The smell of sweat and embrocation filled the air, the sound of splashing water. Big men moved quietly, to and from the showers, heads downcast. Steam oozed in along the ceiling through the open partition. The treatment table in the middle of the dressing room was heaped with towels, hurleys, bags of sliotars, helmets, a sack of training kit, two medical bags, piles of oranges and bananas, a mound of spare jerseys, five bottle-carriers of water and energy drinks, a box of energy gels, an unopened plastic packet of programmes, a crumpled large white coat.
Cillian McMahon thought he heard a sob from the corner; he did not look for the source. McGrath, the coach, and Considine, the County Board chairman, argued near the door. That prick, Considine, who had tried to get him suspended over the car crash in Lahinch. Who’s great pals with his own prick of a father, of course.
McMahon looked around at the debris of his team. Quinn, the toughest full-back in Ireland, sat beside him, elbows on knees. Keane and O’Connell stared into nothingness, their jerseys off. Lost us the game, those muppets. James Clancy unwrapped endless bandages from around his knee and muttered to himself. Most of the others were shedding their gear. The singing and whooping of the Cork players in the distance could be heard whenever the door was opened.
Doctor Jim, crouched on one knee, stitched a gash over Shane O’Connor’s eye.
‘Keep still, Shane, just two to go,’ he said.
‘Fuck!’ Quinn shouted, coming back to life. He stood up, and peeled off the inside-out Cork jersey.
McMahon opened his laces. The boot on his right foot wouldn’t come off. He had to hold his shin and tug the boot free. He gasped with the pain from his ribs. Probably fucking cracked.
He’d been paid €1,500 to wear those boots. They looked stupid now with their garish lime-green fronts and orange laces. The insoles were completely destroyed. How could blades have done so much damage? He shoved them into his bag, out of sight.
He fought off the raw memories: his four wides, dropping that ball in the first half when he was clean through, being moved off Culloty to corner-forward, the constant mocking of Crilly, the smug look on Sullivan’s face afterwards. He shook his head violently, once, like a horse shaking off flies on a hot day.
He pulled down his right sock to the heel. He tried to pick the cloth near the toes and yank it free but it wouldn’t budge. Instead, he unpeeled the top of the sock with his left hand, wincing at the last, as some skin came away with it.
The sole of the upturned foot was a mess of weeping blisters and bulging sores. The ruptured skin had yellowed and slid aside, yielding the remnants of a watery red ooze. He watched it trickle down towards his heel. The uncovered fleshy patches were a vivid, blotchy red.
He pressed his thumbs into the soft inflammations and felt nothing. He placed his foot on the matted floor and pushed it down hard. He twisted it left and right, breathing through his nose.
The left stocking peeled off more easily. One bulbous swelling covered the ball of the foot, and the skin had come free from the underside of the toes. Dried blood encrusted the nail of the big toe where a Cork player had stood on it. He checked to see if the nail was cracked. Apparently not. A purplish welt, just above the ankle, marked where he’d been hit by a hurley.
He rummaged in the side pocket of his gear bag for the long scissors. Its narrow pointed tip pierced the skin of the blisters that had not already burst. He squeezed them empty with a dull satisfaction, pushing the pale liquid out with his fingernails. It dripped down on the Cork jersey at his feet. He sprinkled medicated powder onto the lesions.
He sat back on the bench and pressed his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
I’ll give it good and hard to Ruth later.
He smiled at the prospect. At least he had that to look forward to.
Opening his eyes, he noticed James Ryan, an old rival of his, glaring at him from across the dressing room.
‘Glad someone thinks it’s funny. One point, was it?’ Ryan said.
McMahon put his hand on his hurley, stood and moved forward.
‘Oh, you’re going to use the hurley, are you? Fucking pussy,’ Ryan said, advancing.
McMahon dropped the hurley, and pressed up to Ryan, face to face. They pushed their foreheads against each other.
‘Fuck you, what did you ever do in a Clare jersey? Can’t even make the team,’ McMahon said.
Mick Lynch, the full-forward and captain, came between them, a giant paw on either chest.
