Game of Throw-ins Read online

  ‘So stealing her underwear – where did that come from?’

  ‘He’d already told me what happened with the nanny from Finland. So I just thought, “Okay, getting you is actually going to be easy?” ’

  ‘I’m in genuine awe of you here, Honor. It’s kind of like something I’d do. I think that’s the other reason it suddenly dawned on me. You know, you and I are so similar, it actually frightens me.’

  ‘I’m nothing like you.’

  ‘I definitely disagree with you. So all that pretending to be a sap. All that, “I’d rather be his friend than not have him in my life at all.” That was all an act?’

  ‘Do you honestly think I’d let a boy make a fool of me?’

  ‘He fancied himself as a serious player and you ended up playing him! I’m so proud of you, Honor.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her?’

  ‘I am in my focking hole. The thing is – look, between us – I actually agree with you. I think she kind of encouraged Caleb by not putting him wise earlier.’

  ‘That’s because she’s a bitch.’

  ‘Well, she’s also your mother, Honor.’

  ‘So-called.’

  Sometimes, we look at our children, and we hope to see the best of ourselves reflected back at us. But sometimes, we look at them and we see the worst of ourselves. And do you know what? That can be every bit as wonderful.

  ‘Can I tell you something else?’ I go. ‘I love the way the old Honor seems to be very much back.’

  And she goes, ‘I hope you break your focking neck playing rugby.’

  I missed her.

  7

  Nidge’s Heir

  It’s an incredible sight. For a minute, I wonder am I even imagining it, but no, it’s there alright, three or four doors down from Crowes in Ballsbridge, a humungous window with, like, pictures of gaffs in it, then above the door, in big, shining capital letters, the words HOOK, LYON AND SINKER.

  I laugh. It’s, like, an automatic thing? JP and his old man really are back in business.

  I push the door, then in I go. The porty is in full swing. It’s, like, a Friday night. The office is full of well-wishers, all skulling the free booze – we’re talking friends of JP’s old man, we’re talking politicians, we’re talking the local business community. I recognize five or six former members of staff who worked there when I worked there and are now presumably back on the payroll.

  It finally feels like 2002 again.

  The office is fitted out just like it was in the old days.

  There’s, like, ten or fifteen desks squeezed into the tiny floor space, with computers and telephone headsets. JP’s old man’s voice comes booming across the office floor, like it used to back in the day, when he was giving one of his famous Monday-morning pep talks – the ones that always ended with the words, ‘Let’s get on the phones – this economy’s not going to overheat itself!’

  I tip over to where JP is standing. He’s milling into the old Veuve Clicquot.

  ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this again,’ he goes, ‘but I’m actually getting sick of the taste of Champagne!’

  We all laugh.

  I automatically go, ‘Wealth gag!’ and I hold up my hand for a high-five.

  JP leaves me hanging. He looks at me blankly in fact? I’m like, ‘As in, you know … wealth!’

  He’s there, ‘What the fock are you talking about, Ross?’

  I’m like, ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s what people are saying these days instead of, Affluence!’

  ‘Of course,’ he goes, deciding to be a dick, ‘you’re down with the kids these days, aren’t you, Rossi? Here, are you not wearing your belly-top tonight?’

  He laughs.

  I just go, ‘Yeah, Seapoint are off the bottom of Division 2B of the All Ireland League for the first time this season because of me, JP – proving once and for all that there’s still a lot of rugby left in me.’

  He’s there, ‘I’m only ripping the piss, Ross.’

  He ends up getting shushed then, because his old man is about to make a speech.

  ‘Boys and girls,’ he goes, ‘pardon me if I get a little emotional here, because I’m remembering the last time that most of us were gathered together like this. It was the Christmas party in 2009. A dark year in all of our lives, you will remember. At the end of the night, I broke the news to you that Hook, Lyon and Sinker was going into voluntary liquidation and some of you were a little sore with me when I told you that I’d been using your weekly PRSI contributions to try to keep the business afloat. A lot of things were said in anger that I’ve thankfully forgotten now.

