That 1 up there is a chapter symbol. Chapter 1. I’ve decided to use chapters. Came across a book in a bookshop in Cork today. Fifty-three chapters it had. And only three hundred and seventeen pages. Reckon he got ten pages out of it isn’t it? Between having an excuse to go on to a new page without having the last one finished and the fancy chapter numbers taking up half the next page he got at least ten pages out of it. Maybe fifteen or twenty, I don’t know. Anyhow I’m definitely doing it. It has to be done. Hope you like chapters. You’ll have a new chapter every six or seven pages from here on.
Not The Same
It’s not the same as before now. We borrowed each other all three of us for a while. But then we had to give each other back isn’t it?
My Boy
Funniest was James’ father long ago though. James’ father didn’t get it right at the football matches at all. You can only be praising fellas that’s not your own son at the matches but James’ father didn’t understand. If it’s your own son you’re shouting at you’re only supposed to shout things like,
—Will ya wake up for fuck sake.
—Contest the ball man for the love of Christ.
—Will ya tackle man for the love of God.
—Ah mark up for Jesus’ sake.
And they have to criticise him to others saying stuff like,
—My fella’s away with the fairies today.
—I dunno will I bother feeding him any more, ’tis only a waste.
—I dunno is there any chance he’ll take his head out of his hole in the second half?
—He’s playing fucking thick anyhow.
James’ father was different,
—Brilliant James.
—That’s the style James, outstanding kick.
—That was a beautiful catch James, majestic.
Then he’d turn to the other men,
—My boy is having a super game.
—James is right on the money today isn’t he? Right on song.
—Wasn’t that a spectacular catch by James though. My God, the way he got up for it.
I think it really gave the other men a pain in their holes. You’d imagine their insides twisting and turning in discomfort. Their necks getting hot with annoyance. Them blinking hard when they’d really like instead to lie down and writhe on the ground and scream or else hit James’ father a box in the back of the head but instead they had to make do with a good hard blink. They’d look at each other sometimes to acknowledge their shared suffering but James’ father never noticed this. One time old Jack Ballyhale says,
—Fucking yeoman,
and all the other men around him skitting laughing and rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads. James’ father was not a noticer of things like that. It would just never have occurred to him isn’t it? But he wasn’t boasting. He was only stating the facts. Rejoicing isn’t it? The Prods do be rejoicing. Even in the chapel you’d hear them across the road belting out their happy tunes.
Anyhow, soon a few of the fellas started calling James My Boy. Not to his face or in front of his father but when they were talking about him among themselves. You’d hear them in the pub saying things like,
—Where was My Boy playing?
or
—Jesus that was a great goal My Boy got, in fairness.
I dunno if James was ever embarrassed about him. I doubt he was. I think Sinéad was definitely embarrassed by her parents though.
Her father was the meanest alcoholic in Europe. Himself and Sinéad’s mother would go on holidays and he’d come back with plastic cutlery he took from the plane. And one time when Sinéad got a lamp for her room so she could study he took the bulb out of the ceiling light to compensate. He was the only man of his generation in the area not to have a car. They lived in a council house. That’s a house the council give to poor people for half the price of an ordinary house. Her mother didn’t want to move into a council house but her father was mad to get one. Pretended he had a bad back and couldn’t work around the time they got married in order to get his hands on one. Then sent his wife out to work. Then went off to work himself once he knew they couldn’t take the council house off him. They used to joke that the Kents wouldn’t be rich enough for any daughter of his. He didn’t drive a car cos he was too mean maybe or maybe he just preferred to be able to drink wherever he went.
—If he’s to pay for the wedding it’ll be below in Roundy’s.
—Tight-arse fuck!
Sinéad’s father went around the world trying not to be noticed. His daughter’s lack of fear for standing out made him nervous. Suspicious of her even. He was embarrassed by Sinéad hooking up with James from day one. Betrayal he thought it was.
—Fine thing you fucking stick to your own.
Lads in work would mock him about it. Henry Lee said to him in the pub once that if all went well with James and Sinéad he could become the landlord’s lieutenant. They were all laughing. Saw the same fella, this Henry Lee, blame James one time. James kicked a ball to a fella but it was a bad pass and the other team worked the ball back up the field and got a goal. This fella was cursing James after the match even though James was the best player on the field and scored seven points and set up another seven. And they wouldn’t have been within an arse’s roar of the final in the first place without James winning all the other matches for them. Henry Lee.
Sinéad’s mother did the office for a big panel-beating garage in Fermoy. Left early in the morning. Came home late. Sometimes she didn’t come home at all. There was trouble at home a lot in Sinéad’s house.
€20
Found the euro sign. Button with Alt Gr on it and 4 if you’re ever stuck for it. Dollar sign is easier. $. People take care of their own. Anyhow the reason I wanted to say €20 was cos I was saying wouldn’t it be grand if you could just ring me and I could tell you what happened. For €20. Seems stupid now. Not even worth the trouble. But this writing lark is still sickening my hole. I’m going for a walk.
