For the Good Times

by David Keenan

  But I convinced myself that she was attracted to me. That she saw something in me, something that drew her to me. Something special. We would meet in a room at the Europa; afternoons, early evenings, normally just when her shift was finishing. She had keys to the rooms and she knew what ones were unoccupied, and for how long, and we would make love, and it was the only thing, and it was the first thing, I understood that then. The power of making love to a woman. And sometimes she would change into her outfit for me. A turquoise leotard with white high heels and leggings. At work she smelt of cigar smoke, and of dark liquor, and of black flowers. I would bite her and leave nicks and bruises in her. You did that to me, she would say, and she would point to a little bruise in her night-time thighs, put her tongue between her lips.

  I told her we had taken over her man’s shop. That he shouldn’t go back there. She says that he knew, that one of the weans that came in had told him and he was staying away. This way The Boys get their money back, and no one gets hurt, I says to her. Except for you, she says to me. Except for you, I’ll break your heart, she says.

  *

  I can hear her saying it, here, right now, like she was lying in my arms, next to me, and I could touch her head with the back of my hand that’s shaking. Except for I’ll break your heart, whispering it in my ear. What a turn. Sometimes she would smuggle food up from the kitchen. Sometimes even a bottle of wine. We’d lie there, on the messed-up sheets, with a tray over our legs, watching TV like a happy couple. We’d watch the news about the troubles and she would say to me, how deep do you go? I’m just a Saturday boy, I says to her, only I says it in the way that somebody who wasn’t just a Saturday boy would say it. Do you know about role-playing games? I says to her. Was your husband not into all that? Of course I do, she says. Well, how deep do you go? I says to her. She puts her finger in her hair and she twists a little curl around it and she smiles. I’ve discovered my own superpower, she says to me. You mind what I said about invisibility? she says. I thought about her high heels, sitting on the chair, when I discovered she was gone. That’s my superpower, she says to me. Which means that even when you’re not with me, I’m right there beside you. Thing is, it was true.

  *

  My big sister was killed by Mr Hitler in the Blitz. He’s dropped a bomb on our house in Belfast and the family had to sleep out, on a steep hill, in a park, overnight, and she died of exposure. Nobody put her picture on a charity box. No one offered to house them or support them. They slept in a park until our da found them an abandoned house and moved them in. All my cousins moved away, eventually. Looking for work and a place to settle down that wasn’t a fucking war zone. They went to Glasgow and Birmingham and Liverpool and London and the Isle of Man. Nobody dignified them by calling them refugees. We were just the dirty Irish, filthy Tims, ignorant Micks, fucking daft Paddies lower down the pecking order than blacks or dogs. And it kept happening, all over again. People were getting burnt out their houses every day of the week. People were getting shot down in the street. People were getting dragged by the hair along the pavement, bloodied and screaming into army vehicles, I saw it myself, locked up for defending your own neighbourhood. I looked at the Union Jack and forgive me, son, but all I saw was a swastika. I looked at the Red Hand of Ulster and to me it was nothing but a blood-soaked Sieg Heil.

  So as when the IRA moves in and starts protecting us and housing us and taking our plight seriously – they gave my family a house in the Ardoyne – well, I thought to myself, finally, we have an army of our own. I joined up soon as I could. I was gunning for Adolf Hitler and for Brian Faulkner and for Edward Heath and for Harold Wilson and for James Callaghan and for any other bastard what wanted a war, only this time it was our war on our terms and our terms were non-negotiable: a united Ireland, a true Free State, or dead trying.

  By the time I was twelve year old I had seen dead bodies. I had seen a soldier shot almost point-blank in the face. I saw bodies at the bottom of lift shafts in the old abandoned buildings up by the Lagan Canal that had been so badly beaten they looked like dead cows. I saw our neighbours crawling on their bleeding hands and knees, the sup-pu-rating legs of poor women, is what my da says, I still mind him saying it, that word, sup-pu-rating, crawling along the streets, beneath mocking British infantrymen with machine guns pointed to their heads. I saw my da and two of his pals whack this guy in the car park of a pub. I watched from the back window of the car as they beat him over the head with snooker cues and one of them snapped.

