by Roddy Doyle
—Fuckin’ sure, said Kenny.
He started singing.
—HERE WE GO
HERE WE—
—Shut up in the back, said Bimbo.
The windows were steaming up. Darren rubbed his and watched the people walking along the sea front, looking out for young ones.
—D’yeh see her? said Kenny.—Jaysis.
He turned to look out the back window and kicked Anto in the mouth.
—You’re dead, said Anto.
He checked for blood. There wasn’t any.
—That’s pitiful behaviour, said Nappies.—Isn’t it, Darren?
Darren gave Nappies the finger.
—Swivet, he said.
Nappies was sitting on Anto’s lap. His right ear was nearly pressed to the roof.
—Hurry up, Mr Reeves, will yeh. Me neck’s nearly broke.
—Wet!, men, said Anto.—Where’re we goin’ tonigh’?
—The Nep, said Nappies.
—No way. Yeh fuckin’ hippy.
—There’s nothin’ wrong with the Nep, said Anto.—It’s better than the field youse drink in.
—Yeah, man.
—Right on, Anto.
—Will yeh be wearin’ your flares, Nappies?
—He’s pitiful.
—Yis haven’t a clue, Nappies told them.
—Where’s the Nep? said Bimbo.
—Town, said Nappies.
—My God, said Bimbo.—Would yis go tha’ far for a drink?
—Fuckin’ eejits, said Jimmy Sr.
—It’s cos they’re afraid their oul’ ones’ll catch them if they drink in the Hikers, Anto told Bimbo and Jimmy Sr.
—Don’t start, you, said Nappies.—My ma knows I drink.
—Yeah; milk.
—Fuck off.
—Does she know yeh smoke hash as well, Nappies? Kenny got a couple of digs from Darren, to shut him up.
—Where do the rest of yis go? Bimbo asked them.
He wasn’t being nosy.
—The Beachcomber, said Anto.
—Yeh do not, said Nappies.—Don’t start. They wouldn’t let yeh in.
—Would they not now? said Anto.—D’yis hear him?
—What’s it like inside then? said Nappies,—if yeh’ve been in there. Tell us; go on.
—Better than the fuckin’ Nep anyway.
—You were never in there; I knew it.
—Fuck off, you.
—Fuck off, yourself. The state o’ yeh. You’d get drunk on a barman’s fart.
—Fuck off.
—Language, lads.—Do none of yis go up to the Hikers at all?
—I do, said Kenny.
—Yeh do in your brown, said Anto.—He asked yeh do yeh drink in the Hikers, not do yeh sit on the wall outside.
—Don’t start, said Kenny.—I do drink there.
—When?
—Yeah; go on.
—With me da.
—Yeah; the day yeh made your Confirmation.
—Fuck off.
—Yeah, Kenny; your oul’ lad drank your money on yeh. Darren enjoyed this, even with his da there; the lads slagging each other. He rubbed the window. He couldn’t open it because Kenny’s feet were in the way. They were turning off the sea front. It was a bit fuckin’ childish though; not the slagging, the subject matter. The theme.
—Anyway, said Kenny,—knacker drinkin’s better than drinkin’ in a pub. Specially if you’ve a free house.
—That’s not knacker drinkin’! said Anto.
They didn’t even shave, most of them in the car. Darren did, and he was younger than some of them. And he’d been in the Beachcomber. And the Hikers. It was no big deal. He was working tonight in the Hikers - but he’d drunk in there as well when he wasn’t working—and then he was going on to the Grove. The Grove was a dump. It usen’t to be that bad but there were just kids there now and the music was pitiful; it used to be great. But he was meeting Miranda there after work, so it was okay.
—Hey, Darren. Where’re you goin’ tonigh’?
—Workin’, said Darren.
She was fifteen but she looked much older; she wasn’t skinny at all. She’d done her Inter; six honours; two less than Darren. She’d great hair, black that went up and out and down, and huge eyes and no spots, not in the light in the Grove anyway. He’d only seen her in the Grove so far. He wasn’t really going with her.
—Here we are, lads.
They were outside the community centre.
—Thanks, Mr Reeves. You’re a poxy driver.
