On match day, Shay watched Jig stumble out the door, dragging his bag along the ground. He clambered into the front and slammed the door shut.
‘Have you got your boots?’ Shay asked, glancing at Jig’s bag.
No answer, just a surly look.
‘Let’s go, kick-off in Blackrock is at half eleven.’
‘Thought Ghost was picking me up,’ Jig said, taking out his phone and tapping on some image on YouTube.
Shay bunched his eyebrows and looked over.
That’s not what I want now, Ghost bringing Jig to and from games.
He shook his head.
Ghost wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t put up with all the waiting around and listening to Jig’s da and ma. Anyway, Ghost had his own kid to bring to the game.
But the thought lingered.
‘What are they like?’ Jig asked, staring at gyrating women on a hip-hop video.
Shay raised his eyebrow at the possibility of a conversation.
‘Handy enough the last time we played them. They have a few skilful guys and play as a team.’
No response. Shay looked at the screen, at a woman in very few clothes and very high heels. She bent over, caressed her ass and opened her mouth. Shay had to jump on the brakes when he looked up and saw red lights.
‘Little posh poofs, I bet ya,’ Jig said when the video ended.
‘Listen, they have guys who can play football. Like what we can do when we put our minds to it.’
‘Am I starting?’
Shay looked out the window.
‘Depends which Jig turns up. You going to work hard or just mope around if you lose the ball, like the last day.’
‘Fuck off so, ya grumpy bollix,’ Jig said, tapping on the video again.
Ten minutes into the match, Jig was sitting on the bench scraping his boots off the grass. Shay glanced at him. The home team was up 1–0 and he could do with having Jig on, but he wanted to send him a message. But it looked like it could be heading to 2–0 any moment. Their number 6 was causing problems.
‘Jig,’ he shouted, ‘you’re on.’
He called to the ref and pulled one of the lads out. Turning, he could see Ghost slapping Jig on the shoulder and end what seemed like a brief word in his ear. Jig kicked at the grass as he came towards Shay.
‘We need to create some chances out there,’ Shay said, a hand on Jig’s shoulders. ‘I don’t mind you taking risks to do that, but, if you lose the ball, don’t drop your head. Get it back. Okay?’
Jig ran on, shouldering the other team’s number 6. Shay looked over at Ghost who was sticking his thumb up.
‘I’m the bleeding manager here,’ Shay muttered.
Fifteen minutes later, when the ref blew half time, it was still 2–0. Jig, after a promising start, let his head drop. Just what Shay told him not to do.
‘Youse on the PlayStation all night, lads, or something?’ Shay said as they came off.
‘Playing with yerselves more like,’ Ghost quipped, getting the odd snigger.
Shay gathered his team around.
‘The only way we won’t be four down by the end of this game is if you stay with your man, put challenges in and stop moping around the place. Jig, and Sam, we need to start bossing that middle.’
He sensed Ghost moving near.
‘Let their number 6 know yer fucking there, right. Hit him hard,’ Ghost said smacking the palm of his hands off each other. ‘That will tone him down.’
Shay put his arms around some of them as Ghost drifted away.
‘The last thing we need is a sending-off. The only way we’ll get back in is by scoring, so that means playing football, passing it, finding a man. Now, if I shout to you “three minutes”, you have that long to wake up, or you’re coming off.’
Five minutes in, their number 6 was floating around, when crunch, Jig flew in and took the legs out from under him, sending him up into the air. Shay knew that if Jig’s feet had been any higher, he could have caused a serious injury.
The boy screamed. His manager protested. Shay could see the ref pulling Jig in. He was giving the ref lip. ‘Shut up, Jig,’ Shay roared. The ref was reaching for a card. It looked like a red one. Ghost let out a roar. The ref looked over and for the briefest of seconds hesitated. He seemed to adjust his fingers in his pocket and took out a yellow.
‘Ref, that has to be a sending-off,’ shouted the manager for the other team. ‘That’s a disgrace.’
The score remained the same at the final whistle. Shay heard Ghost congratulate the kids coming off, a bit louder than needed. He did it just to aggravate the home team. Their manager came marching over. Ghost, munching on an apple, blocked his path.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ the man said, looking away from Shay to Ghost. ‘You know it was sheer blind luck his leg wasn’t broken?’
Ghost stood there, taking noisy bites and chewing with his mouth open, his bony jaw rubbing against the inside of his skin.
‘Nice little team of scumbags you’re building here?’ the man said.
Ghost stopped his chewing and Shay thought he was going to box the man. The kids inched forward in expectation of seeing Ghost in action. The silence was split only when Ghost’s munching resumed. Shay could see the man’s expression switch, from anger to anxiety. He turned and strode away. The boys broke out laughing. Ghost winked at a few of them.
Shay watched Ghost saunter over to a parked car. A BMW powered up.
Shay gathered the balls and gear together. Jig came over and muttered something about having a lift.
Jig scraped with his knife as quietly as he could, glancing up at the windows. He was buzzing. The cool night air ran up underneath his hoodie.
He stood back and admired the ‘Fuck U’ scratched into the car’s bodywork. He held the rock in his gloved hands. Before he threw it, he went over to the porch and took a piss all over the door and flower pots. Then, he ran up and lashed the rock through the sitting-room window. As the alarms blared he took out the apple and lobbed it through the hole in the glass.
‘Ya got style,’ Ghost said, slapping Jig on the shoulder after he jumped into the jeep. ‘Leaving yer mark on his poncy flowers.’
Jig loved the soft brown leather of the huge seats and the array of vents, switches and digital displays across the vast dashboard.
Ghost tapped his iPhone as the jeep powered away.
‘These guys are massive,’ he said to Jig. ‘Local hip hop crew. Downloaded the fuckers from YouTube.’
Jig was beaming from ear to ear. The passenger window was down. He stuck his head out. The smack of the wind against his face made him tingle.
‘I’m a bad nigga!’ he shouted, pumping his fist in the air and nodding to the beat.
Ghost laughed. Jig said it again. He felt dizzy with excitement. Ghost turned up the volume.
‘I’m fuckin mangled on drugs and tangled in debt. Mangled and tangled, drugs and debt.’
Jig sang the chorus as Ghost slammed the dashboard to the beat.
This was some buzz, Jig told himself.
I’ve done jobs for Ghost, but not with him, like together, in his jeep and all.
He’d showed Ghost what he was made of. That the Jigster was the real deal. That he was paying back that price Ghost was on about, like a man.
Ghost tapped his nails on the steering wheel, while he lit a fag. He rested a long bony arm out the window. Jig looked at his yellow-grey fingers under the flare of the cigarette.
‘That fucker had it coming,’ Ghost said, handing Jig the fag. ‘No one calls my boys scumbags. Those rich pricks are always looking down on our type, Jig.’
Jig clasped the smoke between his finger and thumb and inhaled out the window, coughing. Sensing Ghost was looking at him, he turned around.
‘Yer a right little soldier,’ Ghost said, ‘aren’t ya?’
Jig’s face flowered into a smile.
‘Here,’ Ghost said, pulling something out of his jacket pocket. ‘Ya still have that debt, but ya deserve a little treat after that.’
It was three €50 notes.
Jig’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he held the crisp cash.
This is the best night ever.
He shouted the chorus out the window, punching the air some more.
‘I’m fuckin mangled on drugs and tangled in debt. Mangled and tangled, drugs and debt.’