Game of Throw-ins Read online

  We’re all like, ‘You better hurry the fock up!’

  Anyway, the torture eventually ends. Dudser goes, ‘That’s it, ladies. See you next week. Same time.’

  He always calls us ladies. He’s one of those people who’s sound but also a wanker? I’d like to think I’m a bit like that myself.

  Christian goes, ‘Thanks, Dudser – for letting me do the session.’

  Dudser seems amused by him. ‘So run this by me again,’ he goes. ‘You’re not playing for the actual team – but you want go through the same suffering that they do?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, he’s trying to win back his wife.’

  Dudser reacts like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

  ‘I thought there might be a woman involved,’ he goes. ‘I didn’t think it was going to be your own wife!’

  He walks away, still laughing.

  I’m there, ‘Dudser’s far too young to be that cynical.’

  Christian goes, ‘I was talking to her today. Lauren, I mean. It was just about money for Ross and Oliver – maintenance, whatever you want to call it – but we had a really civil conversation. She said I sounded well.’

  ‘Did you tell her that a lot of that was down to me?’

  ‘I mentioned that you’d been helping me get my shit together, yeah.’

  ‘Well, hopefully I’ll get the credit next time I see her.’

  I grab a quick Jack Bauer. As I’m towelling myself off, I notice that Senny’s now lifting weights while listening to his iPhone.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I go.

  He pulls the buds out of his ears. He’s like, ‘What was that, Rossi?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was just wondering who are you listening to? A bit of Drake, is it?’

  I’m trying to learn as much as I can about all this new music that there suddenly seems to be.

  He goes, ‘It’s actually Nicki Minaj.’

  Nicki Minaj? Jesus Christ, Honor listens to Nicki Minaj. I suddenly realize that my daughter is closer in age to Senny than I am.

  He’s about to put the buds back in, then he remembers something. He’s like, ‘Hey, by the way, were you talking to Bucky?’

  I’m there, ‘Er, not tonight, no.’

  He goes, ‘We were just wondering, have you ever surfed?’

  I laugh.

  I’m like, ‘Have I ever surfed? I’m sorry for laughing, Dude. Yes, you could safely say that I have surfed.’

  I’ve never focking surfed. I can’t even swim.

  He goes, ‘It’s just Bucky was saying we might all go away for the night. After we play Rainey Old Boys. Bundoran is only a ninety-minute drive from Derry.’

  I’m there, ‘Is that where Rainey Old Boys are based? Bundoran?’

  He laughs. ‘No,’ he goes, ‘Rainey Old Boys are from Derry. The surfing is in Bundoran.’

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘I think I’ve got it now.’

  ‘We could do the drive as soon as the match is over. Have a Saturday night in Bundoran, then spend Sunday surfing. Turn it into a bit of a guyatus.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s what we call a night away for the boys – a guyatus?’

  ‘Yeah, no, it sounds good to me. Like I said, I love surfing in the, em, sea.’

  He goes, ‘Mint!’, which I’m presuming is what young people say instead of ‘Cool!’

  He puts the buds back in his ears and I think to myself, Oh, fock! What have I just talked myself into?

  There’s, like, no answer from Ronan’s mobile, so instead I ring his gaff. It’s Shadden who ends up answering.

  I’m like, ‘Hey, Shadden, is Ronan there?’ because it’s a Wednesday afternoon and he usually gets a half-day from school.

  She goes, ‘He’s not hee-or, Rosser. He’s in he’s cadavan up in whatever it’s calt.’

  I’m there, ‘Ticknock.’

  ‘Ticknock – that’s it. He’s studying theer for the arthur noon. Foyunts it eadier to concenthrate.’

  In the background, I can hear little Rihanna-Brogan practising for her school’s Easter Recital, singing some piece of shit song from Frozen in her half-and-half accent. She’s all:

  Lerrit go, lerrit go,

  Cawn’t haild it back anymoyer,

  Lerrit go, Lerrit go,

  Turn away and slam the doyer.

  It’s pretty focking hilarious, it has to be said.

  ‘Yeah, no, I’m not too far from Ticknock,’ I go. ‘I’ll swing up there and see him.’

  She goes, ‘Feer denuff, Rosser.’