‘Back off, you two. I said back off! We win together and lose together, and that’s an end to it. Sit down, Cillian. Go and have your shower, you. Show a bit of pride, for fuck’s sake, ye’re like Rathkeale knackers the pair of ye. Young will be here in a minute and we’re not going to make a show of ourselves in front of him.’
McMahon sat down, his heart racing. He stood up again, removed his togs, sat back down and put his towel on his lap. Clarecastle shithead, shouldn’t even be on the panel.
Dinny Young, the Cork coach, entered the room with the Cork County Board secretary and they shook hands with their counterparts. Tall, tanned and fit, with short greying hair, the man looked sombre, almost apologetic.
‘Lads, I won’t keep ye a minute. The last thing ye want is a speech from me. We know what it feels like to come out of the wrong side of tight matches, we’ve lost our share of them over the past couple of years.’ He took a deep breath and extended his open hands before him.
‘But we’ve learned a lot from those defeats: how it can make us stronger. And so can ye. Ye won the All-Ireland last year with an amazing display and ye can do that again. Don’t doubt it for a minute,’ he said, looking straight at McMahon.
‘As far as I’m concerned, each one of you has a lot to be proud of today. I know the individual sacrifices that you have made to get Clare to this final and you deserve the utmost credit for that. You can all hold your heads high when you leave this dressing room. I believe, and I know I speak for every Cork person when I say this, that you have done your families, your clubs and your county proud – whatever today’s result. And anyone who says different hasn’t a clue what they’re talking about.’
Young shook hands with a few players near the door and left the room, to half-hearted applause.
Cork langer, thinks he’s Barack fucking Obama.
The speech reminded McMahon of what his father had said to him under the Mackey Stand after the Under 21 final two years before, when they’d lost to Limerick. In front of some of his teammates, too.
‘Ye let yereselves down there today. No fucking pride in the jersey. Beaten by that bunch? Pathetic.’ He had spat out the final word, and turned away and walked out through the open gate, with her, his so-called mother, waddling after him. Didn’t even offer a lift home, or a kind word. And him on crutches, with a suspected ankle fracture. Couldn’t train for three weeks.
Fucking showed you, last year. Wasn’t pathetic then, was I? Five goals and twenty points from play, 1–5 in the final!
He stood up, shuffled his feet into his flip-flops and began to count the women that he had fucked in the previous twelve months. Nadine, that Dub in the back of the car, she nearly pulled the cock off him. One. Emma, who pestered him on Snapchat, then threatened to post that picture on Facebook if he didn’t answer her – the bitch. Two. Rachel, from Kilkenny, three. Megan, the hippy, four. Jade, the rich bitch, five. Sarah, from Drogheda, six. The other Sarah, mad for it, anal, the works, seven. He should look her up again next year; she could be a regular when Ruth wasn’t around.
He stepped into the shower cubicle and had to put his hand on the wall when the water met the soles of his feet. That one from Wexford, eight. The two that weekend in Doolin, Caitlin and Kylie, or was it Khloe? Ten. He put his head under the flow of water. He took shallow breaths to relieve the stabbing pain in his chest.
How the fuck could you have dropped that ball? It just doesn’t happen.
Then Ruth. The first time was at Joe’s party in that little bedroom. How many times since? Too many to count. Eleven. Maeve, the looper at Christmas, twelve. Shouldn’t have done that, really; it was bad form – she was totally out of it.
The water went cold and shouts came up from the other cubicles. Typical. He dried himself down and returned to his place on the bench. He patted his feet with his towel and sprinkled more powder on them. He dressed himself slowly in his tracksuit and hoodie, instead of the suit they were supposed to wear. Fuck them.
‘Jim, will you look at Cillian’s feet. They’re in bits,’ Lynch said to the doctor who was flexing and icing James Clancy’s knee.
‘They’re fine,’ McMahon said. ‘Just a few blisters. They’re fine, Jim.’
Murphy put down the knee and gave Clancy the ice pack. ‘Leave that on for ten minutes more. If it starts to burn, take it off. Have you got Nurofen?’
