by Simon Bourke
“There!” he said triumphantly. “All done.”
Everything had been faced off, in a little over an hour, by just one man: Seán McLoughlin. In years to come they’d speak of this night, the night one man faced-off the entire shop on his own. Children would listen, rapt, as their parents spoke of Seán’s exploits, their little mouths opening in awe as the story reached its climax. But reverential story-telling could wait, right now he had a bus to catch.
On cue, Lorcan came trotting around the corner. He’d been looking for him. Seán tried to read his face for a trace of sympathy, of generosity, but he couldn’t see any, he couldn’t see anything at all.
“Finished, Seán?”
“Yes, Lorcan.”
“My, you were very fast.”
“I was.”
“Come on, we’ll take a look at your work,” said Lorcan, clip-clopping ahead like a show-pony on parade.
Seán looked at the clock: it was seven. If he didn’t get out of here now, he could forget about it.
“Come on, Seán,” Lorcan shouted. “Let’s take a look.”
Seán breathed in deeply and followed his boss. Five more minutes and he was leaving, by hook or by crook.
“You call this faced-off, Seán?”
Lorcan was pointing to some cans of deodorant.
“Yes,” he replied, defensively.
“Who taught you to face-off?”
“One of the trainee managers, I think.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, whoever it was, they didn’t teach you properly.”
Lorcan thrust his arm to the back of the shelf and pulled three of the deodorant cans to the front.
“When you’re facing-off you don’t just bring one item to the front like you did, you bring three forward. That way, when someone buys something, there’s still two more behind.”
He looked at Seán, waiting for a response. He didn’t get one.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Seán?”
He was treating him like an idiot, a moron for whom even the simplest task was difficult.
“Yeah, I do,” he replied, through gritted teeth.
“Good,” said Lorcan with a smile. “Now that you understand, you can start again. Do it properly this time.”
He’d been keeping his emotions under wraps, controlling himself in the face of severe provocation, but this was too much. He didn’t care about winning anymore, or about besting his boss.
“Fuck off!”
“What was that, Seán?” asked Lorcan.
“You fucking heard me,” Seán said, as he made for the exit. “Shove your crappy job up your hole, you little cunt!”
He spat the last word out with as much spite as he could muster, and walked out the door without even bothering to collect his belongings from upstairs.
Lorcan stood in the middle of the shop, watching Seán go. He had quite enjoyed that performance.
“Gone,” he announced to no one in particular before taking a deep breath and heading upstairs. He would have to phone the HR rep and notify her of a staff departure. There would be lots of paperwork, but all that could wait until Monday.
16
Seán rarely lost his temper, but when he did, the results were never less than spectacular: the first time he’d met Daryl, the incident with Mr. Sheehan, his drunken assault on the Tiernan household. When he flipped his lid, he liked to do it properly. His encounter with Lorcan had been no different; he’d been pushed to his limits and reacted accordingly, but, unlike previous occasions, he didn’t feel sorry for what he’d done. His only regret was that he hadn’t smashed his fist right into the middle of Lorcan’s smug little face. He had almost turned back; the thought of Lorcan, cowering on the floor, begging for forgiveness, proving almost impossible to resist. He could have run in, landed a few haymakers and departed again before anyone noticed. It might have seen him returning to the guard’s barracks for another chat, but it would have been worth it.
He still had a bus to catch, though. Standing up to his boss and quitting his job would all be for nothing if he didn’t make it to Wexford. It was ten past now; if he was lucky the driver might wait an extra five or ten minutes, but Seán would still have to get home, have a shower, change and make it back into town. His phone rang for the umpteenth time. He’d been ignoring it up to now, but maybe Pegs could ask the driver to wait.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you, man?”
“On me way home now, Pegs. Can you get him to wait?”
“Jesus, Lockie, how long will you be?”
“Half an hour. I’ll be there for twenty to.”
“Fuckin’ hell, boy. He won’t be happy about waiting.”
“I know, Pegs, but ask him, will you?”
“I will, I will.”
“Legend. I’ll see you there.”
“Twenty to, Lockie, he won’t wait any longer. I know him.”
“No bother.”
Seán hung up, filled with fresh hope. He wasn’t done yet. Breaking into a jog, he worked out the arithmetic in his head: ten minutes to get home, ten minutes to shower and change, ten minutes to get back into town. He could fucking do this! He’d have to get something to eat in Wexford or on the way, but he was going to be on that bus. He hadn’t quit his job for nothing; the night was still alive.
He navigated the streets of Dooncurra like an Olympic athlete going for gold in several events at the same time. Hurdling walls, jumping over fences, sprinting through startled onlookers, all he lacked was a pole to vault some of the more difficult obstacles. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was within touching distance. He’d have to take the world’s quickest shower and run all the way back into town at an equally frantic pace, but he was going to do it, despite everything. He rounded the last corner into his avenue, a few metres from home, and his heart sank.
