The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Then he goes, ‘When economists were writing-off this country, some of us stuck it out. And our reward? To be hauled before these wretched tribunals. Where did that forty thousand come from? Where did that fifty thousand go? How many times did you visit the Caymans in 1984? That’s what people like Hennessy and I have had to listen to. Our reward for believing in this wonderful country, for being clever and resourceful, for sticking around to pay exorbitant taxes, or at least some of them, for pulling this nation of ours up from its knees, is to be treated like common criminals. Senator Joe McCarthy, how are you!’

  He’s giving it, ‘I’ve a message here today for you, Bertie. And I know you know me, Bertie. I’ve been bunging Fianna Fáil money for years. And my message is this – NO MORE! No more sacrificial lambs. No more Ray Burkes! No more Liam Lawlors! No more Michael Lowrys! Good men. Honest men. Hounded. Let’s stop the hounding! A vote for Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is a vote to stop the hounding!’

  I go roysh up behind him and just, like, rear-end the focker with my bumper. He goes, ‘Refuse collection is a topic I’m sure is dear to many of your–’ and then he’s like, ‘Oh, good Lord… good Lord, Hennessy, we’re under attack. They’re trying to silence us. They want us dead…’

  Sorcha doesn’t even ring, roysh, just shows up at the hotel, I suppose you’d have to say unannounced, and, like, knocks on my door. And of course my face drops, not because I’m not pleased to see her but because, roysh, I’m just hoping she’s not here for a bit of the other. I’d a Hand Solo this afternoon and another one, like, fifteen minutes ago and now I’m totally wankrupt.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Babes,’ and she goes, ‘Greystones,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry, have I missed a few lines of this conversation?’ She’s like, ‘There’s new houses being built in Greystones,’ and she hands me this, like, prospectus, which is a word before you look it up and I know, roysh, because I worked in the property game.

  I go, ‘I’m not living in Greystones,’ and she’s like, ‘What’s wrong with Greystones?’ and I’m there, ‘It’s in Wicklow,’ and she goes, ‘Only just,’ and I’m like, ‘Which makes it Bogsville in my eyes.’

  She’s like, ‘It’s hordly Bogsville, Ross. It’s, like, one of the most beautiful villages in Ireland. The beach and the horbour are amazing. And it’s, like, still in the 01 area. And Chloë and Steve have bought one of these places,’ we’re talking Chloë as in her friend Chloë. She goes, ‘They only got, like, one of the townhouses, but we could afford one of the four-beds. Oh my God, Ross, are you even listening to me?’

  I’m there, ‘No, because Greystones is, I don’t know, too far away,’ and she’s like, ‘Too far away from where exactly? You don’t work,’ which may or may not be a subtle dig. I’m there, ‘I’m thinking of you, believe it or not. How are you going to get from there to Grafton Street every morning?’ and she’s like, ‘HELLO? If I get up at five o’clock, I can beat the traffic,’ and I’m there, ‘I don’t know, Sorcha. I was thinking more towards the Blackrock end of things. See, I’ve always been regarded as a Southside goy,’ but then she just, like, puts her hand on my knee, roysh, and storts sort of, like, massaging the inside of my leg, going, ‘Please, Ross. For me. Let’s just have a look.’

  I’m there, ‘Er, I don’t know, Sorcha,’ and she carries on, going, ‘Please. I’ll be very nice to you,’ but of course I’m sitting here with an empty Luger, roysh, and you never walk into a gunfight with nothing in the clip. So I jump up, roysh, and I’m there, ‘Yeah, okay, let’s do it,’ and she’s like, ‘Whoa! Why the sudden change of hort?’ and I go, ‘Just that stuff you said about the 01 numbers. Sounds great. And if Chloë and Steve are living there… come on, let’s have a look.’

  She’s like, ‘I’ll make an appointment tomorrow,’ and I can tell from the way she’s looking at me, roysh, that she’s gagging for it. I’m there, ‘No, let’s go now,’ and she goes, ‘HELLO? It’s eleven o’clock at night?’ and I’m like, ‘Well, we can see how they look in the dork.’

  *

  The night of the election count, me and the goys had it all planned, roysh, to meet for a few scoops in the Horse Show House, then all bail over to the RDS to see Dick Features – the CO’CK of Foxrock – get totally humiliated. But we ended up having one or two more than we originally planned, roysh, and by the time we got there the count had actually finished and I couldn’t focking believe what I was seeing – we’re talking the old man, roysh, being carried around shoulder-high, actually carried around by Hennessy and a bunch of tools he plays golf with, and at the top of his voice, roysh, he’s going, ‘THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN! THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN!’

