The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress Read online

  He’s like, ‘You also have a –’ and straight away, roysh, I cut him off, going, ‘Don’t say it, Christian. Do not even go there.’

  There’s, like, total silence again, roysh, and no one says anything for ages until Fionn – big focking Biggies goggles on him – goes,

  ‘Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, you’ve really focked things up this time.’

  1.D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

  I wake up at three o’clock on Christmas afternoon. I look at my phone and I’ve got, like, two missed calls and two basic voice messages. I dial 171 and I hear, ‘Merry Christmas, Kicker!’ and I’m thinking, he’s either very focking brave or very focking stupid. He’s there going, ‘You’re probably sat there in that hotel worrying your little head off about my leg. Well, you can stop your fretting right now, young man. That salad fork managed to miss all the major arteries and so forth. And you can stop worrying about the police as well. I won’t be pressing charges, have no fear of that. No need for you to go on the run, or become a, quote-unquote, fugitive.’

  Eleven o’clock in the morning and he’s already on the focking cognac, the tool. He goes, ‘We were wondering, your mother and I, whether you were coming home for Christmas dinner. A hotel’s no place to spend the big day. We were hoping perhaps you’d calmed down by now. Lots of strong emotions expressed on the day, anger and so forth. I spoke to Sorcha’s father, Ross, and the girl’s heartbroken, with a capital H. Can’t imagine what it must have been like, finding out a secret like that at her wedding reception of all places.’

  He’s there, ‘I know it was as much of a shock to you, Ross, to find out you had a… well, whatever. We did it to protect you. You had your whole life and rugby career ahead of you. We didn’t want to see you dragged down in the mire by some… well, the only word I can think of, Ross, is hussy. We weren’t to know she’d be serving the food at the reception. I mean, what’s the Berkeley Court coming to that they would hire somebody from that class?’ He’s like, ‘Anyway, Kicker, dinner’s at three. Just wanted to let you know that your mother and I are happy to have you back.’

  What a tosser.

  The other message is from the Paradise Cove hotel in Mauritius, wanting to know where the fock we are, which puts paid to the rumour that Sorcha ended up going on the honeymoon with Fionn, my so-called friend, who has very kindly offered himself to her as a shoulder to cry on, roysh, obviously trying to get in there while she’s, like, vulnerable. He had the actual cheek, roysh, to ring me up the day after the wedding, the goggled-eyed freak, and go, ‘This is really awkward for me, because you’re both my friends. I want you to know that I’m here for both of you. If there’s any message you want me to pass on to her, I will,’ but I said fock-all to him, roysh, wouldn’t give him the pleasure. I’ll talk to her myself when she storts, like, answering her phone again.

  The kid, for what it’s worth, is called Ronan, or Rohnin, after that focking tool out of Boyzone because apparently ‘No Matter What’ was, like, our song, even though we were only together for, like, ten minutes, which, incidentally, was a record for me that lasted three years. Other bits that I’ve been able to piece together are that Tina’s old man rang the gaff when he found out his daughter was up the Damien, told the whole story to my old dear, and Hennessy, the old man’s solicitor, was sent out to Knackeragua with fifty thousand bills in a briefcase and a contract that Tina had to sign, promising never to contact me. Like Knob Features said, what were the chances she’d be working in that hotel on that day?

  The phone beside the bed rings. It’s, like, reception. The bird goes, ‘There’s a package here for you, Mr O’Carroll-Kelly.’ I throw on my beige Dockers, my light-blue Ralph and my Dubes and head down to reception. Turns out it’s from, like, Christian, roysh, basically a food parcel. He’s unbelievable, he really is. I could tell, roysh, he really wanted to ask me out to his gaff for Christmas dinner, but of course he couldn’t, what with the whole history between me and his old dear. His old pair are giving it another go now, roysh, like the cheeks of my orse: back together after a whole load of shit.

  Inside the parcel, roysh, there’s a turkey, ham and stuffing sandwich, we’re talking toasted, a couple of cans of Coke, a flask of coffee, a piece of Christmas cake and a couple of, like, mince pies and I feel this, like, wet on my face, roysh, and I realize that I’m, like, crying. The bird at reception is staring at me and I don’t want her to think I’m a steamer, so I turn around and as I’m walking away, roysh, she goes, ‘Merry Christmas, Sir,’ but I don’t, like, answer her.

