3. The Bart of the Deal
So I’m officially on Tinder. Big announcement. I’ve no desire to spend the rest of my life lying in bed jostling the chosen one. So I’ve downloaded the app and I’m back in the game.
This is how easy it is to hook up these days. I’m flicking through pictures of women – not all of them dogs – until I come to one called Tilly, who I instantly like. She’s alright in terms of looks, and girls called Tilly, Milly and Lilly, in my experience, tend to be pretty open-minded, and when I say pretty open-minded, I mean filthy.
So I swipe right. And just as I do, my phone all of a sudden rings? No, it’s not her. No one’s that open-minded.
I can see from the screen that it’s actually, like, Erika, ringing me from France. I answer by going, ‘Buongiorno!’
She doesn’t return the greeting. She just goes, ‘I was just talking to Sorcha. She said you’re getting divorced,’ because the girl likes to keep me grounded – for whatever reason.
I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, she’s the one who wants it. Although her old man is obviously behind the scenes, pulling the strings.’
‘She said you had sex with a woman in Glenageary.’
‘It was more the Dalkey end of things, Erika. But the good news is that I’m already back on the dating scene.’
‘You’re a focking idiot. Anyway, I’m only ringing to tell you that I’m moving back home next week.’
I’m like, ‘Whoa!’ because it’ll be nice having my sister slash half-sister back. She’s been studying, I don’t know, ort history and appreciation, if you consider that an actual thing. ‘Me and you living under the same roof for the first time,’ I go. ‘I hope it doesn’t end up being weird.’
She’s there, ‘Why would it end up being weird?’
‘It shouldn’t end up being weird. Forget I said anything.’
‘Anyway, I’m ringing to tell you to have your shit cleared out of my room by the time I get back.’
And with that, she hangs up.
A few minutes later, I’m texting this Tilly one to arrange a place to meet when there’s suddenly a ring on the door. I decide not to bother my hole answering it on the basis that it’s not my focking house. But whoever it is, they seem pretty determined to get an answer because they just keep their finger on the doorbell until I end up having to get out of bed and tip downstairs.
It ends up being Sorcha. I’m like, ‘Hey, Sorcha! I was just talking to Erika. You know she’s coming home?’
She goes, ‘Yeah, she rang me this morning. Is your dad in?’
‘He went out about an hour ago. He took his clubs.’
‘Okay, that doesn’t explain why he hasn’t been answering my calls for the past few days.’
‘Can I take a message? Can I say what it’s in connection with?’
Jesus Christ. Three months ago, we were going at each other like the future of the species depended on it. Now, I’m talking to her like a receptionist. Divorce is focked-up.
‘Well,’ she goes, ‘it’s obviously about what he said the other day – about pulling out of Europe? There was no mention of Eirexit – or whatever they’re calling it – when I agreed to join New Republic. If we leave the European Union, Ross, Irish students won’t be allowed to go away on Erasmus? Can you imagine a world without Erasmus?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘I genuinely believe that Europe has been an amazing, amazing thing for this country. Do you know if he’s read my White Paper, by the way?’
‘Your …?’
‘White Paper? On the future funding of Ireland’s domestic water service? It’s just that I gave it to him, like, ten days ago?’
I’m guessing it went straight in the focking bin.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, he hasn’t mentioned it, Sorcha.’
‘Because he’s still telling people to tear up their water bills,’ she goes. ‘There was an interview with him in this morning’s Irish Times. He said the abolition of Irish Water would be, like, a redline issue for the porty in any future discussions to form a coalition Government. This is before we’ve even discussed the main conclusion of my paper, which is that chorging consumers for water on a metered basis has led to a reduction in wastage in just about every country where it’s been tried.’
‘I’ll definitely mention that to him when he comes home – depending on what state he’s in, of course.’
‘I’m beginning to think I joined the wrong political porty. Even Fionn thinks I should possibly join the Greens or run as an Independent.’
‘Sorcha, I was the one who said it from day one. You’re mad having anything to do with him. Even Helen says he’s changed since he put that thing on his head.’
‘Well, either way, Ross, I can’t pretend I’m in favour of pulling out of Europe when I’m actually not … Anyway, how are you doing?’
We’ve always got on unbelievably well. It’s a genuine pity that she could never accept the whole me cheating on her thing.
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m good. I miss the kids, though. And I’m not saying that so you’ll feel hopefully guilty for only letting me see them one day a week. I’m stating it as a fact.’
‘Oh my God, all Honor can talk about these days is rugby!’
‘She’s unbelievable at it, Sorcha. I’m seeing definite flashes of me.’
‘And that tactics book you gave her is never out of her hands.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
‘It’s just not what I had in mind for her, that’s all. I thought it was going to be the National Youth Choir and the Mount Anville Junior Runway Fashion Show. I know I’m being silly …’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘… but she’s stopped taking an interest in her appearance, Ross.’
‘Hey, I think we realized a long time ago that Honor wasn’t going to be out there winning beauty pageants. She’s not great.’
‘Yeah, I know she’s not pretty in an obvious way. But she’s stopped doing her daily skincare regime. And she’s storted wearing a beanie – even in the house.’
