The Woman Who Walked Into Doors

by Roddy Doyle

  —For now, I said.

  That relaxed her; it was realistic.

  —I think I might have skulled him, I said. —Really skulled him. He was looking very queer.

  I laughed first. She followed me. I've always laughed in the wrong places.

  —Hasta la vista, baby, I said.

  Then I saw John Paul. I wanted to hug him, he looked so miserable and angry. He was looking at a pair of bitches laughing.

  —What did he do? said John Paul.

  I put my arms out for him. They were aching. I wanted to hug his sadness into me.

  —Come here to me, I said.

  I was sure he would. I needed him to. But he wouldn't let me touch him. He slapped one of my hands away.

  —Lay off, will yeh.

  God.

  —What did he do?

  I should never have tried to grab him. He felt that I was insulting him, treating him like a baby. It was just that my head wasn't right; I wanted to hug all my children, make sure that I still had them. Especially John Paul.

  —I'll tell you sometime, I told him.

  It was too late.

  —You'll understand.

  He turned — his face, Jesus, it was breaking up — and he ran back up the stairs. He barged through the other kids. He went out of his way to hurt them. He slammed his door. I left him there for the day.

  He never understood. I never spoke to him about it.

  I looked at Nicola and reminded myself of what was going on. She shrugged. I shrugged back. It was strange; I was happy and worried. She let me hug her. And Leanne and Jack.

  —What now? said Nicola.

  —God knows, I said. —But one thing's for certain. He's not coming back in here again.

  Her face said it: she'd heard it before.

  —He's not, I said. —I'll bet you a tenner.

  —Okay, said Nicola.

  It was a great feeling for a while. I'd done something good.

  30

  There was the yellow accident tape warning people not to go near. One of the Guards stepped over the tape and walked away from the camera. The camera homed in on the car. Charlo was beside it, with the blanket over him. He was face down; his foot was hanging from the open door.

  He couldn't drive. That was why he'd got out of the car again. The poor eejit, he never got round to it. The kidnapper who couldn't drive. He didn't have a licence, he'd never had a car — he'd never learned how to drive. He saw the guards coming over the wall, he shot Missis Fleming and ran to get away in a car he couldn't drive. It looked like he'd tripped getting out of the car. It was neatly parked, a green Ford Escort. He'd fallen out onto the path. The houses looked nice. He was far from home.

  31

  —What now? said Nicola.

  —God knows, I said. —But one thing's for certain. He's not coming back in here again.

  She'd heard it before.

  —He's not, I said. —I'll bet you a tenner.

  —Okay, said Nicola.

  It was a great feeling. I'd done something good.

  Also available from Vintage

  RODDY DOYLE

  Paddy Clarke

  Ha Ha Ha

  'It is 1968. Paddy Clarke is ten years old, breathless with discovery. He reads with a child's voraciousness, collecting facts the way adults collect grey hairs and parking tickets. Doyle captures the speech patterns of childhood brilliantly, the weird logic of the incessant questions, the non-sequiturs and wonderments ... Like all great comic writers, Roddy Doyle has become an explorer of the deepest places of the heart, of love and pain and loss. This is one of the most compelling novels I've read in ages, a triumph of style and perception'

  Joseph O'Connor, Irish Times

  'Truthful, hilarious, painfully sad'

  Spectator

  'A superb recreation of childhood'

  Dermot Bolger

  'Gloriously triumphant . . . confirms Doyle as the best novelist of his generation'

  Nick Hornby, Literary Review

  Also available from Vintage

  RODDY DOYLE

  Paula Spencer

  'A magnificent achievement'

  Guardian

  'Roddy Doyle has done the impossible – he has made Paula Spencer even more unforgettable the second time around'

  The Times

  When we first met Paula Spencer – in The Woman Who Walked into Doors – she was thirty-nine, recently widowed, an alcoholic struggling to hold her family together.

  Paula Spencer begins on the eve of Paula's forty-eighth birthday. She hasn't had a drink for four months and five days. Her youngest children, Jack and Leanne, are still living with her. They're grand kids, but she worries about Leanne. Paula still works as a cleaner, but all the others doing the job now seem to come from Eastern Europe, and the checkout girls in the supermarket are Nigerian. You can get a cappuccino in the cafe, and her sister Carmel is thinking of buying a holiday home in Bulgaria.

  Paula Spencer is brave, tenacious and very funny. The novel that bears her name is another triumph for Roddy Doyle

  'A phenomenally rewarding read'

  Observer