doubtfully, but the wife loved them.
“Oh, these are fantastic. Look, Séamus,” she said, fingering an orange shirt. “This would be lovely on you.”
Séamus gave Seán a look that said, ‘Are you fucking kidding me, boy?’ but allowed himself to be led to the changing-rooms with the garish outfits.
While Séamus was getting decked out in the latest high-street fashions, Seán selected more items for him to try on. He found some old Bermuda shorts that had been gathering dust in the back for months, a selection of baseball caps and some fetching flip-flops, and brought them all over to the woman.
“How about these?” he enquired.
“Oh, you’re very good,” she said, taking the clothes off him and disappearing inside the cubicle.
Eventually Séamus emerged like a shy bride, all coy and demure, doing his utmost to appear uncomfortable but secretly loving his new gear.
“Turn around, turn around,” Seán said, encouraging him to do a twirl.
Séamus shot him a deathly stare, but not before he’d finished eyeing himself up from every possible angle.
In the end they went with some of Seán’s suggestions, but mostly with what Séamus chose for himself. However, one final proposal turned out to be a huge success. They needed a hat, Seán advised; that Australian sun could be fierce hot, and the last thing Séamus needed was sunburn on his exposed dome. The baseball caps were dismissed out of hand, but how about a fedora, or even two. Séamus’ eyes fairly lit up when he saw the hats. “I’ll be just like Sinatra,” he said, placing one on his head and adjusting it for effect. He ended up buying both, so happy with his purchases that he even wore one leaving the shop. To be fair, the old bugger did look kind of suave in it.
Pegs rang him that night. A few of the lads were heading out for a couple, just to get warmed up for the weekend ahead and go over the details of the trip to Wexford. Seán’s first impulse was to drop everything and join them, but then he thought: No, things are going well in work now. I’ll go in with a clear head tomorrow. Pegs was mildly shocked but didn’t pester him. He’d see him tomorrow night at half seven in Forde’s. Seán went to bed early in preparation for what lay ahead, with a lovely, excited feeling in his stomach. It was like being a kid at Christmas, but instead of toy cars and selection boxes, he’d be getting his kicks from mind-bending drugs and scantily-clad women.
He awoke the next morning with a spring in his step. In twelve hours’ time he’d be on that bus. ‘Pegs’ Fun Bus to Wexford’. It was going to be the night to end all nights; he’d finally get to see this Ambience place for himself. Then tomorrow, after he’d spent the afternoon recuperating, he’d ring his new family. Everything was moving in the right direction now, his life was changing for the better. Before all that, though, he had to navigate one final day in work. Lorcan would be back, but that battle had probably run its course. Seán would just carry on up the stairs to Men’s and no one would say a word. Friday was always the busiest day of the week, and the time flew. It’d be six o’clock before he knew it.
As chance would have it, Lorcan’s was the first face he saw when he arrived at the store, but he wasn’t waiting for him this time; at least Seán didn’t think so.
“Will you go back up to Men’s today, Seán?”
Seán nodded, barely able to conceal his delight.
“Yeah, no problem, Lorcan,” he replied, fairly bolting up the stairs.
The first hurdle overcome, the rest of the day stretched out before him like a soft meadow, its grass swaying in the warm summer breeze.
Niall had probably told Lorcan what had happened, and explained that having Seán anywhere but upstairs in the men’s department was folly. Lorcan, to his credit, had seen the error of his ways. He’d realised that what happened outside the confines of the store didn’t really matter, that Seán was a valuable asset, and one to be treated with due care. Seán had to hand it to him, he’d got him all wrong. He’d thought Lorcan was a conniving shit, incapable of goodwill or kindness of spirit; but here he was, admitting his wrongs, bowing to Seán’s superiority. He’d had a go, fair play to him, but once he’d seen how worthy his competitor was, he’d backed off. Well, there was no shame in that, many a man had come up against a McLoughlin over the years and left with his tail between his legs. Lorcan Murphy was just the latest in a long line of fallen foes.