Closure
Dr Quinn sent me to another head doctor as well this week. This fella agreed that the writing would help me form closure. He wanted a hundred snots, but I had no money on me. I told him I was going to the bank and that was the last he saw of me. I’m still having the dreams though. And the headaches. I like writing at night. I see through the bullshit better. It’s like when you’re tired you remember the bad things as well. When you’re wide awake and full of life everyone’s great. Even the fuckers. Dinky and Teesh were some fuckers. ’Tis dark and quiet now and there’s a dog barking. The only other sound is the laptop. See in the daytime you’d think a laptop is quiet. ’Tis only at night you notice these things. The senses are rawer. And the mind is brave.
Why Did Crying Evolve?
I dunno. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s like I can think of nothing else only what happened. My headache’s at me all day now and it’s only getting worse thinking about telling my story. Not today anyhow. My eyes are watering mad now too. You’d wonder with all this evolution crack why did crying evolve?
Thinking
Sometimes I could spend the whole day thinking about something like what has jealousy got to do with betrayal. And what has love got to do with vengeance. Or what has hatred got to do with laughter. Heard some yank on the radio the other day saying that laughing evolved from the apes to tell each other that the lad who fell off the tree was OK and wasn’t after breaking his hole. I could think about laughter for ever. Like what has it got to do with pain. And how it can be an attack or it can be a defence. Laughter.
But mostly now I can concentrate with the tablets. I can sit and watch television for hours and not be thinking about Sinéad or not have some tune of hers in my head or some tune of somebody else that would only remind me of Sinéad cos it was someone else singing. Telly used to upset Sinéad. She used to say it was like death. Like how it sapped the life out of you. Like a hypnotist making you forget that you’re alive. Or like a traveller doing the three card trick. Bamboozled you. But you didn’t lose your money. You lost your life. The time of your life. Telly made her think of her death I think. So I missed a lot of telly when I was hanging around with Sinéad and James but now I can watch it away with the tablets and no thoughts of Sinéad upsetting my head. It was a madness is what it was isn’t it? To be thinking about music all the time. Sinéad and James and me that time I’m thinking now we were a small bit mad definitely. If they had these tablets they might have fitted in better. Been able to talk to Racey and Dinky and Teesh and everyone about Friends or Home and Away or Coronation Street. Or watch videos with them in Snoozie’s house like Police Academy 6 or Wayne’s World.
Humpty Dumpty
We had this young teacher in fourth class long ago, Mr Costigan, for a few months. He was in from the teacher training college and he was always up for a laugh. We did a Rose of Ballyronan Contest in class one day. Sinéad wasn’t in school that day.
Course she’d have won if she was there. Then we had a Man of Ballyronan Contest. The teacher interviewed and the lads answered the questions. Most were all shy smiles, looking down at the ground and blushing and shrugging their shoulders saying, ‘I dunno,’ to every question.
—Hello and what’s your name?
—Ahmn . . . Tony.
—Tony what?
—Tony Desmond.
—And tell me a little about yourself Tony.
—Ahm . . . Like what?
—Well for instance what sport do you like?
—Ahm . . . Football.
—I see. And why do you like football?
—Ahm . . . I dunno.
—And who are your favourite team?
—Cork.
—And who’s your favourite player?
—Larry Tompkins.
—Larry Tompkins. By God yer all big Larry Tompkins fans. And tell me Tony what would your ideal woman be like?
—Ahm . . . I dunno.
—You don’t know?
—Ahm . . . Good-looking.
—Good-looking. Very well Tony. Can you think of any famous girl that you think might be good-looking?
—Ahm . . . that one in The Bangles. Susanna.
—Susanna. Is that the girl that all the other lads said as well?
—Ahm . . . yeah!
—My goodness, I’ll have to check out this band The Bangles.
The whole class laughed then all lick-arsy.
—And tell me Tony, have you any party piece you’d like to do for us?
—Ahm . . . no.
—Very well then Tony. Well done. You can go back to your seat. Good man yourself.
Tony went off back to his seat, head down smiling and the sweaty red face on him. The whole bleddy lot of them were the same. Smiling and looking down at the ground and shifting their weight from one foot to the other. No one took up an offer to do a party piece like all the girls had before half ten break. Most girls did a poem. A few sang. Just made everyone think of Sinéad not being there. Three girls did a few Irish dancing steps. But the lads were just too cool for any of that. Then it was Dinky’s turn.
—Hello what’s your name?
—Denis.
He had both hands in his pockets and he was just staring out the window, half bored-looking with his lips pursed. A few of the girls giggled.
—And tell me about yourself Denis.
—What can I say? Play a bit of football. Bit of a lady’s man.
The class laughed mad at this.
—Very good. And tell me, what would you like to be when you’re big?
—I think I’d like to be an actor or join the army.
