Jig leaned on the railing of the bridge, captivated. The swan stretched up out of the water and pushed out his chest. He opened his huge wings and gave them a great, loud flap. Then he folded them behind him into a heart shape. Or, maybe, it was more like a diamond shape. At least Jig thought it was a ‘he’, remembering what his granda had told him.
‘The males are bigger than the females, most times,’ his granda had said. ‘But only they know for sure which is which. Apart from mating season,’ he told him, when the male had a black ball on the end of its bill.
The swan adjusted his wings, lifting them up and angling them down at the dark waters of the canal. His soft feathers blew in the wind. Jig peered into the water and saw webbed feet pushing backwards every few seconds, giving the swan a gentle jolt each time. Behind him, his mate glided silently, wings folded in tight and her long neck scooped down in an arc.
‘Isn’t it mad them are so white?’ Jig said, turning to Spikey.
‘They should be black from all the shite in there,’ Spikey said, flinging stones at apartments on one side.
‘They do be grey and brown when they’re young, and go white,’ Jig said.
‘How come their shite is all green?’ Spikey asked. ‘Ya see big piles of it on the path.’
‘Dunno,’ Jig replied, trying to remember if his granda ever talked about their shite.
The swan and his mate passed under the bridge and Jig ran over to the other side. Spikey had a stone cocked in his hand and pretended to throw.
‘Don’t, ya cunt!’ Jig shouted, grabbing his arm. Spikey pulled away, laughing and gave Jig a clatter. The two of them wrestled, falling onto the bridge.
A slow clapping noise disturbed them. Jig looked up and pushed Spikey away. Two swans, their wings outstretched, flapped just feet above them, with that ‘woo’ sound they make. They slowly dropped down towards the canal, their long necks jutting out, like pencils Jig thought, and their wings shaped like a coat hanger, bent in near the tips. They stretched their dark grey feet out, angling in. They bounced onto the water, once, twice, three times, before splashing to a halt.
‘Hey, they’re jet-skiing,’ Jig shouted, a big smile on his face.
He heard feet pattering on the bridge and looked over. The girls approached, Taylor wearing pink plastic platform heels and Sharon holding a hurley up against her shoulder and clasping a sliotar in her other hand.
‘What youse up to?’ Sharon asked, smacking the sliotar up in the air and catching it.
‘I’m heading into town to get a pair of runners,’ Jig said, taking cash out of his pocket and waving it in the air.
‘Where did ya get that?’ Sharon asked, her eyes suspicious.
‘Doing a few jobs,’ he said, shrugging and shoving the cash back in, ‘ya know yerself.’
Jig could see her frown easing. She sneaked a smile at him. The hair on his arms tingled.
‘Here, give us that,’ Jig said, grabbing the hurley from her. ‘Pull on it,’ he shouted, swinging the hurley and smacking Spikey in the arse. ‘Go on, pull on it.’
The two of them burst out laughing. Sharon reefed the hurley off Jig and tapped the sliotar in the air.
‘Later,’ she said, walking off, clasping Taylor in an arm-lock.
‘See youse after,’ Jig shouted, looking at Sharon’s ass. He waited, and gave Sharon a big smile when she glanced back at him.
Jig stepped down Grafton Street like he was Wayne Rooney, with his new blue adidas runners all shiny in the sun.
This is as good as it gets.
He could see Spikey eyeing them, like he did in the shop. He told him he’d have the cash too if he worked with Ghost. Anyways, he said he’d get him something after. Then he spotted the ice-cream shop.
Jig threw himself at the counter, the palms of his outstretched hands banging off the plastic. He was almost drooling at the rows upon rows of treats from heaven itself. Cones of all shapes and sizes. Tubs too. And waffles and pancakes. He ran his finger along as he read the flavours. Toffee Dream. Strawberry Delight. Cookie Dough. Whipped Lemon. Behind were counters of sweets, drizzles and sprinkles.
‘A big fuck-off cone with Toffee Dream and Cookie Dough, my woman. And loads of drizzle,’ he ordered, waving a €20 note in the air.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment. This lady’s first,’ the woman said.
‘What ya having, Spikey?’ Jig said, turning to him. ‘My treat.’
Jesus, that’s some buzz saying that, ‘my treat’, and having the cash to do it.
‘Waffle, with vanilla and cream and sprinkle stuff all over the bad boy,’ Spikey said, beaming.
Their purchase made, they strutted down Grafton Street. Jig took lumps out of his ice cream, his teeth jarring at the soft mounds of sweet coldness.
‘Ah man, this is it,’ Jig said, through a stuffed mouth. ‘What’s the waffle like?’
‘Nice. Warm. Ice cream is soft,’ Spikey managed to say, before he bit off a big chunk, cream oozing across his mouth.
They finished their delights sitting near the Molly Malone statue, laughing their heads off at a man dressed up as a leprechaun and looking to get his picture taken with tourists. Beside him was a little stereo, playing diddly-eye music.
‘Beegorrah and bethehokkee,’ Jig shouted, jumping down.
‘The Jigmaster, ladies and gentlemen,’ Spikey said, clapping his hands to the music. ‘Go for it, Julia, feel the rhythm. Go on, Julia. Now, Julia. Now.’
Jig danced faster and faster, hopping up and down like a madman, his mouth covered in ice cream, snot and sweat. A crowd of bemused tourists gathered.
When he stopped, exhausted, Spikey held out his hands. ‘For the babie. A few coppers for the little babie.’
Jig heaved and laughed as the coins dropped, the guts of four euro as it turned out.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun, and wished it could stay like this.