Lorcan, of course, hadn’t fallen; he had merely made a tactical retreat. He was a master of psychological warfare, an expert in his field, and his next course of action was to back off and allow his adversary to believe that victory was his. It was a tried and trusted tactic, used by many generals to great effect; Stalin, Montgomery and his beloved Churchill had all duped unsuspecting enemies by similar means, lulling them into a false sense of security and then striking when they least expected it.
Lorcan’s chance to strike presented itself earlier than he had anticipated. He went for his coffee break at a little after ten on this fateful Friday morning. The canteen was busy, a group of the store’s younger element presiding over three tables. He didn’t need to go undercover today, knowing enough about Seán by now, but these girls were so loud it was almost impossible not to listen. The topic of conversation was a trip to Wexford. They were going that night, apparently, a busload of them, leaving Forde’s at half seven sharp. The girls would barely have enough time to shower, dress and doll themselves up before the scheduled departure. They’ll be cutting it fine, thought Lorcan, it wouldn’t do to make them stay behind for a stock-take or some other time-consuming chore. But no, Lorcan knew enough to realise that you didn’t mess with groups of girls, young or otherwise; they had a way of crowding together and making life very difficult for men like him. No, these girls would finish at six, just as they were supposed to. Then Lorcan got to thinking. A big night out and a bus to Wexford; was Seán planning to be on that bus? Lorcan knew how much Seán enjoyed his nights out, taking drugs with his friends. He’d be loath to miss a night like this. Come six o’clock he’d be hankering to get away, eager to have a shower of his own, get dressed, and make that all-important bus. What would happen if he was told he couldn’t leave at six, that he had to stay awhile longer, until, say, seven? What then? Lorcan couldn’t be sure, but he had a fair idea.
15
“Seán, could you come here a moment?”
Lorcan had waited until the time was right, until Seán could see the finishing-line right there in front of him. It was five o’clock, just an hour to go.
“Yes?” Seán said, skipping over to his boss, thinking nothing of it.
“We’re very busy downstairs. Could you come and help out for a while?”
“Sure, no problem.”
This sometimes happened on Fridays. With the supermarket extremely busy, and custom in the store’s upper levels winding down, Seán and some of the others were called on to help out downstairs. It would only be for an hour, packing bags at the check-outs, helping old ladies with their trollies and even stacking the occasional shelf. It was usually a welcome distraction, a chance to sample the mayhem of an average Friday afternoon in the supermarket; it was also the last hour of the day, of the week, and being busy made the time go faster.
“Where do you want me, Lorcan? Sweeping, is it?”
“No, no. Brian is sweeping. I want you at the check-outs, helping the customers. And if any of them want a hand with their trolleys, you’re to bring them out for them. Okay?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
This was easy work, somewhat demeaning but easy nonetheless, and he loved pushing trolleys for the women. Sometimes there were sexy MILFS w
ho needed help, flirtatious sorts who’d make suggestive remarks as he accompanied them to their car. Some of them were definitely up for it, he could tell; frustrated housewives with husbands too tired or too busy to service them in the bedroom. Seán would happily have stepped into the breach, hopping into the boot of their SUV and lying there silently as the dirty bitch drove to a remote spot somewhere in the countryside. Then, when the coast was clear, he’d jump out and show the old mare what he was capable of. Yeah, sometimes there were sexy MILFS, right dirty fuckers, but mostly it was just little old ladies who hadn’t the strength to push their trolleys out of the shop; like Mrs. Delahunty.
Mrs. Delahunty was a regular in Abbott’s Stores. She’d most likely been doing her shopping there since the day it opened. Everyone knew her, and everyone knew that her old legs didn’t work so well these days. They knew that she was too mean to get a taxi to her house a couple of streets away, and preferred to get one of the store’s ‘fine young men’ to push her trolley all the way home. This was a much sought-after gig. It meant at least twenty minutes away from the confines of the store, and a nice little stroll through town into the bargain. Today, on this beautiful spring evening, it was Seán who landed the coveted job.
