Shay drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, half listening to the radio.
‘Garda Commissioner John Harte has told the Oireachtas Justice Committee that gardaí have not lost control over parts of Dublin to gangs . . .’
Shay scoffed as he checked the time again. He removed the keys and took a deep breath.
I’m going to be late. What’s keeping the little fucker?
As he approached Jig’s house, a television boomed from an open window. The gate grated as he shoved it back. He heaved two overflowing bins apart and stepped over battered plastic garden chairs and assorted bicycles to get to the door.
A wire hung from where the doorbell once was. He rapped on the door twice. Broken shouts came from inside, in between blasts of the TV and Bowie’s barks. No one answered. He hit the door with the side of his fist.
It pulled back.
Shay looked at Jig’s dad, who went by the nickname Hunter. The clamour of separate televisions collided: one from inside the front room and another from down the kitchen. He tensed as they yammered at his eardrums.
‘Well, well, Marco Tardelli.’
Shay smirked at the jibe.
‘Hunter.’
A bright bare bulb swung over Hunter’s head, as if it had just been given a smack.
Shay wasn’t sure when Hunter had got out of prison. A career stroker he was, Shay had learned, who spent as much time behind bars as in his own home.
‘Big match today, Shayo?’
A cigarette dangled between Hunter’s fingers.
‘Just training.’
‘Training. Ah, Jaysus. Here, why didn’t ya say?’
He turned towards the stairs.
‘Jig man. Fucking training today. Get them skates on. There could be scouts around.’
Shay smirked again.
He thinks he’s such a smart fucker.
‘He got his touch from the auld man,’ Hunter said, doing a mock-shimmy in the doorway. ‘In the blood it is, handed down from me da, to me, to Maggot and to Jig.’
Shay nodded. He hadn’t seen Hunter play. Jig’s older brother, Maggot, had genuine skill, but was unstable, both on and off the pitch. A bit like his auld man.
‘I’ll wait in the car,’ Shay said, hoping it would speed things up.
‘Ya do that, Seamus. Tell them scouts Jig can kick the bollix out of anyone. A real Roy Keane he is.’
Shay got in and hit the ignition.
Another ten minutes passed before Jig hopped into the seat next to him. The kids’ car seats in the back gave whoever he was collecting no choice but to sit up front. Better chance of a conversation that way.
‘You’re taking the complete piss, having me wait for ages,’ Shay said, looking at the boy.
Jig blanked him. He was playing some game on his phone. He looked pale, strained. There was the familiar smell of unwashed clothes and dog, but at least he had his gear.
Shay’s eyes were drawn to the dull red blotch on the back of the boy’s right hand. Jig had spun him some yarn about what happened.
‘You know we have to set up?’ Shay said.
‘Don’t ya be wrecking me head as well,’ Jig snapped, keeping his eyes on the screen.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Saw yer face, that’s what.’
Shay just shook his head and swung the car off the kerb.
Shay reminded himself, again, why he bothered collecting boys like Jig. It did them good. It put a bit of structure in their lives, basic things, like having their gear ready and being picked up at a certain time. He also got them to help set up and carry all the stuff – balls, corner flags, cones, nets, spades and rubbish bags. And to help him get rid of the crap – the broken glass and crumpled cans, the fire debris and the dog shit.
Not that Jig was of much use this evening. He was just moping around.
Shay felt he was only ever scratching the surface with that boy.
He emptied dregs out a can, shoved it into a plastic bag, and wondered what lay ahead for Jig. Could he actually reach him, influence him in any way?
‘Jig, help me mark out the drills here,’ Shay called, pulling the poles and ladders out.
But the boy was busy kicking balls inside the bag.
‘Would you not be better taking one out?’ Shay said, putting the stuff down. ‘Tell ya what,’ dragging a ball out of the bag, ‘try and get around me.’
Jig feigned disinterest, his limp arms hanging.
Shay waited.
‘What? Worried you won’t get around the old man?’
Jig twitched and looked over his shoulder. He jogged towards Shay, stepping over the ball with his right leg and pushing it past Shay with his left foot.
‘Nice one,’ Shay said. ‘Now, again.’
The next two times, Jig tried the same thing. Shay got the ball off him each time.
‘What are you, a one-trick pony?’
‘Yer the bleeding pony,’ Jig mumbled, but Shay let it slide.
Jig tried the roll-around, dragging the top of the ball around him and over to the other side of Shay. He was too slow.
‘Fuck that,’ Jig said, kicking at the air. He reached into his tracksuit pocket and took out his mobile and fiddled with it.
‘Who you expecting a call from, Trapattoni?’
Shay expected the standard ‘fuck off’, but Jig just put his phone back in.
‘There’s nothing an opponent loves more than a skilful player, like you, dropping his head when the ball is taken off him,’ Shay said, tapping the ball back to him.
This time, Jig pretended to go right, then nutmegged Shay and gathered the ball on the other side.
‘Little Ronaldo, are ya?’ Shay shouted, clasping Jig’s shoulders. ‘Good man.’
Shay could hear the other kids coming before he could see them. He gathered the poles and marked out a couple of drills.
Glancing back, he smiled as he saw Jig practising his moves, his head bowed in concentration.