Jig kicked at the top of the cans as they bobbed against the lock. He tried to stretch his leg down further, but nearly lost his grip on the bars. Clasping them tighter, memories flowed in.
‘Respect that water, Jack. Might be shallow, but a little boy like ya could drown in seconds. Many’s a boy round here have died in them waters.’
‘Why was the canal built anyways, Granda?’
‘The boats moved cargo and people on them, from Dublin to the country and back. This canal,’ his granda said shoving his big long arms out, ‘goes all the way to the River Shannon. The brewery in James’s Gate,’ he said, pointing his arm back the other way, ‘used barges to transport all those lovely barrels of porter to the country people. And loads of turf came back from the bogs for firesides in the city.’
‘Did ya help build the canals, Granda?’
‘Hah!’
He loved his granda’s throaty laughs.
‘But ya does make things, Granda.’
‘I’m a carpenter, Jack. I can make ya a table, chairs and jigs.’
‘What’s a jig?’
‘A frame, like a border and a machine cuts out that shape. Kind of like a copy of the frame. Here show me yer hand. Look, it fits snugly into the palm of mine.’
Jig looked at his granda’s huge shovel of a hand. His fingers were like big thick screws. His skin was lined, rough and dry, like the sandpaper he kept in his shed.
‘Am I a copy of ya, Granda?’
‘Ya know what?’ he replied, grabbing the boy’s face hard, ‘I think ya might be. Yer called Jack, like me. Ya look the fucking spit of me when I was a nipper. And, yer hand does fit into my palm. I thinks we have yer nickname: Jig.’
He wanted to stay with the memories, but a familiar voice was dragging him away.
He looked up at Maggot. He was sipping a beer. Shop stood beside his brother, tapping away on his phone.
‘What ya got a big grumpy head on ya for?’ Maggot asked.
‘Nothing,’ Jig mumbled, starting to kick at the cans again.
He was thinking about the call earlier from Ghost, telling him to get out of the gaff as the coppers were coming. He told him to bring his schoolbag with him and not to head back home till that night. Then he just hung up.
‘Yer turning into Ghost’s little helper, aren’t ya?’ Maggot said, lobbing a bottle over his head. It splashed into the water, sending a couple of ducks scurrying away. He opened up another.
‘Who bought ya those?’ Shop said, glancing up from his phone and nodding at Jig’s runners.
‘Ya not hear, Shop?’ Maggot answered. ‘Ghost gave him a wad of cash. For some job he done. What ya think of that?’
Shop hocked a big phlegm and went back to studying his phone.
‘Three score,’ Shop said to Maggot.
Jig watched his brother walk over to behind some trees and pull a brick from the wall. He took out something and dropped it on the ground.
A guy approached. His jeans were all baggy and his coat sagged.
‘Story?’ he said to the lads.
They just looked at him.
He opened his fist, revealing a crumpled note and gave it to Shop.
‘Can ya not get any fucking clean fifty-euro notes, Bones,’ Shop said, ‘ones that ya don’t wipe yer streaky arse with?’
But Jig could see Bones wasn’t listening. He was swaying on his feet. Maggot nodded over towards the trees. Bones skipped over and scoured the ground, picked up a little bag and was gone.
‘Not going to make much money on score bags,’ Shop said, looking at his phone again. ‘That’s more like it: a half garden.’
Maggot went back to the trees.
Jig watched a skinny little woman bounce towards them. Her hair was tied tight back. She wore a blue jacket over a T-shirt. Jig remembered what weight half a garden was after asking Maggot before. It was half an eighth of an ozzie or an ounce, he told himself proudly.
‘Ya do some old dear down at the post office, Taby?’ Shop asked.
The woman jumped around, laughing to herself.
‘Nah, not doing that any more. Well, not today anyways.’
She looked at Jig. ‘Ah, what’s the story, little man? Ah, deadly runners. Nice one.’
She dug into her front jeans pocket and pulled out a couple of notes and handed them to Shop.
‘Now that’s more like it. Nice crisp cash,’ Shop said, rustling a fifty, a twenty and a ten euro note in his hands. ‘Maggot, throw in a few yellies there for Taby; keep her nice and chilled.’
Taby broke into a big smile.
‘Thanks, Shop. Yer a star.’ She nearly sprinted over to the trees.
Jig looked at Shop; his face was all puffed up.
‘Sniffers,’ Shop said to Maggot, a few minutes later. ‘Get a onner bag,’ he added, looking at his text, ‘and ten yokes as well.’
Jig recognised them a mile off. They were students living in the new apartments built to replace the hellhole that was De Valera Mansions. A college was renting one of the blocks, Jig recalled, of what was now called Pembroke or some other poncy name.
What was a onner bag? he asked himself.
Well, a onner bag is one hundred euros’ worth. The weight is, is 1.3 grammes.
He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
‘Right, lads,’ Maggot said, walking back, ‘another party on tonight?’
Jig had a good look at them. They had Converse runners and thick-framed glasses.
Shop spread his legs and put his hands down his tracksuit bottoms.
‘Listen, lads, youse want the good stuff?’ Shop said to them. ‘Not the shit we give the junkies? One hundred fifty, but fucking worth it.’
The students shuffled and looked at each other.
‘None of that headshop substitute muck in this,’ Shop said. ‘No fucking lignocaine neither. This is pure fucking cocaine, Premiership quality. Youse could cut it down yerself and make a killing.’
‘Okay,’ piped up one fella, with a skinny beard running around his face.