  I turn the music back on and I point the cor in the direction of Ticknock. I borrowed Honor’s iPod and I’m listening to a bit of Nicki Minaj. It turns out the woman has got a filthy focking mouth on her. It’s bitch-this and motherfocker-that.

  It reminds me of mealtimes in our gaff.

  I pull up on the road outside Ronan’s field. I listen out for the dogs, except I don’t hear any borking. I open the door of the cor and the first thing that hits me is the smell of burning.

  I look up, above the trees, and I can see black smoke and I straightaway fear the worst.

  I run all the way to the entrance of the field. I pull open the heavy gate and I’m suddenly standing there, just rooted to the spot. Ronan’s caravan has been burned to the ground. All I can see is this, like, twisted mass of blackened metal, which still has smoke pouring from it.

  There’s, like, no sign of my son anywhere.

  I walk closer. As I do, certain things become clearer to my eyes. I can make out the fridge where Ro kept his poitín chilled – black, but still intact – then the springs from what was once the sofa. The smell is horrendous.

  And then, for some reason, I happen to look to my left, over to where the JCB is porked and I see this, like, mound of freshly turned soil. There’s something on top of it, which at first I don’t recognize. It’s only when I walk over to it that I cop what it actually is.

  It’s Ronan’s Dublin GAA baseball cap. I pick it up and I just, like, stare at it, the little crest on the front with the castle and the Viking ship. It still smells of Instinct by David Beckham, which Sorcha bought him for Christmas.

  I’m like, ‘No!’

  I actually scream it.

  I’m like, ‘Nooooooo!!!’

  Then I get down on my hands and knees and I stort clawing at the dirt with my bare hands, dreading what I’m going to find under it, yet still digging. And at the exact same time, I’m sobbing, going, ‘Jesus, it was only a bus tour! Why did I let it go this far?’

  I manage to move thirty or forty handfuls of dirt, but I’m making slow progress. But then I look at the JCB and I have an idea.

  I climb into the cab. The keys are actually still in it. I stort her up and I stort fiddling about with the various gear sticks and levers to try to figure out how to drive the thing and move the orm up and down.

  It only takes me a minute or two to master it. Then I drive it over on its tracks to the edge of the mound and I stort digging up the earth, pulling up maybe a tonne of soil at a time, then spinning the orm around and dropping it a few feet away. Then I jump out of the cab and I search the pile for my son’s body.

  When it’s not there, I feel instant relief. But it doesn’t last long. I jump back into the cab and I dig up another tonne of earth and repeat the process.

  Soon, I’ve dug up about eight tonnes and there’s still no sign of Ro or his remains. I’m suddenly beating the ground, crying and going, ‘I should have stopped it! I should have stopped it when I had the chance!’

  And that’s when I hear a voice go, ‘You’re some fooken can of piss, Rosser.’

  I look up.

  Ronan is suddenly standing over me with Nudger and Buckets of Blood.

  I’m there, ‘Ro! Oh, thank God! I thought Scum had killed you and buried you using your own Fran from Love/Hate mechanical digger!’

  He goes, ‘Where’d you foyunt me cap? Gimme that, you fooken clowin.’

  He snaps it out o
f my hands.

  I stand up. I’m like, ‘Ro, what the fock happened here? I’m presuming this was, like, Scum’s work?’

  ‘You’re presuming reet,’ he goes. ‘He burdened me base or operashiddens – he’s arthur oberstepping the meerk.’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, surely you both overstepped the mork the moment you storted burning each other’s buses? Ro, think about your daughter. She’s at home practising for her Easter Recital while you’re out here, playing at being a gangster. Would you not think of possibly calling a truce?’

  He’s like, ‘A throoce? A fooken throoce, is it?’

  It’s only then I notice the change in Ronan’s appearance. He’s had his head totally shaved and he’s wearing a jacket zipped right up to the neck so that he looks like actual Nidge? He’s all, like, nervy and jittery like him as well.

  He goes, ‘Feddas like Scum ardent inthordested in throoces, Rosser. Thee wontherstand oatenly one thing.’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, do you want to end up like all your heroes in that show – either dead or, worse, walking crooked with a snooker cue up your orse?’