Clancy nodded.
‘Here, give me a look,’ he said to McMahon.
McMahon sighed and lifted his two feet to the bending doctor. What a fucking nightmare.
‘Just a few blisters.’
‘That’s more than just a few, Cillian,’ the doctor said. ‘What are you putting on it?’
‘This stuff. I got it from the chemist.’ He handed the doctor the tin.
‘Hmm, I’ll give you something on the bus. Don’t pull off the loose skin. Have you clean socks?’
‘I was just going to wear the trainers.’
‘No, if these get infected you’ll be in trouble. You might need an antibiotic too, we’ll see tomorrow. Rest them as much as you can. Keep them as dry as possible.’
They departed the dressing room in dribs and drabs. Most people left him alone, as he hobbled by, with his hurleys and gear bag.
Out in the tall tunnel where the bus was parked, straggling Clare supporters – mostly players’ friends and relations – stood still, in clusters, bereft.
One little girl, with a blue ribbon in her hair, ran up to him and asked: ‘Are you hurt, Cillian, are you hurt?’ Her cheeks were red from crying. She wore one saffron sandal and one blue.
‘No, no, I’m fine. We’ll be back again next year. Don’t worry, sure you won’t?’ he said.
‘I won’t, Cillian. You’re great, Cillian. I love you, Cillian.’
‘I know you do. I know that. What’s your name?’
‘Saoirse, Cillian. Saoirse Keane.’
‘Thanks for all your support, Saoirse. We’ll be back again next year, don’t worry.’ He patted her on the shoulder and smiled.
At that, the girl burst into tears and hugged him, her head banging into his ribs. Her mother had to peel her off.
Shallow breaths.
The mother, a dark-haired woman he thought he knew, smiled at him and nodded. The pity in her eyes enraged him. He shuffled to the bus and cast his bag and hurleys into the luggage compartment. He had forgotten to tape the hurleys together and they clattered and slid along the smooth surface.
No sign of him. Better to get it over with, but not in front of other people.
He thought about the time his father had hit him, after he gave cheek at his Confirmation. It wasn’t a clean shot, but the shock of it stunned him – he’d never been punched before. He remembered being frozen rigid in terror as he lay on the ground, staring up at the towering figure above him.
‘What did you just say?’ his father had hissed through gritted teeth. Overcome by fear, McMahon had jumped up and run away. Why he went to the Clearys’ house he never really knew, but he had been glad of the kindness and sympathy. He could vividly remember that small kitchen, and he, sitting there in his good clothes, crying like a baby, while Mrs Cleary wiped his nose, tried to calm him down and get him to eat a biscuit.
His mother picked him up half-an-hour later in tight-lipped silence. Took his side, of course. Could she ever, just once, stand up to him?
He flopped into the bus seat, put his back against the window and lifted his two feet off the floor.
That mad bitch Chloe in Galway. Twelve, no, thirteen. The American, Tara, fourteen. Only head, but still, she was a model so have to count her. His mind drifted back to the game. He closed his eyes, and fought against the images. Michelle, that married one from Cloghroe. She did half the team, but she was a good ride, in fairness. Fifteen. There was at least one more, but he couldn’t remember.
The bus edged out of the huge gate and away from the stadium. A group of Cork supporters jeered them as they passed.
Sully’s scoring goals, he’s scoring goals.
Oh to, oh to be, oh to be a Rebel!
Lose-ers, lose-ers, lose-ers.
Back pressed against the window, McMahon swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had forgotten to bring a bottle with him, despite Jim warning them about rehydration.
He glanced to his right and saw Dave Hogan take a sip from an energy drink. Hogan, whom Ruth had invited to her Debs, and gotten off with a few times after the Leaving Cert. Hogan had been the first to have sex with her – McMahon had wheedled it out of her that night when she was high on Es in Vicar Street. She’d done it with some other guy too – she wouldn’t say who – in first-year, before she was going out with him. He’d stormed out of the gig, she stumbling after him, whining. ‘Cillian, Cillian, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said. I’m sorry, Cillian, I’m sorry.’ Staggering down Christchurch in her high heels. Hardly spoke to her the following day while she sniffled and whispered to her ‘friend’ Leah. Leah who hated him because he told her she was frigid when she would only give him a hand job that time Ruth had gone home for the weekend. Fucked Ruth’s brains out that Sunday night too when she got back. She likes it rough.