—Very good. Do you know anyone in the army?
—Yeah my uncle is in the army.
—Is he?
—Yeah.
—And does he serve with the UN? The United Nations?
—Dunno.
—Does he go out foreign?
—Yeah sometimes he does be gone a good while.
—Very good. And what do you think is the best thing about being a soldier?
—Having a gun of your own.
A little giggle came from the class again.
—And tell me Denis have you a party piece for us?
—Not a chance, Dinky says.
The class all laughed when Dinky gave a peace sign walking back to his seat.
Next was James.
—Hello young man.
—All right man, how’s tricks?
The whole class laughed at James grabbing the chance to be all casual talking to the teacher.
—Not so bad, thank you. And tell me, what’s your name?
—James Kent.
—Kent. That’s not a very common name around these parts.
—There are fourteen in the phone-book in the whole of Cork. I checked it out. So no, it’s not that common in Cork.
—And where does the name Kent come from?
—England. Sure everyone knows that England is full of Kents!
Even Mr Costigan gave a flicker of a smile that time. The class were in stitches.
—OK, right! Settle down. If I don’t get silence now the Man of Ballyronan contest is over.
That shut them up.
—And tell me James, do you have any hobbies?
—I like knitting!
More laughs.
—Right OK, settle down. Any other hobbies?
—I like playing flog.
—Flog?
—Yeah flog. It’s my favourite sport.
—Flog? Never heard of it. Tell me about it.
—Yeah. I made it up myself. It’s golf backwards. You start at hole eighteen and work your way back to one.
More laughs.
—Right, that’s very good James. Tell me have you any party piece?
—I do. I would like to sing.
—What would you like to sing?
—I’d like to sing a song called ‘Humpty Dumpty’.
He sang ‘Humpty Dumpty’ as a sincere slow plaintive lament. Doesn’t seem too funny now, but to a roomful of ten-year-olds it was the funniest thing ever.
Out of sixteen girls James got fourteen of the votes. Didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I should have. That a certain per cent of the girls didn’t like James’ funny antics or his good looks or his jokes should have got me thinking at the time. It wasn’t only the lads who resented James, it was some of the girls too.
Sometimes even when they knew he was right people would disagree with James. I seen that too always. Just for the sake of it. Gang up on him even. Even stuff that didn’t even matter. Like the score of a match. Or whether some show was good or not. I seen people change their minds just to disagree with him. As a group. I seen it a million times. I won’t tell you the million.
But James had a weakness. Like the time on the Ballyronan under-eighteen team when James started letting Dinky come up from corner back to take the penalties even though James was one of the best penalty takers in the county and was taking them for the county team. A team that Dinky wasn’t within an arse’s roar of making. And the coach who was Roundy, the other publican in the village and the other players delighted to be taking James down here with the rest of us. See James thought no one ever could pose a threat to him. Dangerous thing it is to have no fear. Fear is what keeps us safe isn’t it? He usen’t realise it at the time but fellas would be seeing if James was. What’s the word you’d say? Challengeable. Little things like. And little fellas. Not all types. The littlest mostly. And I don’t mean the size of them to look at. I mean the size of who it was they were as men. Or as boys. Because that kind of size never changes. A man apart. That’s what the father’d call James, maybe. And some lads who recognised this about James wanted to bring him down in small ways. The worst thing for them though was that James would only be nicer to them. He’d yield in whatever way the challenge was because in the great scheme of things he discounted the little things as having no importance. He was wrong to do this. Like letting Dinky have his moment and take the penalty just cos it meant more to Dinky than him.
When a fella sizes you up you should leave him knowing you’re not one to be fucked around with. Should let him know for sure too. Instead of being nice to him and feeling sorry for him. Sometimes I think James thought he was some kind of saint or something. Fucking eejit. Never thought anyone could ever pose a challenge to him. Maybe that was his main trouble. He never saw anyone as a threat. James was nice to everyone. He went out of his way to be nice to people. People didn’t expect it from him. Some people distrusted him because of it. Thought he must have been fucking around with them in some way or form, somewhere in the dark black monkey parts of their brains. They didn’t trust his niceness.
Does that make James good? I dunno. I wonder what has goodness got to do with fear.
Do you know what? Maybe James just wanted to fit in. The odd kick in the face sure or stab in the back was a small price. Dunno. I wonder what has fear got to do with charity? Or what has admiration got to do with envy? Or what has pity got to do with disdain?
Followed
I was followed around by people once. People and photographers. People who wrote in newspapers. People who wrote hints. Who had ways of saying things that wasn’t saying it at all. Or sometimes they’d say a lot of things so that you’d be left thinking about what they didn’t say or what they couldn’t say.