“Ah, you’re very good. Seán, is it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Delahunty.”
“Have you helped me home before, Seán?”
“Just the once, Mrs. Delahunty.”
“I don’t remember you at all, Seán.”
“Ah, but I remember you, Mrs. Delahunty.”
The old woman laughed. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”
“I am, Mrs. Delahunty.”
On they went, Seán leading the way, dextrously moving the trolley through the crowds, while Mrs. Delahunty trailed along behind. Across one road, down another, up a little laneway, and then all the way along the main street. A few drivers beeped their annoyance as Seán wheeled the old woman’s shopping in and out of traffic, but he waved dismissively at them, pointing to his companion by way of explanation. They came off the main street, down one more laneway and finally circled into a small housing estate.
“Down the back, isn’t it, Mrs. Delahunty?”
“Yes, Seán. Lead the way.”
He did as instructed, disappointed that his jaunt was coming to an end. Abbot’s needed more customers like Mrs. Delahunty, in his opinion.
As he rolled the trolley up to her front door, he checked the time on his phone: it was almost half past five. He could feel the butterflies in his stomach now, could see Pegs and Hooch, smiling at him, gurning at him: Best yokes ever, boy. Too right, lads; too fucking right.
To make things even better, Mrs. Delahunty was having trouble locating her keys. With any luck it’d take her until six to find them and his day would be done.
“Just a second now, Seán. I have them here somewhere.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Delahunty. There’s no hurry.”
“Oh, where did I leave them? I’m such a fool.”
“Ah you’re not. Sure I lose me keys all the time.”
“Did I give them to you, Seán?”
“No, Mrs. Delahunty, you didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“What are we going to do, Seán?”
Seán had no idea what she was going to do, but he was going to stand here debating the whereabouts of her keys until six o’clock and then fuck off home for himself.
Seeing the look of dismay on her little old lady face, however, he found some compassion in a heart that dreamed only of the weekend ahead.
“You didn’t leave it under the mat or anything like that, did you, Mrs. Delahunty?”
“Oh, Jesus!” she exclaimed. “I think I know what I did!”
She went to the window-sill and lifted up the flower pot; underneath lay the key.
“There you go now, Mrs. Delahunty.”
“Thanks, Seán,” she said, fumbling with the lock until finally the door opened and he was ushered inside her modest abode.
She offered him a cup of tea, and for a split second he thought about taking her up on it. That would be taking liberties, though. It was enough to land this cushy gig last thing on a Friday evening without taking the piss by staying for tea and bourbon creams as well.
He waved her goodbye and made his way back to the store. Twenty to six; just twenty minutes to go. It was still busy inside, but the frenzy had died down a little. Seán took his place at the end of the check-outs and carried on packing bags with zest. Each bag, each customer represented another minute and each minute helped him towards his goal. He dared not look at the clock behind him; it would only make the time pass more slowly. His cheerfulness was replaced by anxiety and a deep sense of frustration. Come on to fuck, six o’clock, where are you? His heart was racing, his palms sweaty; it was almost as if he’d taken his pills already. Seán couldn’t resist any longer. He spun round to stare at the clock: ten to six. How had that happened? He’d been sure it was at least five to. Back to packing bags. He was flinging stuff in now, milk on top of eggs, bleach in with bread; he didn’t give a shit any more, let them all die of poisoning.
Then Lorcan appeared in front of him; Lorcan, whom he’d vanquished earlier in the week. He was here again, and he had that horrific obsequious grin on his pathetic little face.
“Seán, come here a sec, will you?”
It had better only be a sec. He was dealing in seconds now and he hadn’t many of them to spare.
“You know how to face-off, don’t you, Seán?”
