Game of Throw-ins Read online

  Sorcha bends down and picks Johnny out of the bath. I’ve still got Leo and Brian in there, sitting at either end.

  ‘I think I’m going to talk to Honor,’ Sorcha goes, as she towels Johnny dry, ‘about this mystery boy of hers?’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, what happened to, “We don’t want to be those kind of parents who have to know everything that’s going on in their children’s lives”?’

  ‘I’m her mother, Ross. And, yes, I’m still a bit upset that this was something she felt she could talk to Erika about and not to me.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to people who aren’t your old pair? I’m saying that as someone whose old pair are dicks.’

  ‘Well, that’s not the relationship I want with Honor. I’ve always dreamt of having a daughter who would think of me not just as a mother but as a best friend. In fact, a best, best friend – the way me and my mom are?’

  ‘Focking shit!’ Leo goes. ‘Focking focker shit!’

  I give him Splashy the Penguin, which he loves. He’s like, ‘Spashy Penguin! Spashy Penguin!’ until Brian suddenly grabs it from him and focks it – we’re talking, like, a heavy plastic toy? – right at Leo’s head from, like, point-blank range. It misses by a millimetre.

  Leo storts trying to kick Brian and of course that sets Johnny off. He’s suddenly screaming hysterically. Sorcha’s going, ‘Ssshhh, ssshhh, ssshhh! It’s okay, Johnny. Ssshhh, ssshhh, ssshhh!’

  I decide to whip Brian out of the bath before he drowns Leo or Leo drowns him. I stort drying him off while he wriggles around like I don’t know what.

  ‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘this thing might not be going anywhere.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All we know is that she likes a boy. We don’t know if he likes her.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he like her?’

  ‘Come on, Sorcha, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. Honor’s not exactly the prettiest of God’s creatures, is she? She’s actually kind of plain in terms of looks.’

  Sorcha looks at me with her mouth slung open – pretending to be shocked? ‘Oh! My God!’ she goes. ‘That is a terrible thing to say about your own flesh and blood.’

  ‘Hey, I’m just stating it as a fact. I mean, she was a beautiful baby – don’t get me wrong. But she’s definitely disimproved. Jesus Christ, I don’t know why you’re looking so shocked. You’ve said it about her yourself – well, in so many words.’

  ‘All I said was that she could possibly do more to make the most of herself.’

  ‘See? That’s just Passive Aggressive for the exact same thing that I’m saying.’

  Sorcha sad-smiles me, then looks over her shoulder to make sure Honor isn’t standing at the bathroom door, listening in.

  ‘Okay,’ she goes, ‘I have to admit that, yes, sometimes I look at her and I’m disappointed for her sake that she’s not prettier – you know, with your genes and my genes …’

  She’s ignoring the fact that her own mother is bet-down. I’m not pointing fingers. I’m stating it as a fact.

  All of a sudden, Honor does appear at the bathroom door? She obviously didn’t hear us calling her ugly, though, because she just goes, ‘Are you having fun in the bath, Leo!’ because she does actually love her brothers? ‘Do you want me to give you a Mohican?’

  Leo touches his head with both hands and goes, ‘Hican!’

  It’s actually quite cute.

  Honor crouches down to his level, then she sort of, like, teases his wet hair into a Mohican style.

  ‘I want Hican!’ Brian shouts then. They’re unbelievably competitive with each other – it’s something I’m definitely going to encourage. So Honor does the same for Brian, then the same for Johnny, who instantly calms down.

  While this is all going on, Sorcha has this, like, look of resolve on her face that I recognize only too well.

  ‘So, Honor,’ she suddenly goes, ‘how are things? As in, how are things with you?’

  Honor’s there, ‘Fine,’ and she says it a little bit defensively. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘I’m only asking because I think it’s very healthy for a mother and daughter to have regular catch-ups.’

  ‘Yeah, spare me.’

  ‘I’m just making the point that it’d be good to check in with each other from time to time – make sure we’re up to date. Are there any, I don’t know, boys that you’re interested in at the moment?’

  The woman is as subtle as a fart in a funeral home.