  I’m there, ‘What’s going down?’ and Fionn’s like, ‘It appears your father has topped the poll,’ and, slow as ever on the uptake, I end up going, ‘Is that a good thing?’ and Fionn’s there, ‘I expect it’s going to be very interesting finding out. For better or for worse, though, your father has just been elected to Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council.’

  The dickhead climbs up onto the stage, roysh, where – I don’t believe it – he’s actually going to make a speech. The whole place falls silent. Someone – could be Hennessy – shouts, ‘Keep it short, Charles,’ and there’s all this, like, laughter, then the old man goes, ‘Keep it short, Councillor,’ and the whole place goes ballistic, everyone, like, clapping and cheering and shit?

  He goes, ‘And just to forewarn you – I won’t be keeping it short. For today I’ve been given a mandate to speak. I’ve been given a mandate to speak on behalf of a section of our society who have, until this moment, remained mute. Those who – like my old friend Raphael P. – believe it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I want to send a message out – and I want to send it out loud and clear – to Mister Bertie Ahern, who was once proud to sit in Cabinet with our old friend. That message is simple: we’ve had enough of your inquiries!’ and there’s all this, like, applause and shouting.

  He goes, ‘Where did you get this cheque? Where did you get that cheque? Let’s just remember one thing. We created the wealth in this country. We are the brains behind the Celtic Tiger. And yet for nigh-on years now, we’ve been subjected to this… McCarthyite, quote-unquote, witch-hunt.’

  He’s there, ‘My own campaign manager has suffered. Hennessy, my loyal friend despite losing quite a lot of money to me on the golf course over the years, had his name dragged through the mud. An innocent man, forced to flee to Rio de Janeiro to escape the Star Chamber down at Dublin Castle. If you can’t hold bank accounts under twenty-eight different names in seventeen different countries, then somebody go and wake up Mr A. Hitler Esquire and tell him they’ve reversed the result of 1945 after consultation with the video referee.’

  I look at the goys, roysh, but they’re all like me, just standing there with their mouths open. He’s there, ‘Our preoccupation with these tribunals, quote-unquote, is distracting us from the real issues. For the poor, the unemployed, the disenfranchised, I have a message for you today and that message is: GET LOST! You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame, oh you were good, we all enjoyed you, but you’re last year’s thing.’

  He goes, ‘I have a great many plans, some of which I’ve already discussed at length with the people who matter – the voters on the doorsteps. In office, I intend to put forward proposals to demolish two thousand local authority dwellings in the Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown area and move the people out to new townships in Dublin 24. The land – prime with a capital P – will be sold to private developers and the money used to fund a much-needed marina in Dun Laoghaire harbour.’

  My phone beeps and it’s, like, a text message from Ronan. It’s like, Ur old mans a tool and I send him one back and it’s like, Hau sum rspct, tht wankers ur grndfther and he’s like, I no, dont tel nel and I’m cracking my hole laughing at that.

  The old man’s using his moment in the spotlight to bring up every little thing that’s ever pissed him off in his entire life. He mentions the time that someone porked across the drive
way of the gaff, blocking him in, and how he ended up arriving late to Portmornock on the day he could have won the Captain’s Prize. He mentions the time the old dear was dumped as chairperson of the Foxrock Combined Residents Association and the time a sub-editor spelt my name wrong in a photo caption in The Irish Times. He even has a word for the way the IRFU treated Gatty.

  Then he goes, Tor the management of the RDS, thank you for affording me this platform today. But there the niceties end. You know me well and you know the way my wife and I feel about your wretched funfair – this so-called Funderland – an abomination, bringing trainloads of, pardon my French, riff-raff into this area. Outside the jurisdiction of Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council you might be, but MARK MY WORDS, I will continue to be a thorn in your side.’

  Then he’s there, ‘And lastly, to you, Bertie. I know you’re watching. You will find me a formidable adversary. And you can cap up every one of those letters. The F, the O, the R and so forth. We’ve already crossed swords once, when you tried to lead Irish rugby out to some working-class wasteland. I beat you then. Keep It South Side. That was my simple message. Well? Where’s your stadium now, Mister Dis, Dat, Dees and Dohs?’

