MARK KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. It was cold, freezing cold. His duffel coat hood was pulled as far up as it would go, and he had a scarf wrapped several times around his neck, but still the cold got through. He knocked again. He heard the movement behind the door, then a click and the door opened a little. Mr Wise’s eyes peered out and then the door opened wide.
‘Mark! Come in, boy, before you freeze.’
Mark stepped in and Mr Wise closed the door quietly to keep the heat in. They went into the front room where the fire was burning.
‘Take off your coat, son.’
‘Ah it’s okay, Mr Wise, I only called for a minute.’
‘Still, take it off or you lose the benefit of it when you go back out.’ Mark took it off.
‘So, what brings you knocking on my door during the holidays?’ Mr Wise sat into his armchair. Mark sat too, but on a hard dining chair.
‘Mr Wise – you know loads of people, important people, don’t yeh?’
‘I do. Some important, some who think they are.’
‘Yeh … well … I want to get me Mammy a ticket for the Cliff Richard concert and I was wondering do you know anyone that could get me one?’
‘Who is Cliff Richard?’
‘Yeh don’t know Cliff? Yeh must be the only person in Ireland that doesn’t. He’s a singer.’
‘Oh! Well, I’m not good at names. Now, let me think! Who would I know?’ Mr Wise closed his eyes and with thumb and middle finger held his temple. After a few moments he took his hand away and shrugged. ‘No! I cannot think of anyone, Mark, I am sorry,’ and he looked it.
‘That’s all right. I just thought you might, that’s all.’
Mark started to put his coat on. Mr Wise stood and pointed a finger in the air.
‘I have an idea, though.’
‘What?’
‘Why not get his autograph for your mother?’
‘He’s auto-graft? What’s that?’
‘If you go to the theatre, say during the day, with a notepad, he will sign his name on it. I dare say that if you tell him the story, he may even write a little note to your mother too.’
‘Would he do that?’
‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
Mark smiled at last. ‘Yeh, it is, Mr Wise, thanks a lot.’
Mark buttoned up his coat and Mr Wise went with him to the door. Before he left, Mark took something from his pocket. He handed the colourfully-wrapped parcel to Mr Wise.
‘Look, I know you don’t believe in it, but here, happy Christmas anyway.’
Mr Wise took the parcel and shook Mark’s hand. ‘And a very happy Christmas to you, son, thank you.’
Mark stepped out and the door closed. It was just a fifteen-minute walk to the Capitol from Mr Wise’s house. Mark walked quickly to keep warm. He was glad he gave the aftershave to Mr Wise – his mother had never used it even once! In Eason’s he bought a small notepad, then briskly walked the few steps from there to the Capitol box office. The same girl that had greeted Agnes ten days earlier was there. Mark’s head was just visible over the counter.
‘Hey, young wan!’ he called.
The girl, who had been engrossed in a magazine, looked up. ‘What do you want?’
‘Tell Mr Richard I want him.’
‘What? I will in me shite!’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not goin’ to just drop everythin’ and come out to see a little shit like you!’
‘Well, all right then, which door is it? I’ll go into him.’
‘Get yourself away t’be fucked, go on, get lost!’
‘Here, all I want is his auto-graft on that.’ Mark pushed the little notebook towards her. The girl had gone back to her magazine and she ignored him. Mark persisted.
‘Hey! Here, tell him it’s for me Mammy, her name is Agnes. Tell him to write a note.’
The girl leaned forward and called: ‘ARTHUR! Arthur, come out here!’ The double doors of the stalls area opened, and a huge fat man in a military-style uniform marched out.
‘What’s up, Gillian?’ he asked in a gravelly voice.
‘This little fucker … he won’t go away, he’s annoyin’ me.’
Mark smiled up at the usher. ‘Howye! I need to get Mr Richard to sign this.’ Again he held out the notebook. In one swift movement the usher snatched the book, tore it in half, and tossed it into a litter bin in the lobby, and in the time-honoured tradition of the doorman, said: ‘Right, son! Fuck off! Go on!’
Mark stared aghast at the litter bin. The usher moved to him and pushed him towards the door. Mark squared up to the man.
The big usher stood legs apart and put his hands on his hips. He saw the anger in Mark’s face, and smiled. ‘Don’t fuckin’ annoy me, son, now move!’
Mark’s right foot moved quicker than the usher expected. It made contact, on target, between the big man’s legs – Mark could only see his ankle sock as his foot vanished into the man’s crotch.
‘Ahh … yeh little bollix!’ the man screamed as his face turned a crimson red. Mark ran to the doors, and into his first problem. Like many theatres, the Capitol had six glass entrance doors, and, like many theatres, only one of these was left unlocked during office hours. Mark could not remember quick enough which one he had come in. He made a choice, the one on the far left. Wrong! The next one – locked! The next one down was the door to freedom, but the usher got there first.
‘Right, mister fuckin’ hard man, try that again.’
Mark had met his second problem.
By the time Mark reached home his left eye was just about fully closed and had started to change colour from purple to black. The eye had gone with the man’s first blow. Mark went down on the cold, tiled surface. The gleaming black leather shoes of the usher had put in the bruises that now covered Mark’s back and chest. Mark had limped home. Agnes yelped when she saw the state of him.
‘What happened to you?’ She ran to him.
‘A fight … it’s nothing.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, I’m grand, Ma,’ he lied.
Dermot jumped from the chair in front of the telly. ‘Jaysus, that’s a beauty. Who won?’
‘It was a draw.’
‘Who was it, Marko? Was it Mallet Maguire?’ Dermot knew these things.
‘No, some fella from Pearse Street.’
Agnes spun towards him. ‘You stay away from Pearse Street, they use razors over there, diyeh hear me?’
‘Yeh, Ma, I hear yeh.’
Mark went to his bedroom and lay down. Dermot followed him in, and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at Mark and smiled. ‘So, Marko, what really happened? Who gave yeh the hidin’?’
Mark laughed and told Dermot the whole story.