  I thought my da was Jimmy Cagney. What meant that I was Jimmy Cagney’s son. What meant that I had to learn to be smart-mouthed, sharp-cut, a cold-hearted killer, a family man, and a swank with the ladies. I’d watch my da and his pals and try to copy their moves. The way they shaved in the mirror. The way they smoked their fags from the very corner of their mouth. The way they greased their side-partings. The way they called the top pocket of their suit the top bin; that was where you kept the fags. The way they smelt of Old Spice; aftershave, you called it, never cologne, not unless you were a fairy. How they fluffed up their silk hankies in their top bin. How to tuck a gun down into the waist of your dress trousers without using a holster. How to always have songs ready, just in case you’re asked to sing. How to always have jokes ready, just in case there’s a down moment. How to always do the right thing and send a little money back for bullets. How to drive the ladies crazy. How to have class and style. How to wood-panel a kitchen or a bathroom in a single day; that was a key skill. How to foster a network of safe houses, just in case you need to disappear. How to never linger over a drink. How to throw a punch (keep your arm loose till the very last moment). And how to make every day a comeuppance for every single historical slight your family has ever suffered. You call it the IRA, the Provos, Óglaigh na hÉireann. We called it The Boys.

  *

  Patrick was the first of The Boys I ever knew. He had been involved for a while, but mainly community stuff, as far as I was aware. Area patrols, punishment beatings, shite like that. One time this kid steals a car that belonged to one of The Boys that was high up in command. They tell Patrick to bring him in. I had been angling for a go myself and finally Patrick, who made it seem like you were joining the fucking Mensa, says he would give me a trial run. I mean, the Ra were begging for recruits, but that was your man Pat’s style. He had to pretend it was a big deal and of course it was, really. We all looked up to The Boys and we all dreamt of being one ourselves, one day. Look neat, he says to me. Don’t go letting the side down. What a joke. You should’ve seen the state of some of these clowns. But I took it as gospel back then, so as I turn up in a slate-grey suit with cufflinks and with white side-lacing shoes. You’ve got dandruff on your shoulders, that’s all Patrick says to me. Wipe it off, he says. Can’t have fucking common car thieves thinking I’ve got a dry fucking scalp, I says to him, but he just looks at me and at this point he’s the boss, so as I shrug and brush my shoulders off. Patrick is wearing an electric-blue suit with snakeskin shoes and a tie with the ace of spades on it. He looks good, I can’t lie. He gives me the briefing. Okay, he says, his ma is going to scream and shout, they always do. Ignore her. I’ll deal with the parents, he says. You drag the wee bastard outside and we’ll kick the shite out him. Sounds like a plan.

  We turn up at his door in the evening and his ma answers. We’re here to see Roddie, Patrick says. What has he done now? she says. He stole a car and I think he may be using the drugs, Patrick says. He makes up that last bit but it was a piece of genius and I would use it myself for years after, especially when dealing with people’s mas. Any suggestion that their kids might be using drugs would be enough to damn them even in their own mothers’ eyes. That was traditional Irish Catholics for you.

  Drugs, is it, she says, and she goes storming to the bottom of the stair and starts yelling for Roddie. Get your fucking arse down here, she screams. You’ve brought shame on our house. Me and Pat are just looking at each other. She goes bounding up the stair and we hea
r a crash and she shouts down to us, he’s out the window! He’s on the run! We go bollocking round the back and we catch a glimpse of Roddie leaping the fence and heading off down the lane.

  Here, Patrick says to me, and he pulls a handgun out the waist of his trousers. He’s got a pair of chatsbys down there. I feel it in my hand for the first time. It feels heavy, carrying a gun. Anyone around you could snuff it at any moment. What a feeling.

  Let’s go, Patrick says. We’re gonna scare the living shite out this guy. We leap over the fence and go barrelling after him. I forgot to tell you that Patrick had a moustache. It only added to the appeal.