‘Lads, we have some deadly yokes in too,’ continued Shop. ‘Genuine MDMA. Straight from Holland, not some pit in Poland. Youse be banging tonight. Get the bitches all lovey-dovey on the Es, then give them a few darts of coke and they’ll be sucking yer cock in the jacks before youse know it.’
Jig smiled at the image. He could see the students’ eyes nearly jump out of their heads.
‘For youse, fifty euro for ten,’ Shop said, spreading his arms out, ‘youse can’t get fairer than that. Not for quality product.’
The students huddled together and gathered the notes.
‘Youse need any green?’ Shop asked. ‘I’ve got grade A grass as well.’
One of them shook his head.
‘Suit yerself,’ Shop said, as he counted the cash.
Maggot sorted the guys out.
‘What number are youse in again?’ Maggot asked.
‘Eh, what?’ the guy with the skinny beard said.
‘What number? For the party later.’
The students looked at each other, their faces pale.
‘What, youse don’t think those college girls would fancy getting their mouth around prime beef?’ Maggot said, grabbing his balls.
They looked at him, nervous as fuck.
‘No matter,’ Maggot said, taking his hand off his balls and waving at them, ‘I knows where youse live anyways.’
Jig joined in as Shop burst out laughing.
‘Not too smart them college boys,’ Maggot said, as the students sped away. ‘Shoving the same shit up their noses for one hundred and fifty as the junkies plug in for one hundred.’
He turned to Jig. ‘Economics, little man. That’s what this is about. One thing those college types love is thinking they are getting something special. And Shop here is the pro,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t touch the shit. Look, he’s not even drinking. Watch him, Jig, and learn.’
Maggot had been bitching about some fella for ages by the time Shop closed up. Jig watched Shop roll up two bundles of cash and push one in each sock. He thought that was cool.
‘That sulky cunt,’ Maggot continued. ‘He just said “No” when I asked him could I ride the horse. He fucking blanks me now every time I see his ugly hunched-up little face. Bobby Sands is the fucker’s name.’
‘That’s the horse,’ Shop said, as they headed for the Luas.
‘Nah, the horse is, hold on, yeah yer right. What’s his fucking name? That sulky bollix.’
‘Dunno,’ Shop said.
‘Anyways . . .’ Maggot droned, dropping his bottle onto the floor of the Luas as they got on. Jig looked around but none of the passengers raised their eyes. ‘... let’s go up to O’Donovan flats and pay him a visit.’
Jig saw from Shop’s face that he didn’t think this was a good idea.
Maggot leaned towards a woman, who was busy staring out the window.
‘Going home, love?’ he said, all nicey.
Jig looked at her. She was an office type: white shirt, grey skirt and white runners. A large handbag rested on her lap, which she clutched tightly.
‘Did ya take yer heels off after work?’ Maggot said, one hand down his tracksuit bottoms. ‘They in yer bag?’
Jig laughed. The woman shook her head, glancing around nervously.
‘Bet ya put them heels on when ya get back to yer fella and ride the bollix off him,’ he said, his hands moving under his tracksuit. ‘Bet ya, yer a little minx, alright.’
Shop gave a shout when they reached their stop. Maggot leaned down to the woman. ‘Make sure ya wear them heels on the Luas the next time, yeah?’
He clapped Jig on the shoulder as they got off, Jig joining him in the laugh.
As they headed up the road, Maggot looked over at a garage and stopped. He told them to wait.
He came back carrying something. As they approached the back of the flats, Jig saw movement in the gloom.
‘There he is,’ Maggot said, dropping what he was carrying. He ran up to the horse and gave him a heavy kick in the stomach.
Jig laughed in shock. He glanced around; Shop was shaking his head. The horse reared in pain and yanked hard at the rope tethering him to a fence. Maggot picked up a big stone and lobbed it at the horse, hopping off the side of his head. The horse was pulling and heaving and making a racket.
‘Better get going, Maggot, or there’ll be a field of angry sulky fuckers here,’ Shop said. ‘The RA are in these flats, so we better move sharpish.’
‘Fuck them. I’m not afraid of no Provos,’ Maggot shouted. ‘Anyways, they’ll be in time for a little spectacular of my own.’
‘I’ve a fucking job on tomorrow, for Ghost,’ Shop said to him. ‘If ya want to come, let’s fucking go.’
But Maggot wasn’t listening. He got the container he was carrying and poured dark liquid all over the horse.
‘Yer a feisty fucker, aren’t ya. Well, this will quieten ya down.’
Maggot took out a box of matches from inside his pockets, lit one, then the box. Giving Jig a wink, he threw the box onto the horse’s back.
It looked to Jig as if it happened in slow motion. He saw the flames curl around the horse and down his tail. The animal reared up in agony.
‘This will make fucking prime time viewing this,’ Maggot said, taking out his phone.
The screeching sawed through Jig’s head. He put his hands over his ears. The horse pulled and heaved. The rope vibrated from the strain, but did not snap.
The flames crackled and hissed. The scorched air stank, of petrol and hair and flesh. The shrieks from the horse became more terrible, more desperate. Jig couldn’t block out the noise no matter how hard he pressed his hands against his ears. He could see the white of the horse’s teeth, clenched in agony. The animal’s eyes bulged and popped. His legs folded and he collapsed with a thud.
Jig fell to his knees. He put his head between his legs; his hands still clamped to his ears. Someone grabbed him clean off the ground. It was Shop.
Jig looked back. Maggot was falling around laughing, shouting, ‘Boom! Ride yer horse now, ya fucker.’