Outside their house in its usual spot was Daryl’s car. What was he doing here? He was never home on a Friday. He usually went straight to the pub after work. Perhaps he’d just dropped his car here and walked to the pub. He did that sometimes, didn’t he? But as Seán turned the key and entered the house, he discovered that no, that wasn’t something Daryl did. And, not only was Daryl home but he was in the bathroom, taking a shower in preparation for a night out of his own. Tears welled in Seán’s eyes, desperation rose in his chest. The bus was probably already waiting outside Forde’s, welcoming its first occupants as they cheerily stepped on board.
“Will you be long in there, Daryl?” he shouted, not bothering with any forced familiarities.
No answer.
“Will you be long, Daryl?”
“I’ll be as long as I want.”
The fucker, the complete and utter cunt. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“I’ve a bus to catch.”
“Not my problem, Seán.”
He’d been drinking. They must have got off early; that’s why he was home, freshening up before returning to continue the session. Seán went to his room, flinging his jacket on the bed in annoyance. He bet none of the others had to go through this kind of shit. They’d gain access to their respective bathrooms with a minimum of fuss, be sent out the door with a kiss, and maybe an extra twenty in their pockets. As for him, he had to live on his wits and hope that his malignant stepfather was in a good mood. And he was never in a good mood. At best he was indifferent, at worst he was hateful and vindictive.
It was nearly quarter past now. If he was going to make it, he had to get into that bathroom now. He poked his head into the hallway to hear what Daryl was doing. The hum of the shower had been replaced by the occasional splash of water, probably from the sink. He was shaving, and taking his time by the sound of things. Seán’s temper, which had been g
radually dying down, stirred anew. Why did he have to put up with this crap? Why couldn’t he just have a normal life, live in a normal house with people who weren’t constantly out to get him? He didn’t ask for much, just enough time to have a quick shower before a night out. They’d been planning the fuckin’ thing for weeks, talked of nothing else, and now because of Daryl and that little cunt in work, Seán was left wondering whether he’d even make it to the new superclub of the southeast.
He was just about to head out to the kitchen to wash himself in the sink, 1930s style, when the bathroom door opened. He darted out into the hallway, ready to throw himself fully-clothed into the shower.
“I told you, Seán, I’m not finished in there.”
Daryl’s jaw jutted out in defiance, almost asking Seán to protest. Seán stared at him, seeing a wild-eyed man full of cider and hate, telling him what he could and couldn’t do. He’d been looking at that baleful stare all his life, those maniacal eyes boring holes into him, that coiled mouth waiting to fire another salvo.
“Well, I’m going in there now. I’ve a bus to catch.”
He stepped inside the bathroom, its sink still full of Daryl’s shaving water, and locked the door behind him.
“Seán! I told you I’m not finished in there!”
“I won’t be a minute.”
“Get the fuck out!”
He began hammering on the door as if his life depended on it. Seán ignored him, quickly stripping off and stepping into the shower; he needed to be spick and span for all them sexy bitches up in Wexford. Five minutes later he was done. He’d washed his hair, lathered himself in Daryl’s shower gel and scrubbed himself all over; fixed his hair, sprayed his pits and scrambled into his clothes. Now all he needed were his shoes. Once he had those he’d be out the door, and Daryl could move into the bathroom and live there if he wanted. The hammering on the door had stopped. He’d probably got bored, either that or spent the time constructing an explosive device to flush him out. Seán eased it open, hoping to get in and out of his room without being noticed, but Daryl was waiting for him, enraged by this show of insubordination.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked, stepping in front of Seán.
Seán sighed wearily. “Get out of me way.”
Daryl stepped closer to him, his face inches from Seán’s. This wasn’t someone content to pepper him with insults, this was someone looking for a fight. He stood in the universal pose of a street brawler, face forward, chest out, arms back. Bring it on.
“What’ll ya do if I don’t?” Daryl asked.
“Oh, fuck off boy, will you!”
“I won’t fuck off,” he continued, moving even closer.
Seán could smell the sickly sweetness of the cider on his breath. Daryl nudged him gently with his chest, his opening gambit, but Seán resisted. He had a night out ahead, a big one. He didn’t want any part of this.
“Look, just get out of me way, will you?” he asked in his most placatory tone.
“Why? So you can head off to Wexford with all your druggie mates, is that it?”
“What difference is it to you where I go?”
“Well, you’re living under my roof so it makes all the difference.”
Seán really didn’t have time for this. He stepped to one side to get around Daryl, but his stepfather moved to block his path.
“What’s wrong, boy?” he asked. “No smart comments for me today?”
“Look, just get out of my way,” said Seán, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
“I won’t, no.”
“Fine, I’ll go in my fuckin’ socks, then,” he replied, heading for the front door.
This threw Daryl momentarily. He watched Seán go, intrigued by the notion of someone heading out for the night in their socks. Seán hoped this dramatic gesture would bring an end to hostilities and allow him access to his room. As desperate as he was to make the bus, he had no intention of going in his stockinged feet. It almost didn’t come off; he had turned the latch on the door and stepped outside when Daryl finally spoke.
