Game of Throw-ins Read online

  ‘I can’t see her coming out of her room for a day or two. She’s not going to forgive you easily.’

  ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘Us – she’s not going to forgive us.’

  ‘We had no choice, Ross. Caleb’s obviously very disturbed.’

  ‘Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.’

  ‘I knocked on Honor’s door about a half an hour ago, asked if she wanted to make brownies with me. She called me horrible names, Ross.’

  ‘As in?’

  ‘The W word.’

  ‘Wanker?’

  ‘No, not wanker. The other one.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know the other one. Any hints going?’

  ‘Whore, Ross.’

  ‘Whore? Does that begin with a W?’

  ‘Yes, it begins with a W.’

  ‘See, that, to me, is random. Anyway, I better hit the road. Like I said, we’re going to watch something on Netflix. Senny’s probably keen to get it on. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  I point the cor in the direction of Belfield. Fifteen minutes later, I’m driving through the main gate of UCD when my phone all of a sudden rings. I check the screen and it ends up being Christian, ringing me back.

  His timing couldn’t be focking worse.

  I stare at the screen for, like, twenty seconds, wondering should I even answer it. In the end, it just rings out. I feel shit about it, but I’ll bell him back tomorrow, or possibly sometime next week.

  I pull up outside Senny’s aportment block. I ring his mobile, except there ends up being no answer. I ring it, like, three times, but it just rings out.

  So I wander up to the door of the building. I key in the aportment numbers, then I press the little button with the bell on it. I wait a good, like, thirty seconds and nothing happens, so I give it another ring – a longer one this time. Still nothing.

  I think to myself, Fock it, he might have changed his mind. Maybe I’ll ring Christian back after all – see if he fancies going for a few pints.

  But then I think, Hang on, maybe Senny’s fallen asleep. He must be wrecked if he said he wanted to just crash. I wander around the back of his building, because he mentioned that he lives on the ground floor.

  There’s, like, a little deck at the back of his gaff. He’s definitely home because the curtains are open and the light is on. I duck between the top and bottom rail and step onto the deck. Then I go up to the French doors and I stort peering through the window into the gaff.

  And that’s when I get a fright that nearly turns my hair grey.

  Senny and some bird are hord at it. They’re coming towards the end of the transaction, from what I can make out. Senny’s about to, well, let’s just say, bring the curtain down on proceedings the way people having sex on the Internet tend to do.

  They can’t see me, of course, because it’s dork outside and I end up sort of, like, forgetting myself, standing there, staring through the window at them, going at it like porn stors.

  That’s when I suddenly feel something hit me across the back of the head. I end up stumbling forward and walloping my forehead off the French doors.

  Senny and, I’m presuming, Torah get a fright. She gets up off her knees. I turn around and there’s, like, a dude standing there. It turns out he’s cracked me across the head with a focking wok.

  He holds it up, like he’s ready to clobber me with it again. ‘What the fock are you doing looking in that window?’ he goes.

  He must be, like, Senny’s next-door neighbour.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, it’s not what you think?’

  I look over my shoulder and I notice Senny walking towards the door to investigate the kerfuffle outside. I only have, like, a second or two to act. So I point to something over the neighbour’s left hammer and I go, ‘The reason I’m here is that thing behind you?’

  He looks over his shoulder. His reward for falling for such an obvious trick is an unmerciful kick in the balls, which causes him to drop the wok and keel over in pain, allowing me to make a run for it. I peg it back to the cor and I manage to get into it and get the engine storted and I’m out of there like Sebastian focking Vettel.

  Jesus, my head, though!

  I drive back to Killiney, obviously thinking, What the fock. Why would Senny tell me to call over if he was home with Torah?

  Into the house I go. Sorcha hears the front door open and close, then she goes, ‘Ross?’ poking her head out of the kitchen. ‘What are you doing back so early?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, we couldn’t decide on a box set, so we decided not to bother in the end.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Oh my God, Ross, you’re bleeding.’

  She walks up the hallway towards me.

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  She goes, ‘Your head, Ross.’

