— See yis, said Darren, quietly.
He headed for home, still wearing his boots and gear. He hoped there’d be hot water. There often wasn’t these days.
She was a bit of a Curehead but not that bad: she had a mind of her own. It was just the look, the image she followed, the hair and the Docs. She was into the Cure as well but not only the Cure.
He was walking on the Green, to keep his boots off the concrete.
She was into—
— There’s Darren Rabbitte an’ his legs.
It was Anita Healy from Darren’s class, and her friend, Mandy Lawless.
— Howyis, said Darren.
He grinned and pretended to pull his jersey down over his legs.
— They’re nicer than yours, Mandy, said Anita.
— That’s true, said Darren. — Yours are hairier though, Mandy.
Anita screamed.
— Fuck off, you, Rabbitte, said Mandy.
She pretended to kick him and Darren grabbed her. She screamed Let go as if she didn’t really mean it, and he did. They stood there for a bit.
He saw his da coming.
— Seeyis, he said.
— See yeh, Darren.
Anita shouted after him.
— Mandy said you’re a ride, Darren!
— I did not, Anita. Fuck off.
Darren kept going.
Jesus. Mandy wasn’t a bad-looking bird — woman. She was a bit Kylie-esque but she’d great legs, real woman’s legs. And tits too. She often took her jumper off in school and wrapped it round her waist, even when it wasn’t all that hot. Darren liked that, and it annoyed him as well sometimes.
He started to run.
It was Monday. Jimmy Sr was reading to Gina. He had her for the afternoon because Sharon had wanted to go into town. He had been going to play a round of pitch ‘n’ putt.
— Can yeh not bring her around with yeh in the buggy? Sharon had said. — From hole to hole.
— Are yeh jokin’ me, Sharon? he’d said. — They wouldn’t let me in. Ah, she’d be too much of a distraction. She’d be hit by a ball. Some o’ the wankers tha’ go down there are cross-eyed.
— Can yeh not play tomorrow instead? she’d said.
— I am playin’ tomorrow, Sharon, he’d told her. — I have to. I’ll have to win a turkey between now an’ Christmas an’ there’s not tha’ many weekends left when yeh add them up. I need all the practice I can get. Okay, okay. Give her to me here.
Veronica wouldn’t take her. She had to read six chapters of Lord of the Flies and summarise them; that was her excuse.
— She won’t stop yeh from readin’, Veronica, for Jaysis sake.
— Take her with you or stay at home, she’d said. — I’ve other things to do.
So he was stuck with Gina. He didn’t mind, not too much. The afternoon off would be good for Sharon. She wasn’t looking the best these days, kind of pale and hassled looking. Give her a few hours in the shops and she’d be grand.
Gina was on his lap, trying to grab the book.
— The king is a beau, my good friend, he read. — An’ so are you, too, wha’ever — Ah ah; just listen — wha‘ever you may say abou’ it. Porthos smiled triumphantly. Let’s go to the king’s tailor, he said — I’ll smack yeh if yeh do that again, Gina.
— Smack!
— Yeah. — Now. — An’ since he measures the king, I think, by my faith! I may allow him to measure me.
He closed the book.
— I think, by my faith, it’s a load o’ bollix. — Here.
He put Gina down and got up — Jaysis! — and picked her up.
— Up we get. You’re a righ’ little buster, aren’t yeh?
— G’anda.
— That’s me. We’ll go for a walk, will we? an’ find someone to annoy.
He picked up the book. Only thirty-nine pages gone and over four hundred to go still and it was shite. He was sure it was good, brilliant — a classic — but he fuckin’ hated it. It wasn’t hard; that wasn’t it. It was just shite; boring, he supposed, but Shite was definitely the word he was looking for. And he’d have to finish it because he’d told Veronica he was reading it, told her all about it, shown it to her; the fuckin’ eejit.
— Better get your anorak, he told Gina.
She pushed his chest and he put her down. She ran to the door — they were in the front room — reached up and got the door open.
Jimmy Sr noticed her pile of video tapes on the shelf; Postman Pat, The Magic Roundabout — that was a great one — five of them, presents from people. And no video to play them in. God love her.
He walloped his leg with the book.
— The Man in the Iron fuckin’ Mask.
Maybe he’d tell Veronica he’d finished it (—He escaped, Veronica) and start one of the other ones he’d got out of the library. He was useless; couldn’t even read a book properly.
He went down to the kitchen, and the bell rang.
— Wha’ now?
He went back up the hall. Veronica had no problem reading and finishing her books. He made out Jimmy Jr’s shape through the glass.
— What’s he doin’ here?
He only came on Sundays, since he’d left and shacked up with that Aoife young one; a good-looking young one: too good for that waster.
He opened the front door.
— Howyeh, said Jimmy Jr.
He got past Jimmy Sr.
— Forgot me washin’ yesterday, he said. — No kaks or nothin’.
Jimmy Sr followed him down the hall into the kitchen. It was empty; Veronica was swotting up in Sharon’s room and the rest were still at school. Jimmy Jr held up the bag with his washing in it. It had Ibiza printed on the side of it, and a little map.
— Here, he said.
— Would Aoife not do your washin’ for yeh? said Jimmy Sr.
— No way, said Jimmy Jr.
— Yis divide the work between yis?
— No, said Jimmy Jr. — She told me to fuck off an’ do me own washin’.
They laughed a bit.
— She’s dead righ’, said Jimmy Sr.
— When was the last time you washed annythin’? Jimmy Jr asked him.
— Don’t start. I do me fair share.
— Yeah, yeah, yeah. Course yeh do. — I’d better go. I’ve to make the fuckin’ dinner.
— My Jaysis, tha’ young one has you by the bollix alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.
He followed Jimmy Jr to the door.
— Come here, said Jimmy Jr. — Could yeh use tha’?
It was a fiver.
— Eh—
— Go on, said Jimmy Jr.
He put it into his da’s cardigan pocket.
— A few pints, he said.
— Thanks.
— No problem. See yeh.
— Thanks.
— Shut up, will yeh. See yeh.
— Okay. — Good luck, son.
Sharon found him.
— Did yeh not hear me? she said.
Jimmy Sr was standing facing the door when she walked into the bedroom. He’d been in there since Jimmy Jr’d left.
— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr. — Were yeh lookin’ for me, love?
— I was screamin’ up at yeh nearly, Sharon told him. — From downstairs. Did yeh not hear me? she asked him again.
— I must have fallen asleep. Dozed off. I was just—
— Are yeh alrigh’?
He looked miserable, and small and kind of beaten looking.
— I’m grand, he said.
He looked around him, as if for a reason for being there.
— The tea’s ready, Sharon told him.
— Oh, lovely.
— What’s wrong?
— Nothin‘, Sharon. Nothin’.—Nothin’.
He smiled, but Sharon kept gawking at him.
— There is somethin’, isn’t there? she said.
— Ah, look—
— I can tell from your—
— Get off me fuckin’ back, will yeh!