  I hop into the old Golf GTI – we’re talking black, with alloys – and I drive out to Killiney and end up eating my Christmas dinner sitting in the cor pork opposite the Dorsh station, just to be near Sorcha’s gaff. I must have tried her number, like, fifty times but she’s not answering. She’ll be watching ‘EastEnders’ now. Phil Mitchell’s going to kick seven shades out of Dirty Den tonight. I watch the clock until I know it’s over, then I ring her mobile from the payphone outside the station. She doesn’t recognize the number, so she answers it.

  The second she hears it’s me, she’s straight on the offensive. She’s like, ‘Thirty-seven missed calls? Are you out of your mind?’ and I’m like, ‘As a matter of fact, I am. It’s Christmas Day and I want to be with my wife.’

  She’s not in the best of form, it has to be said. She goes, Which wife would this be?’ and straight away I’m there, ‘The one who promised to love, honour and obey me just three days ago.’ She goes, ‘HELLO? We left that bit out of the ceremony, remember?’ I’m like, ‘Well, the one who promised me, ‘til death do us port,’ and she goes, ‘Were you even listening during the service, Ross? Or were you too busy looking around for other girls to impregnate?’ which is way harsh, it has to be said.

  Then the waterworks come on. She goes, ‘You ruined what should have been the happiest day of my life. You’ve done a lot of shitty things in your time, but this was easily the worst,’ and without thinking, roysh, I end up going, ‘Yeah, roysh, what about the time I was with your sister?’ which, luckily for me, she doesn’t hear, roysh, because she’s, like, blowing her nose.

  She goes, ‘So, have you seen him yet?’ and I’m like, ‘Who?’ and she’s there, ‘OH! MY! GOD! HELLO? Your son,’ as if I’m supposed to be, like, psychic or something. I go, ‘Sorcha, please. This shit happened years ago. Before we even knew each other. I only found out about it the same time as you. It’s not my fault,’ and she’s there giving it, ‘It is your fault, Ross. You’ve spent the last seven years of your life having indiscriminate sex wherever you could get it. Now you’re reaping what you’ve sown. Literally.’

  I go, ‘Sorcha, can I remind you that we’re still married,’ and she’s there, ‘Daddy says I can get an annulment,’ and I’m like, ‘Don’t change the subject,’ and there’s this, like, silence on the line, roysh, then she goes, ‘OH MY GOD! You don’t know what an annulment is, do you?’ and I don’t answer. She goes, ‘It’s something that you get from the Vatican to have your marriage declared null and void when you find out that it’s based on a lie.’

  I actually thought it was some kind of surgical procedure, like a tummy-tuck or some shit. I tell her that I still love her and she tells me not to make her laugh and then the pips go and I’ve no more change.

  The Berkeley Court is supposed to do a shit-hot buffet breakfast, though I’ll never know, roysh. It’s usually well over by the time I get up at, like, three o’clock in the afternoon. Brekky for me is basically a jor of, like, jelly beans out of the minibor, we’re talking seven or eight bills a pop here. Not that I give a fock. All of this is going on the old man’s credit cord, the dickhead. He’s too scared not to pay in case he never sees me again, and that’s SO got to be worth milking. My only real care in the world at the moment is how to avoid the ones that taste like focking Germoline.

  *

  I meet Erika coming out of French Connection, looking incredible, as usual, we’re talking Denise Richards, except with airbags as sta
ndard. She’s, like, delighted to see me, which can mean only, one thing, roysh – she’s got something really bitchy to say to me. She goes, ‘How are you coping?’ and of course I end up falling straight into the trap, roysh – it’s the big brown eyes, the hum of Issey Miyake – and I go, ‘Actually, not too good. How’s Sorcha doing? Same as me, I’d say?’ and she’s like, ‘Actually, she’s great. Seeing quite a lot of Fionn. Every time I call to the house, he’s there. In her room.’ I am seriously going to smash every pane of glass in that focker’s face.

  I’m there, ‘He’s just being there for her, as, like, a friend and shit? I mean, they go way back. They represented Dublin together in the All-Ireland Irish debating championships,’ and she sort of, like, rubs the top of my orm, roysh, and goes, ‘Sure, Ross. Whatever works for you.’