  He turns to Nudger and Buckets and goes, ‘Toyum to turden up the heat on eer friend.’

  Nudger’s like, ‘The job’s alretty in the woorks, Ro.’

  And Ronan goes, ‘Coola fooken boola.’

  ‘Oh! My God!’ Sorcha goes. ‘Look at the colour of you, Fionnuala!’

  She has some Peter Pan alright. She goes, ‘Thank you, Sorcha. You know, I was walking along College Green today and someone tried to hand me a leaflet for the Viking Splash.’

  I’m supposed to just sit there and listen to this bullshit.

  She goes, ‘You see, they thought I was one of these foreign nationals!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘we all know the point you’re trying to make. The girl just complimented you on your tan. I don’t know why you have to turn everything into a focking anecdote. It’s ridiculous at this stage.’

  She blanks me and goes, ‘Would anyone like more of the venison casserole.’

  I’m there, ‘I’ll have some – even if it’s just so I don’t hurt your feelings.’

  I help myself to another plate of it. It’s incredible, by the way.

  ‘Although I’ll probably be bent over the toilet all night,’ I go, ‘throwing it back up.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘What about you, Ari, did you enjoy the honeymoon?’

  They arrived home last night. Of course, the old dear couldn’t wait to invite us over to show us their photos.

  Ari’s like, ‘Me? Oh, yes, I had a fine time. Quite fine.’

  A week in his villa in Sardinia. You wouldn’t blame them.

  The old dear goes, ‘So who’s looking after, em …’

  ‘Crouch, bind and set,’ I go.

  ‘Yes, that’s it – those lovely children.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘My mom and dad are babysitting Honor and the boys. Oh my God, Ross, I forgot to tell you – and Fionnuala, I know you’ll be interested in hearing this because you’ve raised so much money for charity yourself – but I might be setting up, like, a foundation!’

  I’m there, ‘A what?’

  ‘A foundation, Ross. It’s something that’s been on my To Do list – oh my God – since I was at school. So then today, I was trying to manoeuvre the stroller out of Caviston’s and who did I meet? I mean, it has to be, like, fate. Muirgheal Massey? Do you remember Muirgheal Massey, Ross? She was in Mount Anville with me. She went for Head Girl the year I got it, even though she was genuinely, genuinely delighted for me when I won.’

  I’m there, ‘Keep talking, Sorcha. It might come back to me.’

  I’m not really listening anyway.

  She goes, ‘Muirgheal just so happened to mention that she’s looking around for something to do. She and her husband just broke up. I don’t know if you remember Tchaik Coffey, Ross, who was in the Institute with me? A total bastard to women. Anyway, she thinks that thing might be charity work! And I was like, “Oh! My God! I’ve been saying for years that I would love to do, I don’t know, something for maybe a country in Africa?” ’

  The old dear goes, ‘What a wonderful idea, Sorcha!’

  ‘Well, everything suddenly snowballed. We ended up going for lunch and we actually decided there and then to set up a foundation called The Mount Anville Africa Fund.’

  I’m there, ‘And what are they going to supposedly do?’

  She goes, ‘Well, hopefully raise awareness of the issues affecting Africa among pupils and past pupils of Mount Anville.’

  ‘Something like that has been long needed,’ the old dear goes. ‘Long, long needed.’

  ‘Well,’ Sorcha goes, ‘I posted something about it on the Mount Anville Matters Facebook page at, like, four o’clock and – oh my God – I couldn’t believe the reaction. It got, like, forty-seven likes and thirteen comments and that was in, like, three hours. So anyway there’s going to be, like, a meeting about it in our house on Friday night, Ross.’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I think I remember Muirgheal now. JP might have been with her once or twice. She used to make this slurping noise with her mouth whenever you kissed her – that’s if it’s the same girl I’m thinking about.’

  ‘What Muirgheal and I would love to do is to try to raise enough money every year to send, like, the entire of Transition Year to Africa for a week – although obviously not one of the dangerous countries – to see the kind of challenges that the people face there every day of their lives.’

  ‘It was like she was eating hot chips. Ssshhhllluuuppp. Ssshhhllluuuppp. Ask her does she still make that noise?’

  ‘I’m not going to ask her does she still make that noise, Ross.’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure it was definitely her.’