He made it sound like the most innocuous question in the world, as if he were asking: “Do you like cars?” or “Isn’t green a lovely colour?”
“I do, yeah,” he replied warily.
“Good man,” Lorcan said, swanning off towards the back of the shop.
Seán watched him go, hoping that he would magically disappear, fall down a black hole or get spirited away by angry demons, but after a few paces Lorcan stopped, turned his head towards Seán and waved him onwards. This didn’t look good.
“I want the entire shop faced-off, every single aisle, starting here and finishing at the freezers,” Lorcan instructed.
Facing-off involved pulling all the stock to the front of the shelves in order to make them look full. It was a tedious job, usually done by the women when the shop was about to close. Even when they were hurrying the job still took them at least an hour, and that was with half-dozen or more of them doing it. Seán looked at him incredulously, scarcely believing that someone could be so cruel and so sly. It was his own fault for thinking he’d got the better of his boss. He’d assumed that a truce had been agreed and the war was over, but Lorcan had just been reassembling his troops for another assault. Now Seán had no way of responding, no way of repelling the superior forces.
“What about the women? They’re all still on the check-outs.”
“Never mind the women, just focus on facing-off.”
“On my own?”
“Yes, on your own, and you’re not going anywhere till it’s done.”
“But I finish at six.”
“Well, you’d better hurry on then, hadn’t you?”
With that he was gone. Seán watched him go, staring daggers into his back. The prick knew exactly what he was doing; he wanted to keep him here, forcing him to miss his bus. Someone had told him about the night out in Wexford and now he was using it against Seán, daring him to kick up a fuss and see where it got him. Well, Seán wasn’t going to let him win, no chance. He’d face off Lorcan’s poxy shop and make the bus to Wexford; see how he liked that!
Grabbing the bread loaves, Seán began facing-off like a man possessed, his hands moving at a blurring speed. If he was fast he’d get out by 6.45, or maybe seven. He would have to break the world facing-off record in the process, but it’d be
worth it just to see the look on Lorcan’s face. Focusing intently, he managed to get the first aisle done by six. He should have been out the door by then, on his way home, but there was no time to feel sorry for himself. Facing-off, that’s what mattered right now. He saw Brian and a couple of the other lads clock out and felt his ire rise once more. Off they went laughing and joking into the Friday evening sunshine and all it entailed, while he, the most senior of them all, was stuck here facing-off.
His phone rang. Pegs. Did he have time to answer it? He’d have to. Pegs would keep ringing otherwise.
“Seány wawney!”
“Pegs, I’m still in work,” he whispered, continuing to face-off with his free hand.
“What! It’s five past six, Seán.”
“I fuckin’ know what time is it. The little bastard has me facing-off.”
“Who? What’s facing-off?”
“Lorcan. Never mind.”
“When will you be finished?”
“Whenever I have this done.”
“How long will it take?”
“Not too long. I’ll call you when I’m out of here.”
“Fucking hurry on, boy.”
He hung up the phone. They were all getting ready now, every one of them; wolfing down dinners, hopping into showers, getting a good lather on and scrubbing those hard-to-reach areas. Whacking on some tunes while they dressed, doing a little dance as they buttoned up their favourite shirts and added a little spray of cologne. Jogging down the stairs, slinging jackets on; wallet, phone, keys, yokes and then out the door. “See you, Mam,” “See you, love,” then into Forde’s, with time for a pint or two before the bus came. And where was Seán? Stuck in work, doing the job of six people all on his own. He redoubled his efforts; tins of beans, cartons of orange juice, nappies and cornflakes all fell under his spell as he worked his way steadily round the shop. He was sweating, he’d be wrecked by the time this was done but he’d do it, no doubt about it. By 6.45 he’d done all but the last aisle. He dared not relax; he was still up against it, complacency was his biggest enemy. Zooming down the aisle, he faced-off with hands, arms, legs, ears and anything else he could use. Ten minutes later he was finished.