An dubh
An dubh is on me today. Dubh means black. An means the. Not too bad today but bad enough. I’m not crying like a baba no more these days. Not everyday anyhow. That’s when I started coming out of it first really. When I started crying all the time. Before that I was made of stone for a long time. Think of stuff sometimes though all the time. I mean like sometimes I can think of nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. Not even like eating or drinking or washing or dressing or answering the mother. Makes me feel like I’m dead. And my eyes water a bit still for no reason. And the nightmares. I get nightmares sometimes when I’m awake. Sorrows notice me.
People
Some people don’t care about other people.
Matches
Today I bought fourteen boxes of matches. They were three euro fifty cents. I counted all the matches. Then I did it again. Then a third time just to make sure. Then I went outside and burned them all. First, one by one. Then I did it box by box. I needed something to keep my brain occupied. ’Twas at me. And I liked watching them burn.
Sisters
Sinéad’s skin was darker than her sisters’. She didn’t look one bit like them. She didn’t act like them either. They didn’t have her spark. But sure I suppose no one I ever met did.
Whispering
Dinky and Teesh were doing a lot of whispering in her ear once. They knew she was vulnerable isn’t it? But forget about it until we come to that part.
Ice It
’Twas the first and last time anyone ever saw James cry. Except for me. But I seen more than anyone. Anyhow he was in fifth class. The second last year of primary school when you’re about ten or eleven. Master Coughlan picked the teams for lunchtime. As daft a pair of teams that was ever picked by a schoolteacher. All the good players on one team. All the poor useless lads on the other, except for James. James started to protest, ‘Ah but sir?’ ‘What?’ said Coughlan, looking at him as if he was all puzzled and all. ‘Nothing,’ was all James could say cos he realised that he couldn’t say, ‘Why are you putting me in with all the shit fellas?’ And Coughlan knew he would never have it in him to insult the useless fellas like that. Every goose that tried to play football was with James. He told them where to play, and took up the midfield slot himself. I was up on the big oak tree keeping an eye on proceedings like I always did.
James took them on. All on his own he took on the other team. Racing forward and racing back. Scoring. Stopping scores. Intercepting. Spoiling. Catching. Blocking. Scoring again. He looked like a man among boys. In the middle of the second half though he stormed off the pitch with the tears streaming down his face. The game stopped inevitably, cos no one on his team could even kick a ball out of their own way, let alone get a score. James went straight for the jacks and locked the door. Dinky and Gregory, the Master’s son, and the rest of them followed, waiting at the door asking, ‘What’s wrong James?’ letting on like they were all concerned and all, and puzzled and all, ‘James are you OK?’ they were asking. Master Coughlan stayed out on the pitch and had a smoke for himself for a while. Eventually James came out of the jacks holding his shoulder. He said he thought he might have dislocated it. But that was the greatest bullshit you ever heard. And the lads knew that. And James knew they knew that there was feck-all wrong with his shoulder. And Coughlan knew, even when he held James’ arm aloft and watched James’ fake grimaces. ‘You gave it a good jolt all right James lad. You’ll have to ice it at home. The ligaments got stretched. But you’ll be fine.’
So Master Coughlan and the lads and James himself partook in this great farce about an injury that never happened. Well an injury to the body didn’t happen anyhow. James would go on to have many injuries in his future playing career, but looking back on it, the injury that happened to him that day was the worst of them all. Up on the tree by the sideline I could hear the jibes of the other players as he lorded it over them against all the odds. But most of all I could see their faces. Their eyes. They were all ganging up. Little wolves. Brought together by something they didn’t even understand. They were out for blood. Poor James was confused that day. I wasn’t one bit confused. He’d come face to face with the animal. That made him fear for his young life. Even though that day his life was never remotely in danger. But if there was a sign of things to come that was it.
He was a quiet boy in class that afternoon. And Coughlan didn’t ask him nothing either. Just let him stare out the window for the whole afternoon without as much as opening a book. Looking out at the sun sending waves of heat spiralling off the soft tarmac. Looking out at the basketball ring with the no net. Looking at the small goals and the square with no grass left. Looking out across the road up at the Catholic church steeple rising high above the Protestant one in the distance. Looking at the faded lines of the basketball court. Looking out at the field where the smallies play football at the front of the school.
Truth is I don’t know what James saw when he looked out that window that sunny June afternoon. I don’t know cos I’m not him. All I’m saying is that he looked out there. What did he see? What was he thinking? Your guess is as good as blahdeblah. I’d say there’s a good chance he wished he was only a middling kind of a player anyhow. Or maybe he was just wishing Sinéad was in school that day. Sinéad missed a lot of school on account of her helping out at home.
After school he laughed and joked with the lads, same as usual. And explaining that he got this shock up through his arm that was the sorest thing he’d ever felt in his life. The lads nodded, looked at each other and looked away. Dinky told him he should definitely ice it when he got home.