He took his phone from his tracksuit pocket and looked at it. He almost turned it on to see his Twitter feed, to find out what his 48,000 followers were saying. Bound to be some support there, at least some people would appreciate what he’s done for the county. He twirled the phone in his hand and licked his lips. He really needed some water. Maybe he should text his agent, Nick Connolly: he’d know what to post. Something apologetic, but about pride in the jersey too. #betternextyear #wewillbeback. Maybe something to remind them of all the scores he got in this year’s championship: 1–2 in the first match against Cork, and probably the goal of the year; 1–6 against Offaly who’d played with a sweeper; seven points against Limerick and they double-marked him; 1–5 against Tipp including a goal in the last two minutes to win it; 1–4 against Waterford in the semi – no way would Clare even be in the final only for him. No fucking way.
And one point today. One point.
The bus pulled up at the hotel drop-off area and the players trundled out.
I am not going to take any shit from him. Not this time.
McMahon had to climb into the luggage compartment on his hands and knees to rescue his scattered hurleys. Nobody offered to help him either, the bastards. He wondered if he could get a punctured lung from one of the cracked ribs. When he stepped out onto the ground, he thought his feet might buckle under him.
Two lines of people on the hotel forecourt clapped the players as they trudged past. He saw his parents and Ruth among them. His father, in his good suit, head and shoulders above the other two, was stony-faced. His mother, in a stupid flowery dress, kneaded her hands in front of her. Ruth, her blonde hair highlighted by the Clare jersey, stood to one side.
McMahon walked forward, head bowed. He stopped in front of them. He tried to look up but couldn’t. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, and he was pulled into an embrace. The stubble of his father’s chin grazed his forehead as he cried. His mother was upon him now too, her breasts pressed into his back. The pair enfolded him. Ruth stood to one side, her head bowed.
His mother made a strange shushing sound he had never heard before. He could smell that sickly sweet Fleur De Lys perfume she wore.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tried to say, but the words came out as a whine.
His father stood back. McMahon looked up and saw him glancing right and left at the crowd.
‘Not your day, Cillian,’ his father said, loudly, and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Not your day. Stand up tall, now.’
McMahon took a deep breath, nodded and turned away to enter the hotel.
A few minutes later, sunk in a lobby sofa, he turned on his phone. He took a deep breath as an array of tones came through. He looked around for Nick. No sign of the fucker when he needed him most. He scrolled down his recent calls made and selected Nick Connolly Agent. He listened to it ring and go to Voicemail.
‘Nick, where are you? I need to get a Tweet out but I’m not sure what to say.’
The text messages were mostly sympathetic and requests for interviews – fuck that, no way was he talking to the media, not even Clare FM. He didn’t read the mail – he knew they would be from his Twitter feed, Cork people rubbing it in, or all those hater-losers who knew nothing about hurling. He looked at the symbol of the white bird on the blue background. His thumb twitched, hovering over it. He put the phone back in his pocket. James Clancy’s father, John, came over to shake his hand and commiserate.
‘Unlucky, Cillian – ye gave it everything,’ he said.
‘Thanks, John,’ McMahon said. He leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes.
He heard his father’s adamant voice behind him.
‘He was fucking useless, Dick, couldn’t do one thing right.’
McMahon put his face in his hands, slumped forward and rocked his body, pressing his fingers into the bone around his eye sockets. The wild rushing in his ears was like the pounding of a storm. It blocked out all the noise in the lobby. He fisted his right hand and pushed his thumb into his ribs, right into the cartilage, until he could push no further.
Where the fuck is she with that key?
He rose and walked towards the hotel reception. Ruth and her sister Jessie were standing behind a pillar. Ruth held both her hands in the air and said: ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’ Jessie was trying to calm her.