  I put my hand where it’s sore – right on the crown – and it’s, like, wet to the touch. I look at my fingers then and they’re, like, covered in blood.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ she goes, inspecting it closely. ‘Did you two have a fight?’

  I’m there, ‘No.’

  ‘A fight over what box set to watch?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re mates.’

  ‘So why are you bleeding?’

  I decide to just tell her the truth. I’ve got nothing to hide – for once in my life.

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I called to Senny’s gaff and there was, like, no answer. He wasn’t answering his mobile either. So I tipped around the back of the building and he was, well, hord at it.’

  She’s like, ‘Hord at it? Hord at what?’

  ‘Do you really want me to spell it out for you, Sorcha? Him and his girlfriend were in the middle of … stuff. I believe the phrase for what they were actually doing is finishing off. Anyway, the dude next door caught me watching them through the window and he smashed me across the back of the head with a wok. There really isn’t any more to it than that, Sorcha.’

  ‘But why would he invite you around to his place if he knew his girlfriend was coming over?’

  ‘That’s what I keep asking myself.’

  ‘Did he definitely invite you, Ross? As in, what did he actually say?’

  ‘Yes, he invited me, Sorcha. I asked him if he wanted to go for scoops and he said he’d prefer to have a night in. He said he was thinking in terms of Netflix and Chill.’

  Sorcha’s mouth forms a little O, then she has to slap her hand over it to stop herself from laughing in my face. ‘Oh! My God!’ she goes. ‘Oh! My! God!’

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of Netflix and Chill?’

  ‘I’ve heard of Netflix. And I’ve heard of chill.’

  ‘It’s slang, Ross!’

  ‘Slang? Slang for what?’

  ‘What do you think, Ross? Slang for sex!’

  ‘Okay, you’re shitting me.’

  ‘He wasn’t inviting you over to watch, I don’t know, Homeland or something. He was telling you that his girlfriend was coming over for sex!’

  I don’t focking believe this.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I go, ‘why can’t young people just say what they mean? It’s like they speak a whole different language to the one we use to speak – as in, they have their own words. And it’s not only words. They like different music to us. They like different labels to us. And they have sex like they’re doing it for an online audience.’

  She goes, ‘This is what comes from not acting your actual age, Ross.’

  And she storts laughing so hord, I think she’s going to have a focking prolapse.

  ‘Sorcha,’ I go, ‘I’d be pretty certain that the Gords are out there right now searching for a man who matches my description. I would suggest we keep this story very much to ourselves.’

  I’m pushing the three boys up Westmoreland Street in their big, triple stroller, with people having to step onto the road to let us pass. All the wans are going, ‘Ah, would ya lookit – de tree babbies, look!’ an
d ‘They’re oatenly goergeous, so thee eer!’ to which Leo’s answer, to one and all, is, ‘Shit fock bastard! Focking shit fock bastard!’

  All I can hear behind me then is, like, howls of laughter and then people repeating what he just said, as if they’ve never heard a baby use the F-word, or the B-word, or the S-word before for that matter.

  ‘Focking shit!’ he goes. ‘Focking shitting focks.’

  I’m like, ‘You tell them, Leo. You tell –’ and I suddenly stop, because that’s when I realize that it’s not actually Leo swearing at all. Not this time. It’s Brian.

  I’m wondering how long we can go on ignoring it, especially now that there’s a focking pair of them at it.

  ‘Focking shit,’ Leo goes, as if responding to the point Brian just made. ‘Shitting shitting focker.’

  I just keep pushing the stroller. It’s, like, Sunday afternoon and we’re on our way to see Ronan at work. I actually wanted to take the boys on the Love/Hate Tour of Dublin, although with the mouths on them, people will probably think they’re port of the focking attraction.

  ‘Shush, shush, shush,’ I go, as we’re about to take the turn onto Aston Quay. ‘You love buses, don’t you, Leo?’

  He’s like, ‘Shitting bastard. Shitting bastard.’

  I check my phone. We’re just in time for the two o’clock tour.

  I’m there, ‘Like I said, goys, get ready, because you’re in for a big surprise!’

  I’m the one who ends up getting the surprise, though. As we take the turn at the bottom of Westmoreland Street onto the quays, I spot the Love/Hate tour bus straightaway. It’d actually be impossible to miss it.