Darren opened the door and Kenny fell out onto the road, on purpose; he always did it. Darren climbed out.
—Jesus; me legs.
—Yeah. We should have a bus.
—Will you get us one for Christmas? said Bimbo.
—Here, Mr Reeves, said Pat.—We’ll rob the 17A for yeh.
The two other carloads had arrived. Their manager, Billy O’Leary, got out of his car.
—Righ‘, he said.—Yis listenin’?
He zipped up his bomber jacket and rubbed his hands. Bimbo and Jimmy Sr went over and stood beside him.
—Yis listenin’?—Righ’; good win there but, let’s face it, lads. They were spas.
He let them laugh, then frowned.
—Next week’ll be a different kettle o’ fish. Cromcastle are always a useful side so we can’t afford to be complacent.
—Wha’? said Kenny.
—We’re not to act the prick, Muggah told him. Miranda was a bit of a Curehead—
—Darren, said Billy.—Terrific game, son.
—I thought he was pitiful, Pat whispered.
They sniggered.
—Fuck off, you, said Darren.
—Listen now, lads, said Bimbo.
—Terrific, said Billy.—One-touch stuff, he told the team.—Get the ball and give it to someone who can do more with it.
—That’s the Liverpool way, Muggah whispered.
—I heard tha‘, said Billy.—And you’re righ’; it is.
—Wha’ abou’ me, Billy? said Nappies.—Didn’t I have a terrific game as well.
—Yeah, said Kenny.—Pullin’ your wire.
—Yis listenin‘!? said Billy.—Now listen, I want yis all at trainin’ on Tuesday, righ’. No excuses. Annyone not goin’ to be there?
No one’s hand went up.
—Good, said Billy.—On time as well, righ’. I want to work on some set pieces for Saturday.
—Yeow, Billy!
—Fuck up a minute. Even if it’s rainin’ there’s still trainin’, righ’.
—Fair enough.
—Okay.
—Okay, boss.
—Righ’; off yis go home, an’ fair play; yis were very good there today. I was proud o’ yis.
—We’re proud o’ you as well, Billy, said Pat.
—Come here you, Bollockchops, said Billy.
They roared.
—What’s happened your long throw, pal? Billy wanted to know.—My mother’s cat could throw the fuckin’ ball further than you did today.
They roared.
—Too much wankin’; son, said Billy.—That’s your problem.
He ran at Pat.
—Show us your palms there. Come on; hands ou’.
Darren watched Pat jumping over the low wall into the shopping centre carpark. Billy couldn’t follow him over.
—See yis, said Darren, quietly.
He headed for home, still wearing his boots and gear. He hoped there’d be hot water. There often wasn’t these days.
She was a bit of a Curehead but not that bad: she had a mind of her own. It was just the look, the image she followed, the hair and the Docs. She was into the Cure as well but not only the Cure.
He was walking on the Green, to keep his boots off the concrete.
She was into—
—There’s Darren Rabbitte an’ his legs.
It was Anita Healy from Darren’s class, and her friend, Mandy Lawless.
—Howyis,
said Darren.
He grinned and pretended to pull his jersey down over his legs.
—They’re nicer than yours, Mandy, said Anita.
—That’s true, said Darren.—Yours are hairier though, Mandy.
Anita screamed.
—Fuck off, you, Rabbitte, said Mandy.
She pretended to kick him and Darren grabbed her. She screamed Let go as if she didn’t really mean it, and he did. They stood there for a bit.
He saw his da coming.
—Seeyis, he said.
—See yeh, Darren.
Anita shouted after him.
—Mandy said you’re a ride, Darren!
—I did not, Anita. Fuck off.
Darren kept going.
Jesus. Mandy wasn’t a bad-looking bird—woman. She was a bit Kylie-esque but she’d great legs, real woman’s legs. And tits too. She often took her jumper off in school and wrapped it round her waist, even when it wasn’t all that hot. Darren liked that, and it annoyed him as well sometimes.
He started to run.
It was Monday. Jimmy Sr was reading to Gina. He had her for the afternoon because Sharon had wanted to go into town. He had been going to play a round of pitch ‘n’ putt.