  Everyone claps, roysh, but the old man silences them with, like, a sweep of his hand. He goes, ‘Bertie and I still have outstanding business. He has taken away my right to carry my shopping to my car in a plastic bag provided free of charge by the supermarket. And he has taken away my right to enjoy a cigar with a well-earned brandy in Fitz-william at the end of a hard week. Bertie, this is one councillor telling you that you’ve got one hell of a fight on your hands. Quote-unquote.’

  The whole place just erupts. The goys are in total awe. Oisínn’s the only one who can get a word out. He goes, ‘God help us all!’

  Must be pretty much a year since I’ve seen Aoife and I don’t know what she was doing in the hospital, roysh, but she actually doesn’t look much better. She’s supposed to be eating again, but I don’t see it, roysh, though she is in cracking form, going way OTT with the air-kisses and the hugs and the Oh My God!s when I call into the shop.

  I’m there, ‘Is Sorcha around?’ and she goes, ‘Lunch. Anyway, do NOT mention her name to me. I’m saying SO don’t mention it,’ and I’m like, ‘What’s the Jackanory?’ and she goes, ‘I know she’s, like, your wife and everything, but she has SUCH an attitude problem. She is being, like, SUCH a bitch to me today. It’s like, OH MY GOD!’

  I’m like, ‘Where’s she gone for lunch?’ and she’s there, ‘She won’t even let me give out staff discounts, Ross. That’s like, HELLO? No, actually, it’s more like, Duuuhhh!’ and I’m there, ‘Should I come back in, like, half-an-hour?’ and she goes, ‘No, she should be back any… here she is now,’ and I spin around and there she is, roysh, looking – I have to say, even though I know she’s basically my wife and everything – but looking amazing. I forget sometimes what a total babe she is.

  Sorcha air-kisses me and goes, ‘Heard about your dad. He must be SO pleased,’ and I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t talk to the stupid penis,’ and then she turns around to Aoife and she’s like, ‘Anything happen?’ and Aoife goes, ‘Oh my God, yeah, remember that Coco tube top?’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘What, the polyamide panelled one? I sold it yesterday,’ and Aoife’s there, ‘No, the girl brought it back. Said it didn’t fit. She got a bit snotty when I told her we only did credit notes.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Do you want to go for your lunch now?’ and Aoife’s like, ‘I think I’m going to go to that place that you went to. The chowder is supposed to be OH! MY! GOD! amazing,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘It is. It’s like, Oh my God!’ and Aoife goes, ‘I won’t be long, Sweetie,’ and Sorcha gives her a big smile as she’s going out the door and goes, ‘Take as long as you like, Babes,’ and when she’s gone she’s like, ‘OH! MY! GOD! That girl is being SUCH a bitch today.’

  I’m there, ‘She still doesn’t look the Mae West,’ and she goes, ‘She wore that Diane von Furstenburg dress I bought in, as in the red, wine and light blue, rayon-blend one with the ruched cowl-neck?’ and of course I’m like, ‘No way!’ cracking on that I actually give a shit. She goes, ‘She says she didn’t, but I know she did. She wore it to her cousin’s engagement porty and, like, put it back thinking I wouldn’t actually notice. There’s, like, fake tan on the neck. HELLO? I think I know her colour.’

  I go, ‘I think I’m going to hit the road,’ and she’s like, ‘Okay, Ross. I booked La Mer Zou for half-eight,’ and I’m there, ‘That’s a big bottle of Kool-Aid from my point of view,’ and as I get to the door of the shop she goes, ‘Chowder! She’ll have what she always has – popcorn and a bottle of water while speed-walking up and down Grafton Street for an hour.’

  Sorcha wants to head down to the bor for a quiet one, roysh, though to be honest I’d rather hit the scratcher early with Carol Vorderman’s Ten Steps to a Size Eight, which I borrowed from JP ages ago and which he’s not going to be needing where he’s going. She’s like, ‘Ross, you can’t not celebrate your birthday,’ and she won’t let it go, so I throw on the old Leinster jersey and we head downstairs in the lift.

  Of course, I’m slower than a focking ninety-year-old in a Subaru Signet. The reason she was so John B. to get me downstairs was because she’d organized a surprise Russell for my birthday. I should have known when she turned up tonight dressed to the hilt and the hum of Issey Miyake strong enough to drop the Budweiser Clydesdales from fifty yords away.