  The thing is on fire.

  My first thought is obviously for Ronan. I’m hoping to fock he’s not trapped inside. I’m actually building myself up to yank the door open and drag him out when I suddenly spot him in the doorway of Caddles Irish Gifts – him, Nudger and Buckets of Blood, the three of them standing there in a tight little circle, smoking and talking to each other out of the corners of their mouths while waiting for the fire brigade to arrive.

  There must be, like, two or three hundred people just hanging around, watching the bus – my son’s pride and you’d have to say joy – go up in flames.

  I push the stroller over to where they’re standing and I go, ‘Ronan, what the fock?’

  Brian goes, ‘Focking fock.’

  Ronan is surprised to see me there. He’s like, ‘Alreet, Rosser?’

  I go, ‘No, I’m not alright. What the fock happened? Why is your bus on fire?’

  He’s there, ‘Leeb it, Rosser – you’re out of yisser depth.’

  ‘No, I won’t leave it. Please tell me it’s just an insurance scam?’

  I’m looking at poor Tom Vaughan-Lawlor’s face just melting, along with the windows and the tyres and everything else.

  Jesus, the heat off the focking thing.

  ‘You myrus well teddum,’ Buckets goes. ‘Utterwise, he’s gonna keep on aston you.’

  Ronan takes a long pull on one of his rollies, blows smoke out the side of his mouth, then goes, ‘It was a fedda from Coolock did it.’

  I’m like, ‘Coolock? Is that the name of a place?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the nayum of a place. Doatunt woody, Rosser, he’ll be got.’

  ‘Who’ll be got? Who are we talking about here?’

  ‘He’s calt Scum.’

  ‘Scum? His parents actually named him Scum?’

  ‘No, that’s he’s nickname, Rosser. He’s real name is Deddick Tattan.’

  ‘Derek Tattan?’

  ‘Deddick Tattan. He dudn’t like it, but. He prefeers Scum.’

  ‘So, what, he burned out your bus?’

  It’s Buckets who actually tells me the truth. He goes, ‘It’s a row over teddy toddy.’

  It’s mad to think that I grew up half an hour up the M50 from Buckets of Blood and I might as well be talking to a focking Wookie.

  I’m there, ‘Are you trying to say territory?’

  ‘That’s what I bleaten did say,’ he goes. ‘Teddy toddy. Scum is operdating a Love/Hate toower heself. Love/Hate: The Toower.’

  ‘Hang on, are you not Love/Hate: The Tour?’

  ‘No,’ Nudger goes, ‘we’re The Love/Hate Toower of Dublin. Addyhow, he’s arthur accusing us of muscling in on he’s patch.’

  ‘Eeben though they’re two veddy diffordent toowers,’ Ronan goes. ‘Scum brings you to the apeertment where John Boy lived in Seerdies Two and you get to howult the izact sayum gun that Hughie used to accidentally blow he’s own berrains out. I says it to Scum. Says I, “There’s room for boat toowers.” ’

  I’m there, ‘I’m taking it this Scum dude didn’t agree?’

  Ronan looks at the blazing bus and goes, ‘You catch on fast, Rosser. You catch on fast.’

  Nudger goes, ‘We throyed to reason wirrum. But Scum says to us, “Eeder clowiz dowyn yooer toower or supper the consequences.” Says I, “Ast me bleaten bollix, you doorty fooken Coolock pox.” ’

  ‘Focking pox,’ Brian suddenly goes. ‘Focking shitting pox.’

  Ronan goes, ‘We turdened up for woork thus morden. Did the foorst toower of the day – norra botter. Lunch toyum, we goes into the Londis arowunt the corder there for the chicken dippers.’

  Chicken dippers. It really is a different world.

  ‘We come out,’ he goes, ‘and the bleaten thing is on foyer.’

  The sound of fire-engine sirens suddenly fills the air. Two come haring around the corner from, presumably, Pearse Street.

  Of course the bus is beyond saving at this point.

  I’m there, ‘So what are you going to do? I’m presuming you’re not insured?’