Not So Good
I can’t remember what I was thinking about. I remember now. Hard to explain. It’s like in the nature programmes. And the cameraman watching the poor small animal being killed by the lion or tiger. The deer say or whatever. And he’s waiting the cameraman is. And he knows what’s going to happen. And he doesn’t stop it. Cos it’s nature’s way. And that’s how he’s telling the story. By letting it happen. Showing us. Except in my story it isn’t some stupid deer or whatever like. If it was a deer I wouldn’t give a fuck. I wouldn’t care cos I’d say it’s nature’s way. But if it was nature’s way that the people died that died. Then things aren’t so good. They’re just not so good like isn’t it?
Sometimes
Sometimes I think I’m like the cameraman who let it happen. Other times I know I’m not. I didn’t let nothing happen. And I did nothing. I know it. Swear to God.
Ancient History
You’d think ancient history is ancient history. It isn’t. Not in Ireland anyhow.
A Desperate Hammering
Fella in Four Crosses got a desperate hammering in the pub there one night by a fellow who was beaten up by his father sixteen years before. Fellas have a memory when it comes to blood isn’t it? When it suits them they have anyhow.
Walking
I think I might go for a walk. I walk around a lot now. It’s one of my favourite things always. It could have been along a dirty dark street or along The Long Strand. The longest nicest beach in the world. I wouldn’t care either way. I’d like it just the same.
Secondary school was a bit embarrassing at the start for me. I got a special needs assistant. That’s some grown-up who the government pays to wipe my hole and tie my laces like I wasn’t able to look after myself in school. You see they changed the law so now fellas like me had to have a hippy with them in school. And the one I had was the biggest pain in the hole anyone every met. All We fucking this and We that.
—And if we’re not engaging Charlie we don’t make progress. And if we don’t make progress Charlie we don’t reach our potential. Each child has a right under the law to reach their potential. That’s why I’m here Charlie but we must engage if we’re to succeed.
Like most people I ever met in my life, I never spoke one word to her. But of all the people I never spoke to, she replied the most. On and on and on. Only time she’d stop talking and coaching me from her bollicksology textbook was to take a bite of some fucking celery or raw carrot or a drink of water from her glass bottle with the rubbery top. Longest few weeks of my life it was with that one following me around the place in case I’d fucking trip over myself. She had a fucking clipboard with her always in case anyone would find out that she did sweet fuck all. In the end she went to the principal about me not engaging. The principal got her helping other fellas with their reading and sums but I still had to meet her once a week so she could fill in her report and lie about my engagement and progress so she’d get to keep her job and could buy her celery.
But I was left alone eventually and she was given the road after first year off to some other poor bollicks some place else. No one ever mocked me cos of James being around. I wasn’t in all of James and Sinéad’s classes cos they were doing honours English and Maths and Irish and them subjects were split up into different levels. I hated being without them. Even other girls that weren’t Sinéad made me puke with their sucking up to the boys and trying to be popular with them.
Only girl I thought was kinda nice was Julie. She liked to dance. Her mother taught ballet and music and cleaned the school in her spare time. Julie was hippyish looking and walked tall. Sinéad hadn’t really met anyone like her and they became good friends in first year. Sinéad started wearing hippyish scarves and didn’t bother with make-up. Racey and the others would be covered in make-up. They’d go to the toilet together to be touching it up. But Julie never bothered with that. Neither did Sinéad. Julie made it easier for Sinéad to be not doing stuff that Racey and them were doing.
But then before the holidays they moved away and Sinéad never saw her again. And neither did we. Cos they moved to Australia. So then Sinéad just tagged along with Racey and the other girls then instead.
I remember Dinky long ago when we were in first year and we’d get off the bus in Ballyronan after a day’s school and we’d all go home but Dinky would follow James back to the castle to be hanging around with him. James said to Sinéad that he doesn’t help him doing his jobs, he just sits there watching and talking. The castle was rebuilt by then but James always had lots of jobs to be doing in the garden and stuff.
When he was finished his jobs then Dinky would follow him in and he’d join the Kents for the dinner. His mother used to joke that they should just adopt him. James’ father would send him up to do his homework then and Dinky would have to go home. James would be glad to be rid of him by then I think. That’s the impression I got anyhow, not that James ever said it. James would ring Sinéad most nights. Until she was old enough to be allowed to call up herself. That didn’t happen until they were about sixteen. She’d call up in the evening time. Sometimes they’d do the homework together and I’d be putting on records for them. In the library in the castle. I might tell you more about it later. Yeah I will. I loved the library more than any place else ever. They had a record player in the library and my mother had tonnes of records that I used to bring up. I used to walk up with Sinéad a lot of the time. We’d just be listening to music mainly and they’d be working on songs too. They made up songs. The tunes of them and the words of them. That kind of bored Dinky so he stopped coming up then. He started hanging around a bit with the older lads. Especially with Teesh and Snoozie. Licking their holes.
Dr Quinn says I’ve to introduce my secondary characters properly before I say another word about Sinéad and James and the library and their music or anything else cos I’m making a bollicks of the story. He told me who the secondary characters are. They are Dinky, Snoozie, Racey and Teesh. This is a description of each of them and their ages. I wrote out their names ten times so you can read it out loud ten times and get to know the names and know which is which. Plus it’s words for my story. Fifty.
