HERE HE COMES at last, hoofing it. Squad’s probably gone for the night. Nuisance. I was looking forward to being helped into a soft seat, stretching my legs out before me. Oh, what odds. Sidling towards me now head back, squinting, lips pursed. Just by the way, like, all casual. Finishing out his shift, cleansing his conscience. He couldn’t leave me unspoken to, just in case. No preamble. I like his style. No breath wasted.
What are you at there?
Having my fucking retirement do.
Are you now begod. What’s the name?
Jack the Ripper.
Is that right, now. What’s in the bag?
Have a look for yourself.
I toe it slowly forward. It grits across the path towards him. He lays a level stare on me, tuts, bends grunting and unzips my muddied holdall with sausage fingers, surprisingly deft. He roots for a few seconds through my tools and bits of clothes and stops suddenly dead, looks sickly, slowly up at me, white-yellow moocow eyes bulging. Her slender hand, cleaved cleanly at the wrist, tumbles indecorously from my bag’s gaping mouth and plops palm down on the unyielding concrete. Ah go easy, I tell him, not unkindly. Her solitaire splits the evening light into tiny rainbows. Her wedding band of naked gold looks forlorn and unburnished below it.
He straightens, moaning softly, and stumbles backwards off the shallow kerb, clawing wildly behind himself for balance at the empty air. He lands on his arse with a whump. I turn one-eighty from him calmly, smiling, and stand straight and still, arms obligingly behind, wrists crossed neatly. He’ll need a moment or two to regain his feet and his composure. My breath as I speak sways the fronds gently of my weeping willow. A stifled yawn softens my words.
Take me away, and look after me. I’m tired.
Aisling
I ALWAYS SEE something on my half-two fag break. It’s the way I have a view out the archway and onto the street. I got a hop there when my eye landed on her, walking in along with her new fella. My hands have pins and needles and I know from them that my heart skipped a beat. I don’t know exactly how new the new fella is, but he’s newer than me, that’s for sure. My oul fella said he spotted her in town during the week all right but I thought he was raving. They’re holding hands. The last time she seen me I’d have had a bit more hair and a smaller belly but definitely she would recognize me if I stood out in their path. I’ll step back a bit, and let the open door shield me. The new fella looks like a right langer. One of them lads that’s all gym muscles, never lifted a block or a keg nor done a proper day’s work. She has a summery-looking frock on her, shortish. She always used think she had flaking legs. She had in her hole. They were all right, like. Ah fuck it, they were perfect. They still are.
I seen her cousin a small while ago all right, mooching around in Reception. A big fat yoke she was one time, and she fallen away to nothing. I got a right hop when I recognized her. She’s not looking too bad, all the same, tightened up the finest, nothing flapping that I could see anyway. Some of them ones that go right skinny after being mud fat for years do have a fierce sad and sorry look about them. Lonesome after the grub, I suppose. And bits hanging that used to bounce lovely. All the life gone from them. They’re waiting now at the front corner near the brasserie side door, her and the fella she’s going with a fair old time that won’t marry her because he can’t decide is he definitely not queer and wants to keep his options open till the very crunch.
They’re after clocking each other. I may as well have been a fuckin flowerpot. Squealing and kissing and holding one another out at arm’s length like you would a child with a shitty nappy, sizing one another up and letting on they’re so fuckin happy to see one another they’re having a fuckin orgasm apiece. Every cunt’s getting told who’s who. The formerly fat cousin’s fella is standing with his hands in his pockets, probably keeping a good hold of his langer. No awareness of protocol. Shake the new cunt’s hand, you mope. You never seen him before. Ye have been thrown together by the gods of riding. Make the fuckin most of it, you miserable prick. That’s all any of us can do.
I hope they don’t come into the bar once they’ve their faces filled. They probably fuckin will, though. She’ll be mad for a nose, to see to know am I still here, after all these years. Well, all seven of these years. That’s a tenth of a life, or an eleventh, anyway. A twelfth for some long-living cunts. Who’d want to? Looking at telly, dribbling. Thank fuck oul Mossy Bradley got me a grand rectangular badge, solid-golden, with MANAGER wrote across it. I fuckin insisted. Tight prick would have let me write it across my shirt in marker otherwise. I’m going to go handy now with my fag. See can the black lad inside go more than five minutes without making a hames of something.
I can hear it already, and see it, and I know how it’s going to go. Matty, she’ll say, oh my God, how are you? And God and you will be stretched to fuckin breaking point. The new fella will stand behind her, smiling, thinking to himself Who’s this prick? The cunt’ll bristle, like a fuckin Jack Russell, but in that way only men can see. I might come out from behind the bar and give her a kiss and all, and have a grand feel of her, and a smell of her hair, just to spite him. It’s great to see you, I’ll say, all posh. You look great. Great, great. She’ll tell me I look great. Ask how are things. Great, I’ll say. Great, great. You’re still here, she’ll say, and I’ll say Sure am, shur where else would I fuckin be? Hahaha! Formerly-Fatarse will smile all fakely and let on she hasn’t a clue who I am. I probably won’t mention all the nights I seen her in the nightclub here, flubbing around the place, hoping some poor drunken cunt might take her away and try and ride her or rape her or something. Ah, howaya, I’ll say, I haven’t seen you in years, Jaysus there’s fuck-all left of you! Or maybe I’ll throw a smart dig. I’ll see how it goes. The new fella will be told This is an old friend of mine, and I’ll think to myself, Ya, old friend, sure. Old friend.
She only got cuntish on me the once. I went for my dinner one day in her parents’ house. Mossy gave me the night off especially. I was only gave short notice about the invitation. She picked out what shirt and pants I should wear and all. I arrived a small bit early. I brang you flowers, I told her mother at the door. Oh, the mother says, they’re lovely. No smile had she for me. She left the lovely flowers in my hand. I had awful trouble swallowing my food. Not enough gravy, wouldn’t please them ask for more. She cornered me after as I came back from the flowery downstairs jacks. I thought for a second she was going to tell me how I was playing a fucking blinder, that the old pair were mad for me. Brang? she said, and a right wicked puss on her. Brang is not the past tense of bring. Brought is. I got a fair old hop. I just remember going What the fuck? Thanks for the fuckin grammar lesson. And deciding there and then she was getting her cards once I’d one more ride got off her. One to remember me by. And something weird happening to my eyes for a second or two. A blurriness, or something, and a stabbing and burning pain in my stomach. But I recovered well and talked away to her oul lad about football the rest of the evening – a grand skin he was – and her mother staying in the kitchen cleaning up, and saying Nice to meet you as I fucked off, and leaving on her sudsy Marigolds the way she wouldn’t have to touch off me again.