— The greenhouse effect, me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.
There hadn’t even been a half decent day.
They climbed up to the top of one of the dunes to have a decco and there wasn’t a sinner on the whole fuckin’ island, except for themselves and a couple of rich fat oul’ ones playing golf down the way, and a few learner drivers on the hard sand, and a couple of young fellas on their horses. It was fuckin’ useless. They got back into the van to make themselves something to eat and they were the only customers they had all day. It was money down the drain. Even in the van it was cold.
— It’s early days yet, said Bimbo. — The weather’ll get better, wait’ll yeh see.
He was only saying that cos Maggie’d organised the whole thing; Jimmy Sr could tell.
— It’s the worst summer in livin’ memory, he said.
— Who says it is? said Bimbo.
— I do, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m fuckin’ freezin’.
— It’s only July still, said Bimbo. — There’s still August an’ September left.
One of the horse young fellas was at the hatch, on his piebald.
— Anny rots, Mister? he said.
— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.
— Anny rots.
Jimmy Sr spoke to Bimbo.
— What’s he fuckin’ on abou’?
The young fella explained.
— Rotten chips, he said. — For me horse.
— Fuck off, said Jimmy Sr. — There’s nothin’ rotten in this establishment, Tonto.
— I was only askin’, said the young fella.
Jimmy Sr and Bimbo looked at his horse. It wasn’t a horse really, more a pony; a big dog.
— How much was he? said Jimmy Sr.
— A hundred, said the young fella.
— Is that all?
— You can have him for a hundred an’ fifty, the young fella told them.
They laughed.
The young fella patted the horse’s head.
— You’d get your money back no problem, he said. — I’ll kill him for yis as well, if yis want.
They laughed again.
— Does he like Twixes? Jimmy Sr asked the young fella.
— He does, yeah, said the young fella. — So do I.
— There yeh go.
He handed out two Twixes and the young fella got the horse in closer to the hatch so he could collect them.
— He likes cans o’ Coke as well, he told them.
— He can fuck off down to the shops then, said Jimmy Sr.
The young fella’s mate went galloping past on his mule and the young fella got ready to go after him. He stuffed the Twixes into his pocket and geed up the horse the way they did in the pictures, even though he’d no spurs on him, no saddle either.
— Does your bollix not be in bits ridin’ around like tha’? Jimmy Sr asked him.
— Not really, said the young fella. — Yeh get used to it.
— You might, said Jimmy Sr. — I wouldn’t.
— Yheupp! went the young fella, and he was gone, down the causeway road; they watched him from the door of the van, his feet nearly scraping off the road.
That was the high point of the day.
— He was a nice enough young fella, said Bimbo.
— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.
That was easily their biggest problem though: young fellas. Jimmy Sr like kids, always had; Bimbo loved them as well but, Jaysis Christ, they were changing their minds, quickly. Everyone loved bold kids. They were cute. There was nothing funnier than hearing a three-year-old say Fuck. This shower weren’t cute though. They were cunts, right little cunts; dangerous as well.
There was a gang of them that hung around the Hikers carpark, young fellas, from fourteen to maybe nineteen. Even in the rain, they stayed there. They just put their hoodies up. Some of them always had their hoodies up. They were all small and skinny looking but there was something frightening about them. The way they behaved, you could tell that they didn’t give a fuck about anything. When someone parked his car and went into the pub they went over to the car and started messing with it even before the chap had gone inside; they didn’t care if he saw them. Jimmy Sr once saw one of them pissing against the window of the off-licence, in broad daylight, not a bother on him. Sometimes they’d have a flagon or a can of lager out and they’d pass it around, drinking in front of people coming in and out of Crazy Prices, people that lived beside their parents. It was sad. When they walked around, like a herd migrating or something, they all tried to walk the same way, the hard men, like their kaks were too tight on them. But that was only natural, he supposed. The worst thing though was, they didn’t laugh. All kids went through a phase where they messed, they did things they weren’t supposed to; they smoked, they drank, they showed their arses to oul’ ones from the back window on the bus. But they did it for a laugh. That was the point of it. It was part of growing up, Jimmy Sr understood that; always had. He’d seen his own kids going through that. If you were lucky you never really grew out of it; a little bit of kid stayed inside you. These kids were different though; they didn’t do anything for a laugh. Not that Jimmy Sr could see anyway. They were like fuckin’ zombies. When Jimmy Sr saw them, especially when it was raining, he always thought the same thing: they’d be dead before they were twenty. Thank God, thank God, thank God none of his own kids was like that. Jimmy Jr, Sharon, Darren — he couldn’t have had better kids. Leslie — Leslie had been a bit like that, but — no.
The Living Dead, Bertie called them.
Himself and Vera had had problems for a while with their young lad, Trevor, but Bertie had sorted him out.
— How?
— Easy. I promised I’d get him a motorbike if he passed his Inter.
— Is that all?
— Si, said Bertie. — Gas, isn’t it? We were worried sick about him; Vera especially. He was — ah, he was gettin’ taller an’ he never washed himself, his hair, yeh know. He looked like a junkie, yeh know.
Jimmy Sr nodded.
— All he did all fuckin’ day was listen to tha’ heavy metal shite. Megadeath was one, an’ Anthrax. I speet on them. I told her not to be worryin’, an’ I tried to talk to him, yeh know—
He raised his eyes.
— Man to man. Me hole. I wasn’t tha’ worried meself, but he was too young to be like tha’; tha’ was all I thought.
— So yeh promised him the motorbike.
— Si. An’ now he wants to stay in school an’ do the Leavin’. First in the family. He’s like his da, said Bertie. — A mercenary bollix.
They laughed.
— He’ll go far, said Bimbo.
— Fuckin’ sure he will, said Bertie. — No flies on our Trevor.
— Leslie passed his Inter as well, said Jimmy Sr.
— That’s righ’.
— Two honours, said Jimmy Sr. — Not red ones either; real ones.
Anyway, the Living Dead gave Jimmy Sr and Bimbo terrible trouble. It was like that film, Assault on Precinct 13, and the van was Precinct 13. It wasn’t as bad as that, but it was the same thing. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo could never really relax. The Living Dead would rock the van, three or four of them on each side. The oil poured out of the fryer, all the stuff was knocked to the floor, the cup for the grease under the hot plate went over and the grease got into the Mars Bars. It was hard to get out of the van when it was rocking like that, and it was fuckin’ terrifying as well. There wasn’t much weight in it at all; they could have toppled it easily enough. The second time they did it Jimmy Sr managed to catch one of them and he gave him a right hiding, up against the side of the van; clobbered every bit of him he could reach. He thought he was teaching him a lesson but when he stopped and let go of him the kid just spat at him. He just spat at him. And walked away, back to the rest of them. They didn’t care if they were caught. They didn’t say anything to him or shout back at him; they just stared out at him from under their hoodies. He wasn’t angry when he climbed back into the van. He was frightened; not that they’d do it again, not that — but that there was nothing he could do to stop them. And, Jesus, they were only kids. Why didn’t they laugh or call him a fat fucker or something?