  ‘The following day, as you cleared out your desks, then went off to spend your statutory redundancy money, I made each and every one of you a promise. I told you that it wasn’t goodbye. Because I knew there was a future for people like us – even as our so-called politicians promised that never again would they allow the property market to become so vital to our economic well-being that something as simple as a collapse in house prices could bring about the financial ruin of an entire country.

  ‘They said it was over for people like us. They said we were dead. I want everyone in this room to check their pulse. Go on, do it, right now – check your pulse.’

  Everyone automatically does it.

  ‘Now, let me ask you a question,’ he goes. ‘Do you feel dead?’

  I look over to my left and I spot Christian leaning up against the wall – completely and utterly shitfaced. This is at, like, nine o’clock in the evening.

  ‘I said, do you feel dead?’ JP’s old man goes, except even louder this time?

  At the top of our voices, we’re all there, ‘No!’

  Then he smiles.

  ‘We’re alive,’ he goes. ‘We got through this thing. So here’s to the next period of temporary economic buoyancy.’

  It’s pretty inspirational stuff, it has to be said. There’s, like, a collective whoop from the staff and even the odd high-five. I feel like nearly pulling up a chair and snapping on a headset myself.

  And that’s when I hear what could only be described as a crash coming from the direction where Christian is standing, followed by a lot of people going, ‘Whooooaaa!!!’ and that’s when I realize that Christian has fallen face-first – oh, holy shit! – through a glass coffee table.

  A huge space clears around him – people turning away, their hands over their mouths, not wanting to look. Me and JP sprint over to him and we lift him to his feet.

  Oh, fock!

  His face is covered in blood and there’s, like, splinters of glass – Jesus Christ! – embedded into his actual forehead.

  The good news is that he’s not aware of any of this. He’s out cold.

  JP’s there, ‘Jesus, how long’s he been drinking?’

  And I go, ‘About eight months solid,’ at the same time remembering my conversation with Lauren outside Benetton and feeling instantly guilty for not doing anything about it.

  Me and JP each take an orm and we put it around our shoulders and we help him over to a sofa. We sit him down and I stort pulling the bits of glass out of his head. Someone hands JP a wet cloth and he storts to clean the blood from the dude’s face.

  ‘Christian,’ I’m going, ‘can you hear me?’

  Jesus, he’s also pissed his chinos.

  I’m going, ‘Christian? Christian, can you hear me?’

  He half opens his eyes, but I can tell he’s struggling to actually focus on me.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looked,’ JP goes – as in, there’s a lot of blood, but there’s only, like, three or four cuts on his forehead and none of them looks deep enough to need stitches.

  Someone else grabs a cupful of water from the cooler and I hold it up to Christian’s lips to try to get him to take a sip.

  JP’s old man decides that the show is over.

  ‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘let’s not forget the real reason we’re here, which is to celebrate the return of Hook, Lyon and Sinker,
’ and everyone goes back to portying.

  I feel like the biggest prick in the world. Lauren was right to ask. Where was I when he needed me?

  I go, ‘Help me get him up,’ which JP does. We help him outside and we hail a passing taxi. The driver doesn’t want to take him but two fifty-yoyo notes does wonders for his attitude.

  I’m there, ‘I’ll go with him this time,’ as I put him in the back of the taxi. I get in the other side.

  As we drive off, Christian storts waking up. From the expression on his face, it’s obvious that he can feel the pain in his forehead.

  ‘Where am I?’ he goes.

  And I’m like, ‘In safe hands – now. Dude, I’m sorry I let you down.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sorcha goes, ‘someone’s nappy needs changing!’

  She picks up Leo, then Brian and has a sniff of them both. I do the same with Johnny.

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘it’s this little dude. Jesus, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that smell.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I’ll change him,’ and she lays a towel down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Prick!’ Johnny suddenly shouts. ‘Focking prick!’

  Sorcha puts her hand over her mouth. At the same time, she goes, ‘Okay, don’t respond, Ross. Don’t give him any reaction.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m beginning to wonder is that definitely the right way to go, Sorcha? That’s, like, all three of them at it now – they’re swearing like focking Talbot Street. Maybe we should stort telling them that it’s wrong.’