Dinky = a rotten cunt. Male human. Same age as Sinéad and James. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky. Dinky.
This is Dinky’s nose.
I’ll let the secondary characters introduce themselves from the court transcripts. This is Dinky in court.
Dinky’s Evidence
—Could you tell the court please, are you Denis Hennebry?
—Yes.
That’s Dinky’s real name.
—And you reside with your parents at 43 Main Street, Ballyronan. Is that correct?
—Yes.
—And when did you first get to know Sinéad?
—I went to school with her. Primary school. And secondary school. I’ve known her through my whole life really.
—I see. And how about James?
—The same like. He joined our class in primary school when they moved to Ballyronan.
—By ‘they’ do you mean the Kents?
—Yes.
—James and his mother and father, is it?
—Yes.
—Sinéad and James entered into a relationship with each other sometime in their teenage years, is that correct?
—Ahm. Into a relationship yes. They were always together like. The two of them were always hanging around, even in primary school but they were in secondary school then and they started going out like.
—Were either of them ever in a relationship with anybody else while in secondary school?
—In secondary school no. They were only with each other then.
—I see. And tell me this, Denis, please, if you wouldn’t mind. Were you ever fond of Sinéad during this time?
—No. Like what do you mean fond? She was sound like. We were friends. Everyone was fond of Sinéad like.
—Did you ever have stronger feelings for her while she was going out with James?
—Ahm . . . no like. Not like that, no.
—Did you ever want to be in a relationship with her at the time?
—No. I didn’t, no.
—Your parents are quite friendly with Sinéad’s parents, aren’t they?
—They are, yeah. Well, my father anyhow. Her father and my father went to school together and they worked together in the precast yard once like. Started on the same day.
—Did you ever feel that it might have been nice for them if you and Sinéad had been a couple?
—No, like. It didn’t come up like. Cos she was always with James. As far back as anyone can remember.
—Isn’t it true that your father used to tell you that Sinéad was the girl for you?
—Who told you that?
—Answer the question please, Denis.
—He might have said it like, and I growing up like, just like half messing like.
Langer
They called Dinky Dinky cos he’s supposed to have a small langer like your baby finger. They started calling him Dinky when he got the trials for the divisional side. They were having a joke calling some fella who was hung like a donkey Truncheon when one of the lads points at poor Dinky and calls him Dinky. The name stuck like a fly to cowshit.
By the way for anyone who’s not from Ireland a langer is a willy. A penis. But it can mean dickhead or idiot or fool or wanker or a generally disliked fella. Can mean drunk too. But always a fella.
—Ya fucking langer.
—What a langer.
—You’re some langer.
—What kind of a langer are you?
—Drank fourteen pints last night, I was fucking langers.
—You’re a fucking useless langer.
—You may as well be at home playing with your langer.
—You’re an awful langer.
—The stupid langer forgot his ticket.
—Bit of a fucking langer, you are, aren’t ya?
—You’re only a langer, you.
—Langer.
Langur
N. a slender, leaf-eating monkey of Southeast Asia with a long tail, bushy eyebrows, and a chin tuft. Genus: Presbytis. leaf monkey [Early 19th C. Via Hindi langûr from Sanscrit langula ‘having a tail’.]
Long ago when the Irish were poor as fuck they went off to fight the wars for England for a few quid. But one of them wars was in India and they had a type of monkey called the langur so when the war was over the lads who lived came back to Cork calling each other langers. Nowadays if you’re out of favour in Cork you’re a langer. Anyhow sorry I went off track there. Yeah so James would have been there at the divisional trials as well. James and Dinky were only young lads of seventeen. The other lads were all in their twenties. James was the only one in Ballyronan that never called Dinky Dinky.
Dinky
Adj. small and compact; small and compact or neat (informal). N. S African; beverages; a small bottle of wine; usually containing 250ml (informal) [Late 18th C. Formed from Scots dialect dink ‘finely dressed, trim’, of unknown origin. The original sense was ‘neat, dainty’.]
When he was in primary school Dinky’s head was always looking around. Not out of interest in people but out of fear of them. Dinky thought that if people didn’t like him they’d kill him. He was canvassing always for people to be liking him. Balancing things up always.
Snoozie = a stupid cunt. Male human. Three years older. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie. Snoozie.
This is Snoozie’s eyes.
Snoozie’s Evidence
—Do you know if Sinéad ever cheated on James?
—She did, yes. With the Rascal.
—OK. Was this common knowledge?
—Yes. Everyone knew it.
—And when James took her back, so to speak, when they rekindled their relationship, was she loyal to him then?
—No. She went with the Rascal again. Went off in his car with him. Used to be at it the whole time. He’d collect her when she’d finish work in the pub. Roundy’s. Fellas would joke about his car being outside.
