Guilty

“It’s started again, Bridget. He was at it for hours last night and only stopped when I knocked on the back door.”

“Okay, I’ll call round later. Are you absolutely sure it’s not the television? Because she does have it pretty loud.”

“Fuck’s sake, Bridget, do you think I don’t know the difference between Coronation Street and your mother-in-law being abused? Gimme some credit.”

“Sorry. Look, I’ll see you tonight and yes, I’ll park my car well away.”

Bridget wasn’t really surprised to hear from Theresa. Things had been far too quiet on the Sean front of late and she had been quite taken aback at her mother-in-law’s appearance at the christening.

Oh, she was well turned out as usual, but there was something not right. Lizzie, always the life and soul of any party, was great company and often quite outrageous. She was always game for a laugh, but not so on this occasion. It was as if she’d lost her sparkle, even Paddy had remarked on it. God help them all if what she suspected turned out to be true.

Lizzie was at her wits’ end. Sean was becoming more and more volatile by the day and seemed to take vicious pleasure in tormenting her. She knew Theresa was aware of what had been going on over the past few months, but any time her neighbour referred to what she called ‘her situation’, the old girl vehemently denied anything was wrong and insisted if her friend continued to accuse her family, she would be a friend no longer. Despite this, Lizzie knew that she had to stand up to her son or things could really get out of hand.

Thankfully, the trips out with Gerry had become a regular occurrence and Gerry seemed to calm Sean down, for which Lizzie was immensely grateful. Unfortunately her saviour had been engaged on other duties most of this week which had left Sean cooped up in number 28. By the end of the week he was obviously stir crazy.

Gerry was finding it harder and harder to maintain a pretence with Sean, and to prevent himself doing the man a severe injury, he had stayed away for the best part of the week. He was still reeling from their last journey. Things had nearly come to a head as they were driving down Munro Street, where Gerry had once lived. Sean, babbling on as usual, suddenly went quiet.

“What’s up?” Gerry asked his passenger.

“I remember this street. I used to collect down here, but for the life of me I can’t remember who from.”

Gerry repelled the overwhelming urge to smack the fucker in the face and tell him exactly who he’d collected from and what had happened as a result. It was, of course, his wife. The strain of keeping the information to himself was too much and before he blew his cover, he dumped Sean home as quick as he could, foregoing the customary drink at the Saracen’s Head.

“What the fuck’s up with you?” growled Sean, used to always getting his own way.

“Nothing, mate, I’m just knackered. I’ve been doing a few extra shifts at the yard and it’s catching up with me.”

“That’s not my fault. I look forward to having a drink and you said next time I could have a shandy.”

“Fuck off, Sean. I do the best I can. No other fucker bothers about you, so stop moaning or this’ll be the last trip.”

Any normal person would have apologised and been grateful for Gerry’s attention and done their best to get back in his good books, but not Sean. As usual, he behaved like the spoiled ten-year-old brat he was pretending to be.

Stomping into the house, Sean announced his return and obvious bad mood. He demanded his mother fix him some grub as he banged and crashed his way through the house, smashing a number of Lizzie’s precious possessions: a statue of Our Lady she’d bought on her first pilgrimage to Lourdes, a vial of holy water from Jerusalem, given to her when Marie was ill, worthless, but precious to her.

She placed a plate of eggs and chips before him and poured a mug of tea which he scoffed, all the while insulting and berating her. Lizzie turned the volume on the television up to drown him out, but this simply enraged him more.

On the other side of the wall Theresa’s husband, Peter, was demanding that she go and tell those inconsiderate bastards that there was a sick man next door who needed peace and quiet. Just at that moment Bridget arrived. And would you believe it − sod’s law − the noise stopped.

“It’s fucking ridiculous what we have to put up with,” moaned Peter.

“Shut up, you moaning, miserable old git. I’m more concerned with why it’s gone quiet. I hope to God he hasn’t hurt her.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when the shouting and swearing started with a vengeance.

“Dear God, I can’t believe she has to put up with this nonsense.” Bridget was appalled.

“That’s nothing,” verified Peter.

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” said Bridget as she went next door.

“Will I come with you?” offered Theresa.

“No thanks, I’ll deal with this.”

Using her spare key, Bridget let herself into number 28 in time to witness her mother-in-law cowering behind a chair and her brother-in-law threatening all manner of atrocities. The room, usually spick and span, was a wreck: smashed crockery, ornaments and food debris everywhere.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” shouted Bridget as she went to help Lizzie.

“He’s had a bad day, love. He doesn’t mean me any harm,” the old woman hobbled to her chair.

“Doesn’t mean you harm? Well, fuck me, God help you when he does.”

“Let me look at your eye,” she motioned to Lizzie. “This needs seeing to, it’s deep. Wait till Paddy finds out about this carry-on. You’re a dead man, Sean Coyle, and you deserve everything that comes to you.”

“No, no, Bridget. He can’t help it, it’s all down to his injuries. Sean was never like this before the attack. Please don’t involve Paddy, or Michael. I can handle him.”

“I have to tell him, Lizzie, for Sean’s sake as well as yours. This can’t go on.”

“If you split my family up I’ll never speak to you again, Bridget, and that’s a promise. I bet it was that nosey bugger next door that got you involved?”

“Theresa had nothing to do with this, you’re damned lucky to have a neighbour and friend like her. No matter what you say, I’m telling Paddy.”

Sean meanwhile was crouched behind the sofa, acting his heart out and playing the ten-year-old up to the hilt.

“Shut it, Sean. It’s not washing with me, not one iota. My Erin was right when she said she thought you were taking the mick.”

“Please. Please, Bridget, let me deal with it. I promise you, if he dares to lift a finger to me again I’ll tell you and Paddy can sort it out. But he’s my boy and it’s not his fault.”

Now it was Sean’s turn to beg for leniency. “Please, Bridget, I didn’t mean it. It’s the voices that make me angry.”

“Voices, what voices? Well, buster, listen to this one. If you as much as raise yours to her, I’ll have Paddy and Michael here so fast, you won’t have time to hear the answer. Understood?”

“Yes,” he mumbled and went upstairs to his room.

“Right, lady, this is what’s going to happen. That big arsehole is moving back to his own place and we’ll hire someone to look after him. You know, Lizzie, he’s a lot better than he makes out. But if you don’t agree I’m straight back home to get the boys.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” said a relieved Lizzie.