  We walk into the bor and it’s just like, ‘SURPRISE!’ and everyone’s there, roysh – we’re talking Christian and Lauren, we’re talking Oisinn, we’re talking Fionn, we’re talking… actually the rest of them are, like, Sorcha’s friends, as in Erika, Aoife, Claire from Bray, of all places, Sophie, Chloë, Amie with an ie, but fair focks to her for, like, organizing it.

  I turn around to her and I go, ‘This is incredible. I don’t know how to thank–’ and then all of a sudden I’m just, like, staring across the other side of the bor and I’m like, ‘Who the FOCK invited them? I can’t focking stand those two,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, they’re your parents,’ and I’m there, ‘So-called… just make sure they stay out of my way,’ and I turn around and Oisinn hands me a pint of Ken.

  There’s no sign of JP and I’m thinking he’s probably copped it’s me who’s been sending him copies of Juggs, Penthouse and Gentleman’s Companion through the post, unanimously of course, if that’s the actual word. I just wanted to remind him what he was missing, soften him up for the old sucker-punch. And then I’m thinking he actually does know it was me, roysh, because two days ago I got, like, a text message from him and it was like, Everything in the world – the crauings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does – comes not from the Father but from the world. John 2:16, which I suppose is his way of saying he’s on my case.

  The pints are going down like a bagful of Ag. Science birds. Christian and Oisinn both ask me, roysh, whether I actually guessed what was going on tonight and I said of course I did, roysh, but I just, like, played along with it so as not to hurt Sorcha’s feelings, because obviously I don’t want the goys thinking I’m as thick as a can of tuna, although I suppose they do know me.

  ‘Storreee?’ I hear it from the other side of the bor. Sorcha goes, ‘Ronan!’ and she runs over to him and pretty much squeezes the life out of him, all four-foot-nothing of him. He’s going, ‘Ah, howiya, Doll, give us a look at ya,’ and he sort of, like, gives her the once-over, roysh, and goes, ‘I swear to God, Sorcha, if I was ten years older, you’d be fighting me off…’ and Sorcha’s like, ‘If you were ten years older, maybe I wouldn’t,’ and then she laughs and goes, ‘Ronan, these are my friends,’ and she sort of, like, waves her hand in the direction of the birds, who all go, ‘Hey, Ronan,’ all except Erika, who’s got this, like, sneering look on her face, roysh, and I know she’s about to say something totally focking awful, roysh, and I’m actually getting ready to jump in between them when Rona
n turns around and goes, ‘Erika, yeah?’

  All of a sudden, roysh, there’s, like, total silence. She’s like, ‘Er, yeah?’ sort of, like, taken aback a bit. He goes, ‘A face as beautiful as yours, I can understand you being scared to wrinkle it. But, see, if you smiled, you’d probably bring the roof of this hotel down,’ and I swear to God, roysh, it’s true, in the ten years I’ve known Erika, I’ve never actually seen her smile, not properly, not an actual happy smile, none of us has, until that very moment. It takes, like, twenty or thirty seconds, roysh, for the corners of her mouth to go all the way up, but they do, roysh, and it’s un-focking-believable. I swear to God, roysh, there isn’t a person in the battle-cruiser who can’t say she’s the most beautiful-looking bird they’ve ever seen. Ronan goes, ‘There you are, boys, the sun’s up,’ and he turns back to Sorcha, who brings him over to us.

  Fionn’s going, ‘I don’t know what I’ve just witnessed. It’s like the Aesop’s fable – about the sun and the wind trying to get the man to take his coat off. Ross, he’s… unbelievable,’ and Christian’s like, ‘I think he could be the one referred to in the prophesy, the one to restore balance to the Force,’ and when he arrives over he goes, ‘What’s the story, Rosser? Happy birthday, man,’ and then he turns around to Fionn and goes, ‘The brains, right?’ and Fionn laughs and goes, ‘That’s me,’ and then he turns to Oisinn and goes, ‘The man who makes all that what-do-you-call-them?’ and Oisinn’s there, ‘That’s roysh. I notice you’re a Blue Stratos man,’ and Ronan goes, ‘Ah, man and boy, Oisinn, man and boy,’ and then he turns around to Christian and goes, ‘And you’re the wingman – Christian, right?’ and Christian goes, ‘You got it,’ and Ronan’s there, ‘He takes some looking after, I’m sure. And the lovely Lauren…’