They lit fires under the van; they robbed the bars that held up the hatch; they cut through the gas tubes; they took the bricks from under the wheels.
Jimmy Sr was looking out the hatch, watching the houses go by, when he remembered that the houses shouldn’t have been going anywhere. The fuckin’ van was moving! It was before they got the engine. Himself and Bimbo baled out the back door but Sharon wouldn’t jump. The van didn’t crash into anything, and it wasn’t much of a hill. It just stopped. The Living Dead had taken the bricks from behind the wheels, that was what had happened. It was funny now but it was far from fuckin’ funny at the time.
Jimmy Sr knew them, that was the worst thing about it. The last time he’d walked across O‘Connell Bridge he’d seen this knacker kid, a tiny little young fella, crouched in against the granite all by himself, with a plastic bag up to his face. He was sniffing glue. It was terrible — how could his parents let him do that? — but at least he didn’t know him. It was like when he heard that Veronica’s brother’s wife’s sister’s baby had been found dead in the cot when they got up one morning; it was terrible sad, but he didn’t know the people so it was like any baby dying, just sad. But he knew the names of all these kids, most of them. Larry O’Rourke’s young lad, for instance; Laurence, he was one of them. It depressed him, so it did. Thank God Leslie was out of it, working away somewhere.
The ordinary kids around, the more normal ones, they were always messing around the van as well. But at least you could get a good laugh out of them, even if they got on your wick. One of them — Jimmy Sr didn’t know him, but he liked him — told Bimbo to give him a fiver or he’d pretend to get sick at the hatch every time someone came near the van. And he did it. There was a woman coming towards them, looking like she was making her mind up, and your man bent over and made the noises, and he had something in his mouth and he let it drop onto the road, scrunched-up crisps or something. And that made the woman’s mind up for her. Jimmy Sr went after him with one of the bars from the hatch but he wasn’t interested in catching him. The ordinary bowsies robbed the bars from the hatch, and messed with the gas and rocked the van as well, but it was different. When they legged it they could hardly run cos they were laughing so much. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo nearly liked it. These kids fancied Sharon as well so they came to look in at her. It would have been good for business, only they never had any fuckin’ money. Sometimes, Fridays especially, they were drunk. He didn’t like that. They were falling around the place, pushing each other onto the road. They were too young. They got the cider and cans from an off-licence two stops away on the DART; Darren told him that. Jimmy Sr was going to phone the guards, to report the off-licence, but he never got round to it.
One night the kids went too far. They started throwing stones at the van; throwing them hard. Bimbo, Jimmy Sr and Sharon got an almighty fright when they heard the first bash, until they guessed what was happening. They were flinging the stones at the hot plate side. When he saw the dints the stones were making, fuckin’ big lumps like boils, Jimmy Sr nearly went through the roof. That was real damage they were doing. He grabbed one of the hatch bars and let an almighty yell out of him when he jumped out the back door. They weren’t going to throw any stones at him, he knew that; it was only the noise they were enjoying. So he knew he wasn’t exactly jumping to his death, but he still felt good when he landed, turned at them and saw the fear hop into their faces. Then he went for them. They legged it, and he kept after them. A kick up the hole would teach these guys a lesson. They weren’t like the Living Dead. There were five of them and when they turned and went up the verge onto the Green there were more of them, a mixed gang, young fellas and young ones, little lads sticking to their big brothers. Jimmy Sr wasn’t angry any more. He’d keep going to the middle of the Green, maybe catch one of the little lads or a girlfriend and take them hostage. He was closing in on one tiny kid who was trying to keep his tracksuit bottoms up. Jimmy Sr could hear the panic in the little lad’s breath. He’d just enough breath left himself to catch him, and then he’d call it a day.
Then he saw them.
He stopped and nearly fell over.
The twins. He barely saw Linda but it was definitely Tracy, nearly diving into the lane behind the clinic. Grabbing a young fella’s jumper to stay up. Then she was gone, but he’d seen enough.
The treacherous little bitches. Wait till he told Sharon.
He turned back to the van. He found the bar where he’d dropped it.
His own daughters, sending young fellas to throw stones at their da. With their new haircuts that he’d fuckin’ paid for last Saturday.
He’d scalp the little wagons.
— You’ve no proof, said Linda.
— I seen yeh, said Jimmy Sr, again.
— You’ve no witnesses.
— I fuckin’ seen yeh.
— Well, it wasn’t me annyway, said Tracy.
— Or me, said Linda.
— It was youse, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ if I hear anny more lies an’ guff ou’ o’ yis I’ll take those fuckin’ haircuts back off yis. And another thing. If yis go away before yis have this place cleaned properly — properly now, righ’ — I’ll ground yis.
He climbed out of the van.
— The floors an’ the walls, righ’. An’ if yis do a good job I might let yis off from doin’ the ceilin’.
He looked in at them.
— An’ that’ll fuckin’ teach yis for hangin’ around with gangsters.
Linda crossed her arms and stared back at him.
— I didn’t spend a fortune on your hair, said Jimmy Sr, — so yis could get picked up by snot-nosed little corner boys.
He loved watching the twins when they were annoyed; they were gas.
— Next time yis are lookin’ for young fellas go down to the snobby houses an’ get off with some nice respectable lads, righ’.
— Will yeh listen to him, he heard Linda saying to Tracy.
— He hasn’t a clue, said Tracy.
— Righ’, said Jimmy Sr. — Off yis go. The sooner yeh start the sooner yis’ll be finished. Mind yeh don’t get your flares dirty now.
— They’re not flares, righ’! They’re baggies.
He closed the door on them.
They’d do a lousy job, he knew that. It served them right though; it would give them something to think about, that and the hiding Sharon had given them last night. Veronica had had to go into the room to break up the fight.
He listened at the door. He held the handle. He couldn’t hear anything. He opened it quickly.
Linda was wiping the walls, kind of. Tracy was pushing a cloth over the floor with her foot.
— Do it properly!
— I am!
— PROPERLY!
— Jesus; there’s no need to shout, yeh know.
— I’ll fuckin’—
— Can we get the radio? said Linda.
— No!
— Ah, Jesus—
Jimmy Sr shut the door.
The weather stayed poxy well into July. But it was alright; the Dollymount patch was a long-term investment, Maggie explained. They took it easier; they only brought the van out at night, except on Fridays at teatime for the £1 Specials. They had time for the odd round of pitch ‘n’ putt, and their game hadn’t suffered too much because of the lack of practice. Jimmy Sr always won.