  Honor looks suddenly sad – her eyes are all, I don’t know, disappointed?

  She goes, ‘Erika told you.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘She only told us, Honor, because we were worried about you being off your food. But she didn’t tell us anything else, except that you liked a boy.’

  ‘And that he goes to Michael’s,’ I go. ‘And thankfully not the other place.’

  ‘We don’t know anything else, I can promise you that. We don’t even know his name.’

  Honor goes, ‘His name is Caleb – not that it’s any of your focking business.’

  ‘Caleb?’ Sorcha goes, the delight written all over her face. ‘Oh my God, you didn’t even tell Erika his name!’

  I’m there, ‘So does Caleb play rugby?’

  Honor goes, ‘No, he doesn’t play rugby.’

  I’m like, ‘Don’t go rushing into anything would be my advice. Keep your options open.’

  Sorcha decides to push it further, of course. ‘So tell us a bit about him,’ she goes. ‘Where’s he from, this Caleb?’

  Honor sighs like the whole thing is just too much effort for her. ‘Ulverton Road,’ she goes. ‘In Dalkey.’

  ‘Well, he sounds lovely! So, am I allowed to ask, have you kissed him yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t focking kissed him!’

  ‘I’m not asking as a mother, Honor. I’m asking as a friend.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened between us. We’re just, like, talking and texting, that’s all.’

  ‘Talking and texting! But you’re obviously hoping that something will happen.’

  ‘Oh my God, all these questions.’

  ‘So how do you know him? Honor, I’m just showing an interest.’

  ‘Look, if you must know, his sister’s in my class – as in, Thea O’Halloran?’

  I laugh. No choice.

  I’m like, ‘Her? The little dumpy one with the underbite and the swimmer’s shoulders?’

  She’s one of Honor’s regular bullying victims.

  ‘She’s actually okay,’ Honor tries to go, ‘when you get to know her.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, when you get to know her brother is what you really mean. I collected you from school a few weeks ago and you had the girl in a headlock for, like, twenty minutes. Her face was like a focking beetroot. It was hilarious.’

  ‘So is he good-looking?’ Sorcha goes. ‘Caleb, I mean.’

  There’s, like, more eye-rolling and head-shaking. ‘Yes,’ Honor goes, ‘he’s good-looking.’

  ‘Oh my God, do you want to invite him here?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘You could invite him here – for, like, a play date.’

  ‘A play date? How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Well, whatever you want to call it. Invite him for tea, then. I could make some of my famous artisan macarons.’

  Honor’s face suddenly softens. She’s like, ‘Could I? As in, would that be okay?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Oh my God, Honor, yes! I can’t wait to actually meet him!’ Sorcha smiles and claps her two hands together like a big idiot.

  Honor goes, ‘As long as you don’t embarrass me.’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, we’re hordly likely to embarrass you, Honor.’

  Famous last words, of course.

  How did I end up in Copper Face Jacks on a Sunday night? How does anyone end up in Copper Face Jacks on a Sunday night?

  It was one of those nights out that didn’t stort out as a night out.
Oisinn rang to see did I fancy one or two quiet ones seeing as he’s going away tomorrow and he doesn’t know for how long.

  I was like, ‘Where are you going?’

  He went, ‘Qatar.’

  ‘You’re not taking the piss out of me, are you? That’s definitely the name of a country?’

  ‘It’s the name of a country, yeah.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t know if you were taking the piss – you know how thick I am.’

  ‘It’s where all the money is these days. I’ve got one or two meetings lined up. I might be meeting a dude who’s a prince. Come on, Ross. Just one or two. I didn’t get to talk to you for long on New Year’s. And it’s your birthday in two days.’

  ‘Alright,’ I went, ‘I’ll see you in Kielys – just one or two, though.’

  Of course, you know how that generally goes.

  It was Oisinn’s idea to go country. Six or seven pints into the night, as they were calling last drinks, he went, ‘Let’s move on to Coppers – rip the piss. We haven’t done that in ages.’

  I laughed. I was like, ‘There is no way in this world that I am going to Copper Face Jacks tonight.’

  If there’s one thing that everyone in this place has in common, it’s that they have all uttered those exact words at some point this evening.