  I just, like, change the subject. I nod at her shopping bags and go, ‘Buy anything nice?’ and she’s there, ‘A fabulous dress in BTs. The Hunt Ball is tomorrow night.’ I make the mistake of going, ‘Need a date?’ and she’s like, ‘With one of Sorcha Lalor’s cast-offs? I don’t think so,’ and I’m there, ‘Fair enough.’ Her loss. She goes, ‘The goy I’m going with is actually a stockbroker. Drives a BMW 5 Series, automatic. Owns, like, eight houses,’ and I’m there, ‘Cool,’ and she goes, ‘Yes, it is rather. What are you doing here anyway?’ I go, ‘Here?’ and she’s like, ‘Yes, Ross, here. Outside the Powerscourt Townhouse Shopping Centre, where your wife, or whatever she is to you, just happens to work?’ I’m there, ‘I basically have to see her. Is she, like, in the shop?’ and Erika goes, ‘She’s in Paris, Ross. Supposedly picking up some new designs for the spring,’ and then, roysh, her eyes become little slits and she gives me this, like, evil smile and goes, ‘Fionn’s gone with her,’ and I can feel my face go all, like, hot, roysh, like I’m embarrassed or something, but I’m not, roysh, I’m basically focking angry.

  I just turn around, roysh, and stort walking back towards Grafton Street. Erika goes, ‘ROSS!’ and I turn around, roysh, and she goes, ‘Did you know there’s a video of the wedding reception doing the rounds? Oh my God! It’s, like, SO funny. It’s like something from “Emmerdale”.’

  Oisinn turns around to me and goes, ‘You alroysh, Major?’ which is what the goys have been calling me ever since I took up permanent residence in Room 404 of the Berkeley Court, and I think it’s basically got something to do with, like, ‘Fawlty Towers’. I go, ‘Hey, I’m easy like Sunday morning, dude,’ and he’s like, ‘You sure?’ and I’m there, ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I’m surrounded by beautiful young ladies. I just hope there’s enough of me to go around,’ and he high-fives me, roysh, and then puts another pint of Ken in front of me.

  I get chatting to Sophie and Chloë, as in Sorcha’s friends, roysh, who just happen to be in Ron Black’s. I make a point of not asking how she is, roysh, just so it goes back to her that I’m, like, getting on with my life and, like, living the dream. Chloë’s saying that her points have gone – OH! MY! GOD! – way off the board today because she had, like, a Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries in town and that’s, like, twenty-three points, which is, like, five more than she’s supposed to have in the whole day.

  Sophie goes, ‘Oh my God, that’s not even counting the packet of M & Ms you had for breakfast. That’s, like seven points,’ and Chloë goes, ‘HELLO? It’s, like, five. And I had, like, points saved up from yesterday anyway,’ and Sophie’s there, ‘Not five, though,’ and Chloë gives her a filthy and says she’s going outside for a cigarette and when she’s gone, roysh, Sophie goes, ‘OH MY GOD, we went to see Aoife today, in, like, hospital. I know she’s, like, sick and everything but – OH MY GOD! – she is, like, SO, thin. The bitch.’

  I turn around to Christian and ask him how the job-hunting’s going. He goes, ‘I got one. Storted work this morning. In, like, Forbidden Planet,’ and I’m like, ‘Forbidden Planet? As in the shop where all the focking nerds hang out?’ totally forgetting, of course, that Christian spends half his life in there. I’m like, ‘Hey, no offence, dude,’ and Lauren goes, ‘It’s only while you’re waiting for George Lucas to discover you, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ and I’m there thinking how great the two of them are together, and how shocking it is that she’s actually Hennessy’s daughter.

  I go, Yeah, how’s the script coming along?’ and Christian’s like, ‘Ah, only so-so,’ and Lauren’s there, ‘Don’t listen to him, Ross. It’s incredible. I know the goy’s gone on the record saying there isn’t going to be a Star Wars seven, eight and nine, but when he reads this he is definitely going to think again,’ and I look at Christian and I think how much more confidence he has since he met her.

  She turns around to me and she goes, ‘How are you doing, Ross?’ and I’m there, ‘Let’s just say I’m back in the morket place. You know me, Lauren. I think it’s pretty much accepted that I’m a love cat… and tonight I’m back on the prowl. Big-time.’ But of course Lauren has no time for that kind of shit, roysh, she goes, ‘Oh, quit with that macho crap, Ross. This is me and Christian you’re talking to,’ and then she looks over my shoulder and goes, ‘I take it you’re talking about Chloë and Sophie?’ who everyone knows, roysh, aren’t exactly Lauren’s cup of tea.