—I see. Are you sure of this? How can you be certain?
—The Rascal said it.
—And you believe him?
—Well, he had an Afghan scarf around his neck that he said Sinéad gave to him as a present. James had given it to her way back along as a present. That’s how James found out. He asked him where he got the scarf and Rascal told him out straight. James went to hit him but Dinky and Teesh pulled him away. Told him he needed to talk to his girlfriend.
—I see. Thank you.
That fella Rascal was called the Little Rascal. He used to do a bit of block-laying up in the site with me. He was a handy corner forward too. Tough little cunt. But that’s what he was. A little cunt. He used to play guitar and sing the usual shit in pubs for a few extra bob and he was a small bit of an alcoholic. He used to be at work bright and early every morning but when he went for lunch in the pub you never knew if he was going to come back. He was paid different to the rest of us. By the amount of blocks he laid, not by the hour. But he could work faster than the other fellas. He was hardy. He was the same age as Teesh and Snoozie and was friendly enough with them when he was around. He did a lot of travelling though. Over to Spain singing to drunken Irish people on holiday. He’s not doing any more shite singing nowadays. Not doing much at all so he’s not. Anyhow, don’t mind him a while. I could go talking about that time when Sinéad was working behind the bar in Roundy’s but actually I can’t. There’s probably stuff in your life you couldn’t talk about either. I dunno. But I definitely can’t talk about that time in the pub now cos I’d be afraid I’d do harm to myself. I can talk about Snoozie all right I think.
Snoozie didn’t have a lazy eye. He had two of them. And looked pissed as a lord the whole time whether he’d drink on board or not. And. He. Spoke. Incred. Ibly. Slow. Ly. People thought he was pissed or slow in the head. He was neither a lot of the time. Think he invented that way of being to give his brain time to think of what to say next. ’Twas a droll front that worked for him most of the time. If I think of him now I can see him. He nods his head once, slowly, up and down. Stares straight ahead. His face is blank and dead. And he says, ‘What. A. Fuck. Ing. Eejit. Ha?’ Snoozie was a cornerback in football too. Once James said, ‘God invented cornerbacks because God loves a tryer. He invented the colour grey, the same day.’ Snoozie resented it, even though he laughed with the rest of us, ‘You’re. Some. Fuck. Er. Ha?’
Snoozie and Teesh were a few years older than ourselves but Dinky liked them so we got to know them. When Snoozie was nineteen he became the owner of a business that his brother had set up. It was a metal engineering firm that made gates and small trailers and railings and stuff. They were doing very well. Then his brother died in a car crash and Snoozie got the business. This gave him a bit of status around the place. It was around this time that Dinky started hanging around with him. Snoozie had got a big BMW and used to drive Dinky around the place. I suppose they became friends around then.
Snoozie’s father owned a pub. He used to be a farm labourer who got a farmer’s daughter pregnant. He married her, sold her farm and bought the pub. Snoozie’s father didn’t like James. I know because he called him Sir James any time he saw him. And if he was talking about him he’d call him My Boy. James didn’t know he didn’t like him but I did. The pub was called The Snug. That’s where they did their underage drinking. There and Roundy’s, the other pub in the village. Teesh wanted to get his hands on The Snug so he was always trying to go out with Snoozie’s sister cos she was going to get the pub. Snoozie spoke with a bit of a lisp too.
Teesh
Teesh = a lousy cunt. Male human. Three years older. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh. Teesh.
Teesh was all legs.
Teesh was short for Taoiseach. That means chief like I said before. And it’s what the prime minister of Ireland is called. His lackey Snoozie was always around too. Teesh used to play midfield with James. Teesh was six foot six but he used to drive the old fellas daft cos he was too afraid to go up and catch the ball in case he’d get a knock. Instead he used to just punch it. Teesh had a farm behind him when his father died but he had his eye on The Snug too like I said before. This was the shape of him.
Teesh’s Evidence
—You are known as Teesh? Is that right?
—Yes.
—Why?
—Short for taoiseach.
—And why would you be called taoiseach?
—I dunno. Maybe . . .
—Yes?
—Well . . . My parents were told I had leadership qualities when I was in school long ago. But I dunno who started calling me taoiseach first. I think it started in secondary school.
—Very good. I see. You obviously impressed the people around you.
—I suppose.
—Very good. Could you tell me about your relationship with Denis Hennebry, please.
—Yes, yeah. Didn’t know him very well, he’s a few years younger than me. But he drank with us in the pub.
—What pub?
—Roundy’s like and The Snug.
—In Ballyronan?
—Yes, yeah. Most people calls it Roundy’s. That’s what the owner is known as. Seán. People call him Roundy.
—I see. But you became good friends with Denis Hennebry, is that correct?
—Ahm . . . well like . . . we drank in the same pub like . . . he was there a lot of the time that I was there so I suppose we became kind of friendly all right. He hung around with me like, as opposed to me hanging around with him. To be honest.