‘Can’t what?’ he said. ‘Did you get the key?’
Ruth froze. She put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wild. Her nails were painted saffron and blue, every second one.
‘Oh, nothing, Cillian,’ Jessie said and smirked. She always did have the hots for him. ‘Sister stuff.’
He walked to the lift and Ruth followed. He’d get it out of her later. He recalled what he’d heard his father say to Dick Lonergan in the hotel lobby and he closed his eyes. He leaned into the corner of the lift and banged his forehead against the wooden panelling. Ruth gazed at the door of the lift. She began to cry.
‘Jesus, what is it, now?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. She stopped crying and wiped her cheeks. Her face hardened. McMahon glared at her – it was always about her.
Ruth fumbled with the key card at the door of their room before pushing it open. She held the door for him as he shuffled in and dropped his bag. She placed his hurleys against the wall and put her case on the ground by the wardrobe. They stood there in an awkward silence. Ruth rushed to the bathroom and closed the door.
Don’t tell me she’s getting her fucking period.
McMahon sidled up on the bed and groaned. For sure his ribs were cracked. He let his head sink down into the soft deep pillows. He looked at his phone again. Where the fuck was Nick? He scrolled through some of his Twitter feed – mostly abuse. He turned off the phone. He was exhausted.
Losers and haters, what do they know?
He looked down at his runners and imagined the bloodstains on the white sports socks underneath. He wanted her to see them. He wanted them all to see his feet in ribbons. In fucking ribbons. He wondered if he should get her to take a photo of them for Instagram, but he could only do that if they’d won. He clenched his teeth. At least she would see them.
God, he was tired. So tired. He closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion take him.
Ruth comes back into the room.
‘Will you take off my runners and socks?’ McMahon says. ‘I need to put powder on them. Doctor Jim said I have to. It’s in my bag. And will you get me a drink of water?’
She drops her Pandora bracelet on the glass table. She loves that stupid bracelet. She opens the side zip on his bag and takes out the tin of powder.
She kneels on the bed and undoes his laces. Her hands tremble, her nails are saffron and blue. Saffron and blue. She lifts his left leg by the calf and removes his runner. She does the same with the right leg. She unpeels a short sock, blotched red, and keens.
‘Oh Cillian. Oh God, oh God,’ Ruth says, her eyes full of tears. She removes the other sock.
He feels a deep satisfaction.
This is what I do for my county. This is what I do. For my county. They don’t know. They haven’t a fucking clue.
Ruth lifts his feet again, one by one, and puts a towel beneath them. She slides the ends of his tracksuit pants up to his shins. She twists the top of the tin and sprinkles the white powder out, concentrating hard. She shakes the tin up and down, her blonde hair waving, her breasts juddering. She shakes and shakes, and the powder falls like snow. It falls and falls. It gives off a faint antiseptic smell as it drifts down and covers his feet, his poor feet, in a high white mound.
She slides off the bed and puts the tin on the sideboard by the TV. She pours water from a complimentary bottle into a glass and puts it on the bedside locker. She sits in the armchair by the TV, gazes at him and waits to be called.
Good old Ruth, she does what she’s told.
McMahon woke. Noelle! How could he have forgotten Noelle? The pair of tits on her. Sixteen. He knew it was sixteen, not bad for one year.
Bet you never pulled sixteen women in one year, you useless old dickhead.
He glanced to his right towards the armchair to beckon Ruth, but she wasn’t there. The room had darkened and grown cool. The bathroom door was ajar, the light off. He raised his head and winced as the pain slashed through his chest.
He looked at his feet, throbbing now. His runners were still on. There was no glass of water on the bedside locker, no tin of powder on the sideboard and no bracelet on the glass table. Ruth’s case was no longer beside the wardrobe.
‘Ruth?’ he said, his voice querulous and sharp.
There was no reply.
‘Ruth?’ he said again, more wistfully.
He slumped back on the pillows and clamped his eyes shut. The only sounds he could hear were his own untidy breathing and the hum of traffic in the distance.