  We’re running up all these backstreets and there are always people lurking around the lanes back there in the Ardoyne and they see us with our guns and it’s like the sea, parting. People go flying over hedges, launch themselves through doorways, just generally getting the fuck out the way. Provos! Patrick shouts. Provos! Provos! The kid runs into this bin shed up ahead. On the wall, in white paint, it’s written: No Trustpassing. There’s nowhere left to go. But it’s getting dark by this point and we can’t really see the wee bastard. Patrick motions to me. He points to a big silver bin. I sneak up and topple it over and it empties all over the ground. Wrong bin, nothing but trash. Then the both of us just start tipping over the bins one after the other till he comes flying out in a flood of rotten vegetables and minking fish bones. He’s lying there on the ground and he’s whimpering and Patrick is fucking screaming about the state of his shoes. They’re fucking ruined, he says to him, thanks to you, you wee thieving bastard. Then he bends down, takes the guy by the ear, and wipes his shoes clean with his hair. What a move.

  We drag this kid out into the lane and we hold him up against the wall. The place is silent, is eerie. It’s like we sucked all the air out the Ardoyne. There’s a time and a place for stealing cars, Patrick says to him, and it’s on the Shankill Road and not in our own fucking communities do-you-understand-me.

  Do you know whose fucking car that was you stole? Pat says to him. The guy pishes himself right there in front of us, right down the front of his tracksuit trousers. And now he’s lying there fucking sobbing.

  Look at him there. He’s only a wee fucking kid.

  You don’t want to know whose car you stole, Patrick says to him. Then he toes him in the bollocks. Your poor ma’s up to high doh with you, he says. You understand, Patrick says to him, that now we need to make an example of you? Fucking shoot him, Patrick says to me, and he turns his back on the kid and he walks away. I think I see him wink at me but I can’t tell. Is this some type of membership test for the IRA? The kid slides down the wall and starts begging for his life. I take him by the hair and I pull his head back. I hold the gun to his throat and I can feel his pulse like a tennis ball. I take two steps backward. The kid covers his eyes and I let a couple of shots off into the air. The kid rocks back like he’s been hit but then he realises he’s still alive. He starts patting himself all over. Looking for bullet holes. You wee fucking dick, Patrick says to him, if he shot you, you would know all about it. You’ve got one chance, Patrick says to him. You need to pay back the amount the car cost, with interest, and we’ll be up at your ma’s door to pick it up in person each week until we feel that you have paid enough. Do you understand me? Roddie nods, but he’s still that sobbing way. Come on, Patrick says, and he starts getting all calm and peaceful, like. Let’s shake on it, son, he says, and then we can move on. Everybody makes mistakes. Roddie gets up on his feet and offers Patrick his hand. Patrick takes it by the wrist and with his other hand he bends two of Roddie’s fingers back and fucking snaps them in two. The sound is atrocious. The kid falls back on the floor and it’s like he’s running on the spot, his legs kicking up in the air. Always leave them with a memorable injury, Patrick says to me. Rule number one.

  Now fuck off, Patrick says to him, and the kid gets up and starts running away as fast as he can, holding his broken fingers and howling at the same time. We turn to walk away and suddenly there’s flashlights coming at us down the lane. Somebody shouts something. Ah fuck, it’s the Brits. Run like blazes, Patrick says, and we fucking take off down this lane. They must have heard the shots. We get to this high stone wall that leads onto a park. It’s our best bet, Patrick says. We can lose ourself on the other side of the park. Quick, he says, I’ll give you a footsie up. He lifts me up and I’m straddling the top of the wall and he jumps up toward me. I grab for his hand but I miss him. The fucking soldiers are getting closer. I get him again and I start pulling him up. He’s using the wall for support. He’s nearly there. And that’s when the shots go up.