—Can yeh not bring her around with yeh in the buggy? Sharon had said.—From hole to hole.
—Are yeh jokin’ me, Sharon? he’d said.—They wouldn’t let me in. Ah, she’d be too much of a distraction. She’d be hit by a ball. Some o’ the wankers tha’ go down there are cross-eyed.
—Can yeh not play tomorrow instead? she’d said.
—I am playin’ tomorrow, Sharon, he’d told her.—I have to. I’ll have to win a turkey between now an’ Christmas an’ there’s not tha’ many weekends left when yeh add them up. I need all the practice I can get. Okay, okay. Give her to me here.
Veronica wouldn’t take her. She had to read six chapters of Lord of the Flies and summarise them; that was her excuse.
—She won’t stop yeh from readin’, Veronica, for Jaysis sake.
—Take her with you or stay at home, she’d said.—I’ve other things to do.
So he was stuck with Gina. He didn’t mind, not too much. The afternoon off would be good for Sharon. She wasn’t looking the best these days, kind of pale and hassled looking. Give her a few hours in the shops and she’d be grand.
Gina was on his lap, trying to grab the book.
—The king is a beau, my good friend, he read.—An’ so are you, too, wha’ever—Ah ah; just listen—wha‘ever you may say abou’ it. Porthos smiled triumphantly. Let’s go to the king’s tailor, he said—I’ll smack yeh if yeh do that again, Gina.
—Smack!
—Yeah.—Now.—An’ since he measures the king, I think, by my faith! I may allow him to measure me.
He closed the book.
—I think, by my faith, it’s a load o’ bollix.—Here.
He put Gina down and got up—Jaysis!—and picked her up.
—Up we get. You’re a righ’ little buster, aren’t yeh?
—G’anda.
—That’s me. We’ll go for a walk, will we? an’ find someone to annoy.
He picked up the book. Only thirty-nine pages gone and over four hundred to go still and it was shite. He was sure it was good, brilliant—a classic—but he fuckin’ hated it. It wasn’t hard; that wasn’t it. It was just shite; boring, he supposed, but Shite was definitely the word he was looking for. And he’d have to finish it because he’d told Veronica he was reading it, told her all about it, shown it to her; the fuckin’ eejit.
—Better get your anorak, he told Gina.
She pushed his chest and he put her down. She ran to the door—they were in the front room—reached up and got the door open.
Jimmy Sr noticed her pile of video tapes on the shelf; Postman Pat, The Magic Roundabout—that was a great one—five of them, presents from people. And no video to play them in. God love her.
He walloped his leg with the book.
—The Man in the Iron fuckin’ Mask.
Maybe he’d tell Veronica he’d finished it (—He escaped, Veronica) and start one of the other ones he’d got out of the library. He was useless; couldn’t even read a book properly.
He went down to the kitchen, and the bell rang.
—Wha’ now?
He went back up the hall. Veronica had no problem reading and finishing her books. He made out Jimmy Jr’s shape through the glass.
—What’s he doin’ here?
He only came on Sundays, since he’d left and shacked up with that Aoife young one; a good-looking young one: too good for that waster.
He opened the front door.
—Howyeh, said Jimmy Jr.
He got past Jimmy Sr.
—Forgot me washin’ yesterday, he said.—No kaks or nothin’.
Jimmy Sr followed him down the hall into the kitchen. It was empty; Veronica was swotting up in Sharon’s room and the rest were still at school. Jimmy Jr held up the bag with his washing in it. It had Ibiza printed on the side of it, and a little map.
—Here, he said.
—Would Aoife not do your washin’ for yeh? said Jimmy Sr.
—No way, said Jimmy Jr.
—Yis divide the work between yis?
—No, said Jimmy Jr.—She told me to fuck off an’ do me own washin’.
They laughed a bit.
—She’s dead righ’, said Jimmy Sr.
—When was the last time you washed annythin’? Jimmy Jr asked him.
—Don’t start. I do me fair share.
—Yeah, yeah, yeah. Course yeh do.—I’d better go. I’ve to make the fuckin’ dinner.
—My Jaysis, tha’ young one has you by the bollix alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.