—Can you clarify what you mean please.
—Nothing really, like. Just like, mainly he’d come along and join myself and Snoozie and whoever else in the pub. Or if we were going to the Four Crosses he might come along like. I wouldn’t say we were best friends like. He tagged along is all. He was probably better friends with Snoozie. They used to be driving around and that. Snoozie had a car like fairly young. Dinky. I mean Denis. Denis was a few years younger like but Snoozie would take him for a drive around when they’d nothing to do. And he’d come in to the pub to us like too, Dinky would. I thought he was a grand fella.
—I see. That will be all for the moment. Thank you.
Racey = a liardy bitch. Female human. Her real name was Tracey. Same age as Sinéad and James. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey. Racey.
Racey’s nose was like it was pushed back in her face or something.
Racey was born to be probably reasonable-looking but she let herself go before she even knew she was gone. Out of sight. Before going on a night out she’d get all dolled up to the last. Same as cramming before an exam, isn’t it? Too late. She wasn’t in vanity for the long haul anyhow. She was fond of boys and didn’t show it in a subtle way. That’s why they called her Racey. She lived between Ballyronan and Mullinahone.
Racey’s Evidence
—How did you get to know Sinéad?
—Well like, Sinéad would have been one of my best friends like. Since we were children like.
—Were you in primary school together?
—Yeah like.
—And were you close with Sinéad throughout your childhood?
—Yeah like. Like . . . I wasn’t to know she had this like darker side. God love her like, you know. Heart of gold in her like. She might have had her problems like but God love her like she could be wild at times but like deep down like . . . heart of gold I swear to God like.
—You used to drink with her, is that correct?
—Used to, yeah like. We were friends like, yeah. She used to be out and about normal like drinking and having the craic. She could be wild like but no harm in her I swear to God like. Was like quite normal that time. Just could be like . . . a small bit wild like. The girl made mistakes like but sure who doesn’t like? We had great fun in The Snug like. That’s where we hung out when we were in secondary school like. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen kind of way like and back then like she was just normal like, sound like, you know?
They just never knew that it would pass. That it would all go and work out the way it did. Write out ‘Country Fair’ here. It’s Van Morrison’s.
Sinéad used to sing the second line in the last verse as, ‘Sad lifetimes slipping though your hand’, but it’s totally different. She heard the words of songs wrong sometimes and learned a line that wasn’t in it at all. I liked when she did that. Another bit of her isn’t it? Her mind as well as her voice.
I don’t think it’s possible for me to give you the feeling that we had. Like in The Snug long ago. Because I can’t give you the feeling of being a nice warm happy cosy drunk just by you reading a book. I can’t give you the feeling of being sixteen or seventeen. I can’t give you the feeling of being sixteen or seventeen and you’re in a place with no parents. No teachers. No old fucking shit. I can’t give you the feeling of a bar lounge that was all ours. I can’t give you the feeling of how new it was for us all to have our own little bit of money and to be free to waste it on drink and happiness. I can’t give you the feeling cos you weren’t there. I seen them. I seen each slug of beer or Guinness or lash of vodka and coke or shot of whiskey on the rocks or peach schnapps or rum or Malibu or Tequila or Bacardi fuel them. They became greater versions of themselves isn’t it? In the right dose. Became funnier, happier, bolder, stronger, louder, flirtier, nicer, trustier. Have misneach. Irish word that. Means courage maybe or spirit or boldness maybe. Heart isn’t it?
With music played that was our own CDs. Our music. I can’t give you the feeling of happy faces all around. The faces that you love the most. And they’re so happy you’re there, even if you’re me. And you’re so happy they are there. And people are sweating and laughing and shouting and singing. And you’re watching them all.
Anyhow the warm glaze of alcohol made them happy and not give a fuck and made them love each other and love themselves. And I think they all knew even then that all times wouldn’t be as good. They couldn’t be isn’t it? Agendas and plans were still strangers to them then though. They didn’t give a fuck because they were drunk and because there was so much they didn’t know. Most of all they didn’t know themselves.
But I don’t drink any more. It doesn’t suit me. People sat me down and had a talk with me and told me that it was best I stayed away from the alcohol or else I wouldn’t be allowed to hang around with Sinéad any more. Drink made me inappropriate. I don’t remember. But Sinéad was nice about it. And James was sound about it too. Just called me a messy eejit. Messy is the word for very very drunk carry on.
Sinéad could dance too. Disco dance like, the real thing. Beats became part of her and threw her around the place, she let herself become part of it. And she was the whole time looking up to the heavens, unless she was dancing with James.
Anyhow I must get back to the story before Dr Quinn has a stroke. There was just a terrible racket downstairs. Like someone throwing a couple of saucepans on the ground in the kitchen. And that’s what it was I’d say. My mother is lonesome or bored so she tries to trick me to go down to her. She already asked me twice in the last half hour if I wanted coffee. Fuck it, I’ll just go down to her.