  ‘We’re inshewered alreet,’ Nudger goes. ‘And we can hab a temper doddy bus delibered by the ent of the arthur noon.’

  Ronan’s there, ‘I think Rosser’s aston what we’re gonna do about Scum. We’re gonna retadiate, Rosser.’

  ‘Re –?’

  ‘– tadiate. Means we’re gonna hirrum back – eeben heerder.’

  Leo and Johnny stort coughing and spluttering. They’re obviously breathing in smoke. I probably should move on, though not without at least trying to talk some sense into their brother first?

  I’m there, ‘Can I suggest an alternative to the whole retaliation thing? Would you maybe think about switching from a Love/Hate tour to a Fair City one?’

  Ronan goes, ‘Feer City: The Toower?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s doing one. I mean, there’s as much human focking misery in Fair City as there is in Love/Hate. All tight leather jackets and people being annoyed with each other. Plus, like I said, you’d have the field to yourselves. It’s worth thinking about from a business POV.’

  ‘Ast me bleaten bollocks, Rosser.’

  ‘Ro, this dude just burned your bus.’

  ‘And he’ll be got – thrust me.’

  I swear to fock, the way he says it, he actually sounds like Nidge?

  ‘Ro,’ I go, ‘you’ve got to remember, it’s just a TV show.’

  ‘It’s not joost a TV show, Rosser. It’s how we lib eer loyuvs.’

  Nudger and Buckets both nod.

  I’m there, ‘Think again about the Fair City idea. I think the entire thing is pretty much filmed in the RTÉ cor pork – probably for safety reasons.’

  ‘Fook Feer City,’ Ronan goes. ‘This is all-out bleaten war.’

  I’m watching Honor through the kitchen window. She’s kicking the heads off Sorcha’s daffodils. One by one, slowly and clinically. Three steps backwards, two to the side – I can’t say enough good things about the girl’s execution.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  I fix myself a cup of coffee, then I go back to the living room to watch Midday – or, as I call it, breakfast television. I have a serious thing for Elaine Crowley and it’s never going away.

  I actually love the show as well because you end up finding out a lot about women – as in
what they want, why they sometimes act the way they do and how their minds can sometimes work.

  And it’s as I’m sitting there, thinking about the complicated nature of the female mind, that a thought suddenly hits me like a focking diesel train.

  Jesus Christ.

  No.

  I jump up off the sofa and I literally sprint out of the room, then out to the gorden, where Honor is swinging her foot at the last daffodil standing.

  She catches me just staring at her with my mouth open and she goes, ‘What the fock is your problem?’

  I’m there, ‘Honor, I figured it out.’

  She’s like, ‘What are you crapping on about now?’

  ‘It was you! Oh my God, you set Caleb up!’

  She stares at me for a long time without saying a basic word. She’s possibly trying to, like, gauge how I feel about it? I actually don’t give a fock. I’m glad the little focker is out of our lives.

  ‘He got what he deserved,’ she eventually goes. ‘He thought he could use me to get to her.’

  ‘So Sorcha’s knickers and bras. You took them – and you planted them in his bag?’

  She just shrugs. Doesn’t admit it, doesn’t deny it. I think she’s learned a lot from watching me over the years.

  I’m there, ‘So when he said you sent him into our room to look for chocolate …’

  Honor suddenly produces a bor of Galaxy from her pocket. She moves over to the swing bench and sits down. I do the same. I sit down beside her. She breaks off a chunk and offers it to me. I take it and pop it into my mouth.

  She’s like, ‘How did you figure it out?’

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know. I was in there watching Midday and it just hit me. I mean, when I pulled those bits and pieces out of his bag, he did seem genuinely surprised. So either he’s an incredible actor or he was stitched up. So when did you decide, like, to do it?’

  ‘That very first night he was here.’

  ‘That long ago?’

  ‘He was, like, all over her – and she was loving it, of course. Then every time he texted me after that, it was, Sorcha this and Sorcha that and, I’d love to see your mom’s letters from Nelson Mandela.’

  ‘Any excuse to get close to her, huh?’

  ‘And I just said to myself, Nobody focking treats me like that.’