He followed Jimmy Jr to the door.
—Come here, said Jimmy Jr.—Could yeh use tha’?
It was a fiver.
—Eh—
—Go on, said Jimmy Jr.
He put it into his da’s cardigan pocket.
—A few pints, he said.
—Thanks.
—No problem. See yeh.
—Thanks.
—Shut up, will yeh. See yeh.
—Okay.—Good luck, son.
Sharon found him.
—Did yeh not hear me? she said.
Jimmy Sr was standing facing the door when she walked into the bedroom. He’d been in there since Jimmy Jr’d left.
—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.—Were yeh lookin’ for me, love?
—I was screamin’ up at yeh nearly, Sharon told him.—From downstairs. Did yeh not hear me? she asked him again.
—I must have fallen asleep. Dozed off. I was just—
—Are yeh alrigh’?
He looked miserable, and small and kind of beaten looking.
—I’m grand, he said.
He looked around him, as if for a reason for being there.
—The tea’s ready, Sharon told him.
—Oh, lovely.
—What’s wrong?
—Nothin‘, Sharon. Nothin’.—Nothin’.
He smiled, but Sharon kept gawking at him.
—There is somethin’, isn’t there? she said.
—Ah, look—
—I can tell from your—
—Get off me fuckin’ back, will yeh!
—Sorry I spoke.
She grabbed the door on her way out.
—I’ll be down in a minute.
—Please yourself, she said, and she slammed the door.
She heard wood splitting in the middle of the slam but she didn’t stop. She went back downstairs.
In the bedroom Jimmy Sr opened his mouth as wide as he could and massaged his jaws. He was alright now. He’d thought his teeth were going to crack and break; he couldn’t get his mouth to open, as if it had been locked and getting tighter. And he’d had to snap his eyes shut, waiting for the crunch and the pain. But then it had stopped, and he’d started breathing again. He felt weak now, a bit weak. He was alright though. He’
d be grand in a minute.
He closed his mouth. It was grand now. He’d say sorry to Sharon for shouting at her. He stood up straight. He’d go down now. He took the fiver off the bed and put it in his pocket.
He had young Jimmy’s fiver and two more quid Veronica’d given him so he could buy a round. If only Bimbo and Bertie were there the fiver would be enough and he’d be able to give Veronica her money back but if Paddy was there he’d need it. It was a quarter past ten, early enough to get three or four pints inside him and late enough to make sure that his turn to put his hand in his pocket didn’t come round again before closing time.
He came off the Green, crossed the road. The street light here was broken again. The glass was on the path. It was always this one they smashed, only this one.
It was funny; he’d been really grateful when young Jimmy had given him the fiver, delighted, and at the same time, or just after, he’d wanted to go after him and thump the living shite out of him and throw the poxy fiver back in his face, the nerve of him; who did he think he was, dishing out fivers like Bob fuckin’ Geldof.
He was grand now though. He had the fiver and he was out on a Monday night.
—There’s Jimmy, said Malcolm, one of the Hikers’ bouncers.
—Howyeh, Malcolm, said Jimmy Sr.
—Chilly enough.
—Who’re yeh tellin’.
He pushed the bar door, and was in.
—The man himself, said Bimbo.
He was pleased to see him; Jimmy Sr could tell. He had a grin on him that you could hang your washing on. There was just himself and Bertie up at the bar, new pints in front of them. Bertie turned and saw Jimmy Sr.
—Ah, he said.—Buenas noches, Jimmy.
—Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.
There was nothing like it, the few scoops with your mates.
—A pint there, Leo, Bimbo shouted down the bar,—like a good man.
Leo already had the glass under the tap. Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands. He wanted to whoop, but he put his hands in his pockets and looked around.
He nodded to a corner.
—Who’re they? he said.
—Don’t know, compadre, said Bertie.—Gringos.
They were looking over at three couples, all young and satisfied looking.
—They look like a righ’ shower o’ cunts, said Jimmy Sr.
—You don’t even know them, sure, said Bimbo.
Bimbo fell for it every time.
—I wouldn’t want to fuckin’ know them, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo.—Look at them. They should be upstairs.
The Lounge was upstairs.