‘A beanie? Jesus.’
‘I still think, on some level, she’s doing it to punish me.’
‘Well, long may it continue, because I think she’s going to be a stor, albeit of women’s rugby? So did, er, Claire from Bray and Garret get off alright?’
‘Oh my God!’ she goes. ‘You haven’t heard the goss?’
‘What goss are we talking?’
‘They’ve split up!’
‘What?’
‘The day after they arrived back in Toronto, Garret changed his Facebook status to single, then two days later put up a post saying he was going travelling with some girl called, I don’t know, Ji Eun.’
‘Random.’
‘Random is right. Ross, they seemed – oh my God – so loved up when they were here. You saw them.’
‘I did. Disgusting.’
‘Claire was saying they were talking about storting a family. Although she seemed a little bit off when we met them the night before they went home.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Fionn.’
‘You and Fionn is we now, is it?’
‘Don’t stort, Ross.’
‘So any idea what happened? Has Claire said anything or blah, blah, blah?’
‘She told me when she was home that there was a girl who was always coming into the shop and flirting with Garret. I’m pretty sure it was this Ji Eun person. He used to give her two chocolates with her coffee.’
‘What a scumbag. I can see where that’s going. So he turned out to be no better than me after all, huh?’
‘Claire’s obviously devastated because she hasn’t replied to any of my messages on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat or WhatsApp.’
‘Scumbag is the only word for him. Here, do you want to come in and wait for my old man? I won’t make a move on you. I promise.’
I probably will make a move on her.
‘No, I have to get home,’ she goes. ‘Magnus is going out tonight. I think he has a hot date!’
‘Yes, with a man. He’s gay, Ross. It’s not something you grow out of.’
‘I’m saying fair focks. Who’s the dude?’
‘That I don’t know. But he’s been whispering a lot on the phone lately. Then, this morning, he asked me if he could have the evening off! Oh my God, I’d love if he met someone – he is such a lovely goy.’
‘Very easy to talk to was my analysis. Said it from day one.’
‘I know you’ve a problem with gay people –’
‘I’ve no problem with gay people.’
‘Maybe if you weren’t so …’
‘What?’
‘Repressed, Ross. Uptight. Do you remember what you said the day I told you that my really, really good friend Jonathan from UCD was gay?’
‘No.’
‘You said, “Of course he’s gay – he went to Gonzaga!” ’
‘Yeah, that was a joke based on rugby rivalry. I actually love Gonzaga – they’re the first school whose results I look out for after obviously Castlerock College.’
‘Does it not bother you, Ross, that everything you know about the world you learned in a rugby dressing room?’
‘It hasn’t done me any horm.’
She’s like, ‘Hasn’t it, Ross?’ and then she turns to go. As she’s closing the front gate behind her, she looks back at me just to hammer the point home and goes, ‘Hasn’t it?’
She leaves me with that thought. As she gets into her cor, I get a text message. It’s from Tilly. She says half-eight outside Fade Street Social.
Oh, for fock’s sake.
Tinder hook-ups should come with a warning. Women may turn out to be far less foxy than they appear on here. Tilly is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. Her profile picture was obviously taken in her hotter, but long ago, past. My guess would be that it was on holidays somewhere? She has a nice tan, not too much meat on the bones and a smile on her face that suggests she’s a good laugh and would pull a few surprises on you once the lights went off.
But the girl who shows up looks fock-all like the girl I arranged to meet.
‘You’re, er, not blonde,’ I go, while we’re doing the whole meet-and-greet thing. Of course, what I’m subtly saying is, ‘You’re not a lot of the things you appeared to be when I swiped right.’
She doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m pissed off at being taken for a mug here. She’s pretty happy with me, judging by the delighted look on her face.
All her focking Christmases.
‘You’re very different from your profile picture yourself,’ she has the actual nerve to go to me.
I’m like, ‘Pot and kettle. Pot and kettle. So what do you want to do?’
She’s there, ‘Will we get a drink?’
I’m there, ‘I don’t mind,’ which I genuinely don’t, even though I’m two or three pints down the road already.
So in we go. I get the first round. It’s called being a gentleman. Sancerre for her, Hydrogen for me. And I go, ‘So do you go on Tinder a lot?’ just to get the old conversational ball rolling.
‘No,’ she goes, ‘I’m actually new to it.’
Yeah, she joined in April 2013, according to her profile. This girl lies like a ten-dollar Rolex.
I’m there, ‘Hey, me too. To be honest, I’m sort of, like, easing my way back into the dating game.’
She goes, ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, no, I was married there for a while. It’s definitely changed, the whole singles scene. It’s all apps now, isn’t it? I was always a gift of the gab merchant. That’s why I’ve always preferred chatting up women. You have a better idea of what you’re getting. And that’s not a dig at you.’
It is a dig at her.
I’m there, ‘So what about you? Have you ever been married yourself?’
She goes, ‘Six years.’
I’m like, ‘Any kids?’ because I like to know if the water is mined.
‘No, no children,’ she goes.