“Go up and get your fuckin’ shoes, you eejit,” he said sourly.
Seán spun on a sixpence and made his way back up the hall, ignoring his stepfather’s glare as he went into his room. Where were his shoes? The space where his tan loafers always stood was empty. They should have been on the floor at the end of his bed. Where the fuck were they? He’d left them out this morning. He turned to Daryl, still standing in the hallway.
“Where’s me shoes?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
In his frantic state of mind a thought occurred to Seán, one that seemed wholly reasonable given the circumstances.
“What the fuck have you done with ‘em, you prick?”
“What?”
“What have you done with me shoes?”
“I didn’t fuckin’ touch your shoes.”
For once, Daryl’s outrage was genuine; he hadn’t touched Seán’s shoes. Remembering that her son had a big night out in Wexford, Sinéad had taken his shoes, buffed them, scrubbed them and polished them before leaving them in the hallway so that he’d see them. They lay there now, neatly positioned by the table. But neither man had seen them; they only had eyes for one another.
“You fucking must have,” said Seán, desperately.
“The fuck you saying boy, eh?”
“You sad fuckin’ bastard.”
Anger reignited, Daryl entered Seán’s room and stood over his stepson, daring him to continue the accusations.
“I didn’t touch your fuckin’ shoes, ya little cunt.”
Seán sat on the edge of the bed, angry, frustrated and upset, no longer sure he believed it himself.
“You did!” he shrieked, getting to his feet and shoving Daryl in the chest.
Physical contact; Daryl could scarcely comprehend it. All those years of toing and froing, being painted as the villain, and now it was Seán who was starting on him. He needed no second invitation.
Stepping toward Seán he shoved him back, causing him to lose his balance and flop harmlessly onto the bed.
“COME ON!” he shouted, standing over Seán.
“Fuck off,” Seán retorted, sitting up but remaining on the bed, the fight seemingly knocked out of him already.
This wouldn’t do. You couldn’t wind someone up and expect them to back off at a moment’s notice. Daryl shoved him again, pushing him onto his back but not hurting him. Seán propped himself up once more, head bowed deferentially.
It was hopeless. There was no fight to be had here; one little push, that’s all he’d mustered. Daryl snorted in derision.
“Fuck’s sake, boy, is that all you’ve got?”
Seán remained silent, casting his eyes down and waiting for it to be over.
“Fucking useless! What a fucking loser,” Daryl laughed, leaving the room with a swagger, his place at the top of the food-chain restored.
Seán, choking back tears, half-heartedly resumed the search for his shoes. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to Wexford any more. He didn’t want to go anywhere, do anything anymore, not really. Tossing runners this way and that, he searched in vain, even upending the linen basket in case they’d somehow found their way in there. He was practically inside his wardrobe, throwing clothes recklessly over his shoulder, when his phone rang.
“Seán?” a hopeful voice inquired.
“Pegs,” began Seán, trying to come up with something, anything, which might see him on that bus.
“Where are ya, man?”
“Still at home,” Seán said sadly.
“I can’t ask him to wait any longer, Seán. He’s losing the rag already.”
“I know, Pegs. Thanks all the same, man.”
“Fuck’s sake, Lockie, isn’t there a late bus? Or a train?”
<
br /> “Nah, man. I checked already, there’s nothing.”
“What about a taxi?”
“It’d cost me about a hundred quid, and I’m unemployed now.”
“Eh?”
“It’s a long story. Look, enjoy the night out; I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, Pegs still reluctant to accept the inevitable. Seán loved him for it, but all hope was lost now.
“Fuck,” said his friend. “Not gonna be the same without you, man.”
“Definitely won’t be for me, anyway,” Seán said with forced humour.
“We’ll get wrecked tomorrow night, eh?”
“Yeah, sounds good. Talk to you later.”
“Sound, Lockie.”
Seán lay down on the bed, disconsolate. He didn’t care about missing the night out in Wexford or even about being unemployed; it was bigger than that. His life was shit, and he was shit too. His only purpose was to make others feel better about themselves, a punch-bag for weak individuals to take out their frustrations. Lorcan, a feeble shadow of a man, ordering him around as if he was nothing. And Daryl, a bitter, dejected bastard who lived to make Seán unhappy. What was it about him that aroused such hate? Was he really so vile and contemptible? Looking back at his life suggested so. He had been unwanted since the very first moment of his being. A disaster, causing dismay to all concerned. His father had taken to the hills as soon as he’d learned of his existence. His mother had gone to a different country to get rid of him, only to be told she was stuck with him. And he’d been a burden ever since. He had burdened his mother, his grandparents, Daryl and everyone he came into contact with. The Tiernan girls, Leanne and Alice: look what he had done to them; a sad, craven weirdo acting out his sordid fantasies at their expense. That was who he really was; a dark, miserable entity, a parasite. Everything that had happened to him he had deserved. He was pathetic. It had been coming his way.