  She’s there, ‘They’re shallow people, Ross.’ She’s a straight shooter, there’s no doubt about that. She’s like, ‘Come on, going off with Sorcha’s friends? You’re better than that,’ and Christian’s, like, nodding his head. He goes, ‘Have you spoken to her, Ross?’ and I’m like, ‘I’ve tried. She’s more interested in Fionn these days, from what I hear,’ and he goes, ‘That’s total bullshit. You two are meant to be together – you know it and she knows it. Just be patient, young padwan. Don’t do anything that’ll make the situation worse,’ and I end up having to go, ‘Yeah, I know you’re talking basic sense.’

  So of course, typical me, roysh, I’m full of good intentions, but what happens? I hit the can – I have to drop anchor in Porcelain Bay – and on the way back I end up bumping into, like Maoliosa, who’s, like, repeating second year Social Science in Trinity, nipped her a couple of times in, like, Reynord’s and once in the Ice Bor last summer, we’re talking Jolene Blalock here, except with blonde hair. So we get chatting, roysh, and, not blowing my own trumpet or anything, but I can pretty much tell straight away that she fancies another shot at the title.

  The only thing is, roysh, she storts boring me focking senseless, telling me she SO wants to travel when she finishes college and would – Oh my God! – SO love to do the whole Australia thing when she graduates, which will be a major miracle at this rate because she is going to have to get her finger out in a major way if she’s going to pass her summer exams, blah blah blah, the usual bullshit you get from nineteen- and twenty-year-olds, but of course the stud muffin here’s cracking on to be totally interested.

  I get a text message and it’s from, like, JP, who I notice has just arrived in, obviously straight from work, wearing a tin of fruit that must have cost at least a thousand bills and it’s pretty obvious he’s coining it in selling those gaffs in Camolin, in other words focking Bogsville. I read the message and it’s like, HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES! and I look over, roysh, and him and Oisinn give me the thumbs-up and of course now I’ve totally forgotten Christian and Lauren’s advice and I’m playing the big-time Jack the Lad.

  Maolíosa asks me who the text was from, roysh, because I did the usual trick for making birds jealous, which is you read it and then, like, halfway through you just stort smiling to yourself. Then when she asked who it was from, roysh, I just went, ‘Oh, it’s, em… no one,’ and then stared off into space with this, like, half-smile on my boat. Birds are, like, SO easy to read, roysh. To try to make me jealous, she storts, like, banging on then about her ex, some dude called Eanna, who she says is such a dickhead and who – Oh my God! – SO thinks he’s it.

  So I’m there, trying to sound all concerned about her, roysh, going, ‘You’ve just got to move on,’ making my move early. There’s a goy at the other en
d of the bor and he’s giving us loads, staring straight at us basically, and I’m wondering who he is. Maolíosa goes, ‘It’s, like, difficult to put that kind of hurt behind you,’ and I slip the old hand onto her knee, roysh – cool as a polar bear’s knob-end – and I go, ‘It does get better, Babes. Believe me. I had a marriage that broke up.’

  I look back at the goy and he’s still, like, staring at us. Might just be that he fancies me. I decide it’s best to ignore him, roysh, not give him any ideas.

  She goes, ‘A marriage? OH MY GOD! I had literally no idea. I am SO sorry,’ and slowly, roysh, my left hand sets off on an expedition up the side of her skirt – how does JP put it? – trekking the uplands of her tights. I go, ‘Let me be your guide. It gets better, believe me. Time is a great healer.’ She goes, ‘How long has it been for you?’ and I’m like, ‘Two weeks. Nearly,’ and she suddenly pulls away from me, like I’m some kind of freak, roysh, and I’m storting thinking that I might have actually blown this.

  Then all of a sudden, roysh, the goy who’s been, like, staring at me suddenly whips out this camera and, like, takes a photograph of me. Of course, at first, roysh, I think nothing of it. There’s rumours doing the rounds that Blackrock, of all teams, are about to ask me to play for them next season. I mean, they’re basically focking dreaming, roysh, but there’s bound to be interest in the story, that’s a fact of life. But the next thing, roysh, Lauren arrives over. She’s like, ‘Ross, that goy…’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, it’s fine, the papers are always going to be interested in me,’ and Lauren goes, ‘He’s a private detective, Ross. He used to do work for my dad. Surveillance mostly,’ and I’m storting to feel Moby Dick all of a sudden. She goes, ‘Ross, cheating husbands were his speciality,’ and I’m just like, ‘Oh, fock!’ and Christian’s there, ‘Come on, there’s still time to catch him,’ and the three of us end up pegging it out of Ron Black’s and I see him straight away, roysh, getting into a silver Peugeot 206 opposite Bleu.