  ‘I’m the one who read a book on this subject, remember?’

  I’ve no answer to that. I’ve read six books in my entire life – and five of them were Johnny Sexton’s autobiography.

  Sorcha goes, ‘What are you doing up anyway?’

  It’s, like, half-ten on a Saturday morning.

  I’m there, ‘I’m calling over to see Christian.’

  She goes, ‘Christian? Oh my God, how is he?’

  ‘Not good. He fell through a glass coffee table at the reopening of Hook, Lyon and Sinker last night. Pissed himself as well. Lauren said some shit to me that’s finally hit home – about possibly being a better friend to him? I’m going to go and talk to him about hopefully cleaning up his act.’

  ‘That’s a lovely thing to do, Ross.’

  ‘I know. I’m already patting myself on the back for it.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to spend the day trying to pick out a dress for the wedding.’

  ‘What wedding?’

  ‘Er, your mother’s wedding?’

  ‘Oh, that sham? Yeah, no, I still haven’t decided if I’m even going.’

  ‘We’ve been through this, Ross. You are going.’

  ‘Whatever. Look, I’ll see you in a few hours.’

  ‘Focking prick!’ Johnny goes.

  I hop into the cor and I point it in the direction of Carrickmines. I actually swing into Costa on my way there and I grab Christian an Americano, a freshly squeezed orange juice and a bacon toastie, although I end up eating the bacon toastie before I reach the gaff because it smells so focking good.

  Christian answers the door of his tiny aportment in his boxer shorts, his big, white belly hanging over the waistband like a baker’s hat. He hasn’t even opened his eyes properly yet and he’s already cracking open the first can of the day.

  Well, I can only presume it’s the first.

  The blood on his forehead has dried. He looks seriously wretched.

  I whip the can out of his hand, step past him into the hall, then into the kitchen and I pour it down the sink.

  Good Heineken as well.

  He’s like, ‘It was just a focking beer.’

  I’m there, ‘I meant what I said last night, Christian. It stops now.’

  He’s like, ‘What?’

  He clearly has no memory of me putting him to bed.

  I’m there, ‘Have you looked in the mirror this morning?’

  He goes, ‘No.’

  ‘Have you seen your forehead, for instance?’

  He puts his hand up to it, then he goes into the bathroom, presumably to get a look at himself. A few seconds later, he steps out again.

  He’s like, ‘What happened?’

  I’m there, ‘You fell face-first through a glass table. You were lucky not to lose your eyes.’

  ‘Shit. Where did it happen?’

  ‘Ballsbridge.’

  ‘What was I doing in Ballsbridge?’

  ‘You don’t remember? You were at the reopening of Hook, Lyon and Sinker. For fock’s sake, Christian, you need to sort your shit.’

  He goes, ‘Yeah? What’s the point?’ and he actually turns his head away from me.

  ‘The point,’ I go, ‘is staying alive.’

  ‘Okay, what have I got to live for, Ross? If you’re such an expert. What have I got to live for? My marriage is gone. My kids are gone –’

  He suddenly sits down at the kitchen table and puts his head in his hands. Shit, he storts crying.

  I’m there, ‘Maybe if you stop drinking, you can get Lauren and the kids back.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me back,’ he goes. ‘She doesn’t want me back. And I haven’t got a single thing to live for.’

  And it’s hearing him say that – and sounding like he genuinely means it – that leads me to say what I say next.

  I go, ‘Lauren does want you back, Christian. That’s the good news.’

  He looks up, surprised. He’s there, ‘What are you talking about?’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I saw her when she was home for the week.’

  ‘And she told you she wanted to get back with me?’

  ‘Absolutely. She said she’d love to give your marriage another try – but only if you cleaned up your act first.’

  He nods. It’s like he’s suddenly filled with, I don’t know, resolve? He wipes away his tears with an open palm. I push the little cordboard tray across the table to him, with the coffee and the orange juice in it.

  ‘Get those into you,’ I go.