  ‘By the way,’ Oisinn goes, handing me a shot of Sambuca, ‘you never told me how you got on yesterday.’

  I’m like, ‘Yesterday? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Didn’t you go for the trial? Seapoint?’

  Shit.

  I’m like, ‘Er, yeah, no, I did, but I decided in the end it wasn’t for me. I had, em, one or two issues with the playing surface.’

  ‘It’s a wet pitch,’ he goes.

  ‘Yeah, no, it’s definitely that. It’s definitely that.’

  He knocks back his shot, then says he’s going to the jacks. He doesn’t make it that far, though. I’m actually getting the round in, wondering what’s keeping the focker, when I suddenly look up to see him leaving with a bird who looks like Brodie Retallick in a GAA jersey and a stetson and she’s hanging off him like a fur coat on a rapper.

  I look at the time on my phone. What’s the Golden Rule in Coppers? It’s two – you’ll do!

  So now I’m on my Tobler, standing at the bor, listening to people from the Midlands try out their chat-up lines on each other – ‘So what hospital do you work in yourself?’ – and thinking that I never realized before how many hits Bon Jovi actually had.

  I’m considering nearly calling it a night when I suddenly spot her across the room. It’d be hord to actually miss her. A good-looking girl will stand out in here like a shork at a pool porty. She’s in – I’m guessing – her early twenties, with blonde hair and huge stonks. Gemma Merna is who I’d actually compare her to and that ends up being my opening line when I tip over to her.

  She goes, ‘Who?’

  She’s drinking a Fat Frog and she smells of Shalimar by Guerlain.

  I’m there, ‘She’s actually an actress. As opening lines go, I just thought it was slightly more original than, “So what hospital do you work in yourself?” ’

  She ends up hearing only the second half of the sentence?

  ‘The Rotunda,’ she goes and I don’t bother my hole explaining it.

  Instead, I go, ‘So who are you here with? Friends? Boyfriend?’ trying to subtly smoke her out on the subject of her relationship status.

  I’m a class act. I don’t think anyone’s denying that.

  ‘Just the girls from work,’ she goes, then she turns and introduces me to four women who happen to be standing next to her. Allow me to speak freely here. The last time I saw a collection of creatures this frightening, a focking ringmaster was cracking a whip at them.

  ‘I’m Denise,’ my one – the looker – goes, ‘and this is Susan, Caoilfhionn, Attracta and Breege.’

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘those are all lovely names.’

  Get in with the mates and you’re home and hosed.

  Denise goes, ‘It’s Breege’s leaving do. She’s retiring after forty years working in the Rotunda!’

  I’m like, ‘Forty years? Jesus, you don’t look old enough – and that’s not me being sarcastic.’

  It is me being sarcastic, by the way. She looks like she could have been one of the original staff. She’s a big focking barrel of a woman, with orms like Cian Healy, hair like Lisa Dingle and a wart on her cheek so big it has its own focking Eircode.

  She’s actually sound, though? Not that personality is important, but she’s the one who invites me to join them. She even buys me a pint of Heineken and tells me some of her funny A&E stories, a great many of which involve either lonely men or sexually frustrated women and their adventures with mustard jors or ketchup bottles.

  I end up having a surprisingly enjoyable night. Denise is definitely keen and she’s impressed with me for making an effort with her friends.

  ‘Okay,’ she even goes, ‘why aren’t there more guys out there like you?’

  And I go, ‘Because if there weren’t bad ones, then the good ones wouldn’t seem so special.’

  You get nights like that – don’t you? – where everything you say ends up being memorable.

  The last song of the night ends up being ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ by Aerosmith, which people from the country seem to love in the same way they love going to Mass and eating coleslaw with a fry-up. When the music ends and the lights come on, Denise turns to me and goes, ‘So this is going to sound maybe a little forward, but are you coming back?’

  I’m like, ‘Back? Back where?’

  I’ve got a big, shit-eating grin on my face.

  She laughs and goes, ‘Back to ours!’ like it’s the most ridiculous question in the world.

  I’m there, ‘Are you saying I’m in?’

