— Sorry I spoke.
She grabbed the door on her way out.
— I’ll be down in a minute.
— Please yourself, she said, and she slammed the door.
She heard wood splitting in the middle of the slam but she didn’t stop. She went back downstairs.
In the bedroom Jimmy Sr opened his mouth as wide as he could and massaged his jaws. He was alright now. He’d thought his teeth were going to crack and break; he couldn’t get his mouth to open, as if it had been locked and getting tighter. And he’d had to snap his eyes shut, waiting for the crunch and the pain. But then it had stopped, and he’d started breathing again. He felt weak now, a bit weak. He was alright though. He’d be grand in a minute.
He closed his mouth. It was grand now. He’d say sorry to Sharon for shouting at her. He stood up straight. He’d go down now. He took the fiver off the bed and put it in his pocket.
He had young Jimmy’s fiver and two more quid Veronica’d given him so he could buy a round. If only Bimbo and Bertie were there the fiver would be enough and he’d be able to give Veronica her money back but if Paddy was there he’d need it. It was a quarter past ten, early enough to get three or four pints inside him and late enough to make sure that his turn to put his hand in his pocket didn’t come round again before closing time.
He came off the Green, crossed the road. The street light here was broken again. The glass was on the path. It was always this one they smashed, only this one.
It was funny; he’d been really grateful when young Jimmy had given him the fiver, delighted, and at the same time, or just after, he’d wanted to go after him and thump the living shite out of him and throw the poxy fiver back in his face, the nerve of him; who did he think he was, dishing out fivers like Bob fuckin’ Geldof.
He was grand now though. He had the fiver and he was out on a Monday night.
— There’s Jimmy, said Malcolm, one of the Hikers’ bouncers.
— Howyeh, Malcolm, said Jimmy Sr.
— Chilly enough.
— Who’re yeh tellin’.
He pushed the bar door, and was in.
— The man himself, said Bimbo.
He was pleased to see him; Jimmy Sr could tell. He had a grin on him that you could hang your washing on. There was just himself and Bertie up at the bar, new pints in front of them. Bertie turned and saw Jimmy Sr.
— Ah, he said. — Buenas noches, Jimmy.
— Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.
There was nothing like it, the few scoops with your mates.
— A pint there, Leo, Bimbo shouted down the bar, — like a good man.
Leo already had the glass under the tap. Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands. He wanted to whoop, but he put his hands in his pockets and looked around.
He nodded to a corner.
— Who’re they? he said.
— Don’t know, compadre, said Bertie. — Gringos.
They were looking over at three couples, all young and satisfied looking.
— They look like a righ’ shower o’ cunts, said Jimmy Sr.
— You don’t even know them, sure, said Bimbo.
Bimbo fell for it every time.
— I wouldn’t want to fuckin’ know them, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — Look at them. They should be upstairs.
The Lounge was upstairs.
— I speet on them, said Bertie.
— Yeh can’t stop people from comin’ in if they want, said Bimbo. — It’s a pub.
—’Course yeh can, said Jimmy Sr.
— He’s righ’, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.
— How is he? said Bimbo. — A pub is a pub; a public house.
Leo arrived with Jimmy Sr’s pint.
— Now, said Leo.
— Good man, Leo, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuck me, it looks lovely.
They agreed; it did.
The head of the pint stood higher than the glass, curving up and then flat and solid looking. The outside of the glass was clean; the whole thing looking like an ad. Jimmy Sr tilted the glass a little bit but the head stayed the way it was. They admired it.
— My Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’.
They got down off their stools and headed for an empty table.
— Anyway, said Bimbo. — Anyone should be able to come into a pub if they want.
— No way, said Jimmy Sr.
They sat down at their table and settled themselves in; sank into the seats, hooshed up their trousers, threw the dried-up, twisted beermats onto the table beside them — they were dangerous.
There wasn’t much of a crowd in.
— Come here, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — Do yeh think annyone should be allowed in here? Annyone now?
— Eh—, said Bimbo.
He didn’t want to answer, but he had to.
— Yeah.
— Then what’s Malcolm doin’ outside then?
He had him.
— In the fuckin’ cold, said Jimmy Sr.
— Si, said Bertie. — Poor Malcolm.
— He’s gettin’ well paid for it, Bimbo told Bertie.
Then he got back to Jimmy Sr.
— That’s different, he said. — He’s only there to stop messers from comin’ in. He’s not goin’ to stop them just cos he doesn’t like them.
— Me bollix, said Jimmy Sr. — How does he tell tha’ they’re messers?
He had him again.
— He can tell.
— How?
— Si.
— Ah look it, lads, said Bimbo. — Anyone — not messers now, or drug pushers or annyone like tha’ — annyone tha’ behaves themselves an’ likes their pint should be allowed in.
They could tell by the way he spoke and looked at them that he wanted them to agree with him; he was nearly begging them.
— No way, said Jimmy Sr. — No fuckin’ way.
Bertie agreed.
— Si, he said.
— Ah; why not?
— Look it, Jimmy Sr started, although he hadn’t a breeze what he was going to say.
— Compadre, Bertie took over.
He sat up straight.
— Say we go into town, righ’; we go into town an’ we try an’ get into one o’ those disco bars, righ’?
— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.
— Would we be let in, would yeh say? Bertie asked Bimbo.
— I wouldn’t want to go into one o’ them, said Bimbo.
— Answer me question, said Bertie.
Bimbo thought about it.
It wasn’t the pints Jimmy Sr loved; that wasn’t it. He liked his pint — he fuckin’ loved his pint — but that wasn’t why he was here. He could do without it. He was doing without it. He only came up about two times a week these days, since he’d been laid off, and he never missed the drink, not really. Every night at about nine o’clock — when he heard the News music — he started getting itchy and he had to concentrate on staying sitting there and watching the News and being interested in it, but it wasn’t the gargle he was dying for: it was this (he sat back and smiled at Bimbo); the lads here, the crack, the laughing. This was what he loved.
— Well? Bertie said to Bimbo.
Being on the labour wouldn’t have been that bad if you could’ve come up here every night, or even every second night, and have got your batteries charged. But there you were; he’d a family to feed and that. He was only here now because one of his young fellas had given him a fiver.
— I wouldn’t say we’d get in, said Bimbo.
— I agree with yeh, said Bertie. — The hombres at the door would tell us to vamoose an’ fuck off. And—
He picked up his new pint.
— they’d be right.
He disappeared behind his pint. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo waited for him.
— Now, said Bertie, and he was looking at Bimbo, — why would they be righ’?
Jimmy Sr loved this.
Bimbo took up his pint, and put it down on the mat again.
— I give up, he said. — I don’t know.
— Yeh do know, said Bertie. — It’s because we’ve no righ’ to be there. Amn’t I righ’?