  He’s there, ‘My head is killing me. I don’t suppose you brought any food with you, did you?’

  ‘I bought you a bacon sandwich, but I scoffed it. The smell just got to me. Anyway, this is only the stort of it, Christian. I’m taking you to training with me from next week.’

  ‘Training? Training where?’

  ‘See, you’ve been so hammered lately, you probably don’t even know that I’m back playing rugby. For Seapoint.’

  ‘Seapoint in Ballybrack?’

  ‘Seapoint in Ballybrack. Let’s be honest. You’re coming to training with me next week and you’re going to stort using the gym to get in shape. I’ll square it with the club. Now, go and grab your Cantos, your Leinster jersey and your Nikes. I’ll be waiting in the cor.’

  He’s like, ‘What? Where are we going?’

  And I’m there, ‘We’re going running, my friend.’

  ‘How much further?’ Christian wants to know.

  We’ve been pounding the roads around Killiney Hill for the best port of, like, an hour.

  I laugh.

  I’m there, ‘What did Father Fehily used to do if we asked that question? He’d throw on another mile!’

  He stops outside Enya’s gaff, bent over double, one hand on the wall, looking like he might puke any second. ‘Please,’ he goes, between breaths, ‘don’t make me run another mile.’

  I stop as well, but I’m, like, jogging on the spot?

  ‘That shit you’re feeling,’ I go, ‘it’s just the poison leaving your body.’

  He’s there, ‘I think I’m going to have a hort attack.’

  He looks focked, in fairness to him. His face is, like, beetroot red and he’s sweating – I’m presuming – pure alcohol. His forehead has storted bleeding again and the blood is, like, dribbling down his face.

  I’m thinking, Wait till Dudser gets a hold of him at Strength and Conditioning.

  I’m like, ‘You’re not going t
o have a hort attack. I’ll tell you what, one last hill before home. Then I’ll get Sorcha to do us a couple of whatevers in the NutriBullet and we’ll watch Ireland do a job on Wales in the Six Nations.’

  I’m not even going to drink in front of him. That’s how determined I am to get him back to the way he used to be – although I’ll probably nip out to the kitchen for the odd sly can.

  He goes, ‘She definitely, definitely said she’d come back? I’m talking about Lauren.’

  Now is possibly the time to tell him the truth, except I end up bottling it.

  ‘Like I said, they were her words,’ I go. ‘She said she wanted your marriage to work and hopefully if you stopped drinking and got your shit together in a general way, then she was ready to give it another go.’

  ‘She’d come home from France?’

  ‘She loves you, Christian.’

  ‘She said that as well?’

  ‘It was obvious from the conversation. Focking obvious.’

  He suddenly closes his eyes and puts his hand up to his mouth. Jesus Christ, he’s about to leave a pizza for Enya with everything on it.

  ‘Bllleeeuuuggghhh!!!’ he goes, spewing his ring all over the pavement. ‘Bllleeeuuuggghhh!!!’

  I’m patting his back, going, ‘Better out than in. You know today is Johnny Sexton’s fiftieth cap for Ireland. I texted him the usual this morning but I put it in capital letters. I wonder did he notice.’

  It’s at that exact point that my phone rings. I check the screen and it ends up being Ronan’s Shadden.

  It’s pretty unusual for her to ring me, which is the reason I end up actually answering it. I’m like, ‘Hey, Shadden, what’s the Jack?’

  ‘Rosser, Ine woodied,’ she goes and I can tell she’s been crying.

  It’s all go today.

  I’m like, ‘Worried? About what?’

  She’s there, ‘Ine woodied about Ronan.’

  I straightaway go, ‘In terms of?’ like any father would if he thought his son was in trouble.

  ‘He came home thudder night with a barroken ardum. Except he woatunt tell me who done it. He came home with a full cast on it and says I to him, “Happened your ardum?” and says he, “The less you know, the bethor!” ’

  I’m there, ‘It must have been Scum!’

  She’s like, ‘Which Scum?’ because it seems there’s more than one of them. ‘Coolock Scum, Ballybough Scum or Artane Scum?’