  And she smiles and goes, ‘You couldn’t be that slow on the uptake! Yes, you’re in.’

  I like a girl who knows what she wants – especially when what she wants is me.

  The whole lot of us end up getting a seven-seater taxi to Phibsboro. The whole way there, Denise keeps smiling at me and saying she can’t believe that someone like me is still single.

  But then suddenly one of the yolks – the hilariously named Attracta – throws a focking spanner in the works by going, ‘Have you drink in, Denise?’

  Denise goes, ‘I’ve Bacardi Breezers in the fridge from Christmas.’

  And Attracta’s there, ‘Let’s carry on the party, so!’

  The other girls all whoop and holler and I’m thinking, Okay, how do I subtly tell them to fock off without damaging the nice-goy rep I’ve built for myself here.

  ‘Yeah, no, maybe we all should just call it a night,’ I go.

  Caoilfhionn’s there, ‘Oh my God, you’re a total lightweight!’ and they all laugh.

  The taxi pulls up outside Denise’s gaff and everyone hops out. I’m the one who ends up having to pay the driver, then I follow her and the focking circus freaks inside.

  She turns to me when we’re alone in the hallway and goes, ‘I’m sorry about this. I should have said no to them.’

  And I’m there, ‘Hey, it’s cool. But I wouldn’t mind getting my head down – if you catch my drift.’

  Oh, she catches my drift alright. Nurses are filthy.

  She goes, ‘Jesus, you don’t believe in wasting time, do you?’

  I’m there, ‘I certainly don’t. Which bedroom?’

  ‘The one straight in front of you at the top of the stairs.’

  I give her a little wink and I go, ‘I’ll head on up. Tell the rest of them I’m sorry to wuss out of the porty.’

  I take the stairs two at a time, then into the room I go. It’s a typical student nurse’s room – a bed, a bike, a poster on the wall of a kitten clinging to a rope with the caption, When life leaves you hanging – don’t quit!, and a giant, inflatable penis that’s probably a souvenir from someone’s hen.

  I unbutton m
y shirt, then I step out of my Dubes and chinos, flick off the light and slip under the sheets. It’s focking freezing in the bed. What is it about nurses that they don’t feel the cold? They’re like focking polar bears.

  And of course you know what happens to the old vital organ when it’s cold. That’s right. It’s like two walnuts and an empty popsock. Suddenly, I hear Denise coming up the stairs and I stort tugging on the old storter cord to try to heat the engine.

  It ends up doing the trick. Years of practice, you could probably argue. A second or two later, the door opens and I’m suddenly blinded by the light coming from the landing behind her.

  ‘Get into this bed right now!’ I go. ‘There’s no more Mister Nice Goy. I’m going to ride you like AP McCoy!’

  She leaps across the room and lands on the bed like an avalanche. She throws back the sheets and sits – I don’t know – astride me, her two hands pressing down on my famous pectorals as she leans forward, her mouth trying to find mine.

  And that’s when my eyes suddenly adjust to the light and I notice that it’s not Denise sitting on top of me at all.

  It’s focking Breege!

  I actually scream. I’m like, ‘What the fock!’ as she storts sloppily kissing my mouth, her tongue all wet and throbbing, like something you’d find stuck to the hull of a ship at low tide.

  I’m there, ‘What the fock do you think you’re doing?’

  There are hundreds of stories out there about people who’ve found themselves suddenly capable of feats of superhuman strength in moments of, like, crisis or danger? I saw a thing on Sky News once about a woman whose son was trapped under the wheel of a bus and she lifted the focking thing clean off the ground with one hand and pulled the dude out with the other.

  And that’s basically what happens to me in that moment? From somewhere, I find the strength to throw Breege off me. She goes flying across the room as well and hits the floor like a focking rock slide, while I go chorging down the stairs – totally naked, bear in mind – screaming my head off, with a dong on me like a wok handle.

  Denise and the rest of them come running out into the hall. I think it’d be fair to describe their reaction as surprised.

  Denise goes, ‘What’s wrong?’

  I’m there, ‘It was horrible! Oh my God, it was focking horrible!’