  Sounds like bullets the size of Coke cans. I’m over the other side and Patrick’s halfway over, looking down at me. Bam. He takes one in the arse. I see the bullet go flying up into the air. Patrick falls over the wall and onto the grass. They fucking shot me, he’s screaming, the fucking bastards shot me in the arse. And then we see this fucking big black plastic bullet come spinning down through the air in slow motion. They shot him in the arse with a plastic bullet. In the Ra these were like good-luck charms, the plastic bullet you were shot with. I see Patrick. He’s flat out on the ground in agony but as he spies this plastic bullet he launches himself to the side so as he can catch it. Of course it’s really fucking hot cause it has just been fired so as he’s lying on his back and juggling this red-hot bullet between his hands. He throws it over to me. Hold this, he says, and he gets to his feet. I can hardly fucking walk, he says, I feel like I just got kicked in the arse by a horse. But we take off, the two of us, staggering into the dark, across this park, and all the time we’re juggling this black plastic bullet between us.

  We get home, and we’re standing there in the driveway of my ma’s place, under a street light. Patrick takes the bullet out his pocket and gives it to me. It’s for you, he says. They were shooting at the both of us. And besides, he says, I’ve already got one. And that is the story of how I became one of The Boys.

  *

  I first met Tommy when he was trying to sell me a set of golf clubs in the street on Christmas Eve. He was selling these golf clubs out the back of a car, in the Ardoyne, in the snow. I says to him, where did you get these clubs from, and he says to me that he shot somebody for them and that he was selling them to pay for his dry-cleaning. Anything else goes back to the Ra for bullets, he says to me.

  Of course I never bought one of his golf clubs, but by the end of the day they’re all sold and I’m in our local boozer and Tommy’s sitting there with this gorgeous bird, holding court and looking exactly the way I wanted to. You get your dry-cleaning paid? I says to him. More than, he says, more than. I picked up this wee number on the side as well, he says, and he nods toward the girl, who was this stunning blonde only with yellow teeth. She slaps him on the arm and she giggles, like that.

  Will you take a drink? Tommy says. I order a Bushmills and Coke and we get to talking. Turns out we both know Barney plus Tommy’s ma knows my ma. Tommy minds me and he says we were in a fight together once when we went over to kick the shite out the Bone Macks. Oh aye, I says to him, I mind that fight, did somebody not get hit with a spade? That was me, Tommy says, and he’s beaming, I just fucked the guy over the head with it, he says.

  Now I minded him.

  We’re sitting there drinking and Tommy whispers something to the blonde and five minute later she comes back with another girl what looks exactly the same, even down to the yellow teeth. They’re twins, Tommy winks at me. Two for the price of one, he says.

  That’s when it finally clicks: it’s a pair of whores. I couldn’t have told you where you could find a single whore in all of Belfast back then and here’s Tommy sitting with two of them what looked the exact same. I thought you were sending all profits back to the Ra for bullets? I says to him. Ah well, maybe you can help me out there, Tommy says to me. I’m looking for a way in myself, he says. I’m looking to sign up. I’ve had enough of this shite, he says to me, though looking at him it didn’t
look like he was putting up with any of it. I’ll see what I can do, I says to him, even though I’m only a few month in myself. But I’m telling you, right there I knew it. This guy selling golf clubs from the boot of a car, in the snow, in the Ardoyne, on Christmas Eve, he was fucking born to it.

  We drank all evening and afterward, in the snow, round the back of the bar, we fucked these two identical-looking whores standing up against the wall, their tight white dresses pulled up around their waists, as the bells were bringing in Christmas. I was so blocked I missed Christmas Day altogether.

  *

  The first summer we worked in that comic shop is something like heaven now, in my mind, as I mind it. We were making money, we were looking good in the eyes of the Ra, we were educating ourselves about all sorts of barbarians and planets and elves and superheroes and other ideas about art and life and how things should be lived, plus I was fucking, on a regular basis, unbeknownst to anybody but ourselves, the most beautiful woman in all of Belfast.

  If you could travel anywhere in time, Barney says to us one day as we were lounging round the shop, where would you go? I’d stay right where the fuck I am, I says to him. Right here, right now, my friend, I says. But that’s no use to him. You can’t travel to where you are, he says to me. Well, in that case, how in the fuck do you think I got here? I says to him. I didn’t just fucking materialise out of thin air, I says. You’re here already, Barney says to me. You don’t need the fucking time travel for that. You’re in the Tardis, he says to me, and he points to the big police box in the corner that was actually a walk-in cupboard filled with books about science fiction, so where are you going to go?