  Suddenly – this is, like, totally out of the blue – Ari goes, ‘Well, I got a message for your Mister Hitler! If he is planning to use these Olympic Games as a demonstration of Arian supremacy over the rest of the world, he’s in for quite a shock. For I – and hundreds of black athletes like me – intend to train as hard as God will allow me to ensure that the Führer’s athletic will-to-power comes to nothing!’

  Jesus Christ.

  The old dear puts her hand down on top of his hand to try to, like, calm him down.

  ‘I’ll see you in Berlin!’ he shouts.

  But she just goes, ‘Ari, it’s okay. We’re in Ireland, Ari, remember? Ssshhh … Ssshhh …’

  And he’s like, ‘Fionnuala?’ as if he’s suddenly back in the present day

  ‘That’s right,’ she goes. ‘It’s Fionnuala. I’m here with you. In March 2015. We just got married, Ari,’ and that’s when the weirdest thing suddenly happens. I see something in the old dear’s eyes – something I’ve never actually seen before? This is going to sound focked up, but I’m pretty sure the word is, like, compassion?

  In that moment, I can suddenly see what I probably haven’t wanted to see up until now, which is that my old dear does actually love this man – even if he is losing his mind, even if she did, I don’t know, conspire to get his granddaughter cut out of his will – and she loves him in a way that she never loved my old man and she certainly never loved me.

  I watch Sorcha wipe away a tear with the back of her hand. I can feel one or two building up in my own eyes and I end up having to say something just to bring some semblance of normality back to the situation.

  ‘I can only imagine the damage that this dinner is doing to my focking insides,’ I go. ‘What’s the bets I’m on the jacks all day tomorrow, shitting baby food?’

  Suddenly, there ends up being a ring on the doorbell.

  ‘Who on Earth could that be,’ the old dear goes, ‘at this time of night?’

  She goes outside to answer it.

  I hear all this, like, kerfuffle outside in the hallway, then, about ten seconds later, the dining-room door flies open and in she bursts – we’re talking Tiffany Blue.

  Easy on the eye though she is, I genuinely hoped
I’d never set eyes on her again.

  The old dear goes, ‘You haven’t been invited and you are intruding. Kindly leave this instant or I shall be forced to phone the Gords.’

  She’s like, ‘The what?’ because she’s from the States, bear in mind.

  ‘The Gords,’ the old dear goes. ‘The Irish police force.’

  Tiffany Blue’s there, ‘You think I’m scared of the police?’

  It’s pretty obvious from looking at her that she’s off her tits on coke or booze or both.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, maybe you should do what she says, though, and head off.’

  She looks at me with, like, real contempt? ‘Hey, look,’ she goes, ‘it’s the three-minute wonder!’

  Sorcha looks at me, confused. She’s there, ‘What’s she talking about, Ross?’

  I’m like, ‘I’ve no idea, Sorcha. Let’s just forget about it.’

  ‘What I’m talking about,’ Tiffany Blue goes, ‘is I had sex with your husband on the boat. And let me tell you, I’ve had sneezing fits that lasted longer.’

  I’m going to give you a little bit of advice now that’s worth printing out and pinning to your bathroom mirror – Never Make Mental Your Mistress.

  ‘Ross?’ Sorcha goes, about as hurt as I’ve ever seen her. ‘Is this true?’

  And that’s when something else incredible happens – the old dear, for whatever reason, saves my hide. I don’t know why? Possibly because she was the one who put the idea of riding the girl into my head?

  She goes, ‘Of course it isn’t true! Sorcha, don’t believe it for an instant! She’s trying to poison everyone’s happiness – it’s what she does!’

  Sorcha looks instantly relieved. She goes, ‘I’m sorry, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, it’s fine, Sorcha. Give a dog a bad name.’

  ‘You believe what you want,’ Tiffany Blue goes. ‘I’m just here to tell you something.’

  The old dear’s like, ‘Say your piece and then leave.’

  ‘Okay, here’s my piece. I got a lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, a lawyer!’ the old dear goes. ‘I’ve got lawyers. I’ve got all sorts of lawyers.’

  ‘Well, this one thinks I have a very good case to have this so-called marriage declared invalid.’