I only have her word for that, of course. She could have more kids than Angelina focking Jolie.
We find a table. We have one drink, then another. We chat away. Or rather I let her blab away about various books she’s read or intends to read. I think I’m going to do very well back on the dating scene. I’m very good at giving the impression of being interested in what other people are saying.
‘I’ve just finished Go Set a Watchman,’ she goes. ‘It was a lot better than I expected.’
I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t be much into books myself, even though I’m always saying I should read more. They say the brain is a muscle and it needs exercise – although that’s always sounded like horseshit to me.’
Like I said, I’ve always been a great conversationalist. And it’s weird because after about half an hour, Tilly storts to look not quite as bad as I originally thought? That could be booze, or it could be the lighting in here. Fade Street Social is like Abercrombie & Fitch. Everything looks different when you get it home. But if I had to describe her, I’d say she’s a bit like Cressida Bonas, except chunkier and from Cabinteely.
I do something that’s possibly a bit immature then? I take a photograph of her when I think she’s not looking, the plan being to text it to Oisinn, along with a message saying something along the lines of, ‘Onwards and upwards, Oisinn. Look what I’m out with tonight!’ and then accidentally on purpose send the message to Sorcha instead.
‘Did you just take a photograph of me?’ Tilly goes.
I’m there, ‘A photograph?’, all wounded innocence.
‘You’re not texting that to one of your friends, are you?’
Jesus, she’s hord work.
I’m there, ‘If you knew me, Tilly – which you’ll hopefully get to – you’d know that wasn’t my style.’
‘Can we just talk?’
‘We’ve done a lot of talking, Tilly. Well, you have.’
‘Well, can we talk some more?’
‘Hey, whatever flips your pancake. You chat away there.’
Which is what she does. I end up getting her entire life story. She works in, I don’t know, some big American firm that does something vital, I’m sure. She says the work is really intense and the management really encourage people to work ‘remotely’ – which means in the evenings and at weekends for no extra money. They’ve also installed an area called an Urban Thinkspace, where you can sit on a milking stool, or in a baby’s cot, to help you think in original and creative ways. She went off caffeine three and a half months ago and she’s honestly never had more energy.
You get the idea. On and on she focking drones – yeah, no, despite the gamey-sounding name, Tilly is about as much fun as a focking mushroom risotto for one.
I decide to try to hurry the conversation along by going, ‘So where are we going to take this then?’
And she’s there, ‘Take it? I don’t understand.’
I laugh. I’m there, ‘I’m staying with my old man – we’re talking Ailesbury Road here,’ and I put my hand on her leg.
She picks it off her like it’s a wet nappy. ‘I’m sorry,’ she goes, ‘I’m actually a bit of a traditionalist.’
Exact quote.
I’m like, ‘A traditionalist? Okay, what do they believe?’
She goes, ‘They believe in getting to know someone before progressing to anything else.’
I’m looking at her, just thinking, what the fock are you doing on Tinder then?
I’m there, ‘You never mentioned that in your profile. All I’m saying is you’re going to get a reputation as a timewaster. I’m making the point.’
Now, in normal circumstances, that would be that. I’d drop her like incriminating evidence. In fact, I’m just about to perform one of my world-famous disappearing acts through the emergency exit when the night takes an unexpected twist.
And not a happy one either.
I’m suddenly aware of someone trying to get my attention across the other side of the bor. It’s actually Tilly who first points it out to me. She goes, ‘Is that girl waving at you?’
I look over. I don’t focking believe it. It ends up being Oreanna. Okay, this town is too focking small? I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, she seems to be. Actually, would you excuse me just for a minute?’
She goes, ‘You’re going to leave me on my own while you go and talk to another girl?’
I don’t think Tilly’s in any position to be playing the wronged woman here.
I’m there, ‘Look, she’s actually an ex of mine. Oreanna is her name. She, er, still has a thing for me. It might not be safe for you.’
She’s like, ‘Safe for me?’
‘She gets very jealous of other women. She could well glass you.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘She’s a focking nutcase.’
‘Okay, well, please don’t leave me on my own for long.’
I tell her I’ll be two minutes, max. I knock back the rest of my pint, then I tip over to Oreanna, who, it turns out, is here with Eva. They’re celebrating their five-year anniversary.
The first line out of her mouth immediately throws me. She’s like, ‘What about Bart?’
She’s a bit pissed. That much is obvious.
I’m there, ‘Bart?’, and that’s when I remember my imaginary boyfriend.
She goes, ‘As in, Bart your boyfriend? Who’s that girl, Ross?’ and she says the word girl with total contempt, like she hates even the idea of me being straight?
I’m there, ‘That girl over there? Yeah, no, she’s just a friend.’
‘You had your hand on her leg,’ she goes.
‘Well, she’s more of an ex, to be honest. Tilly was the last girl I was ever with before I realized that I was – and it still feels random saying it – into men. Into men and in love with Brad. In a big-time way.’
‘You mean Bart?’
‘I do mean Bart, yeah. In fact, I don’t know why I said Brad just there. I still feel sorry for the girl, to be honest. It was a genuine shock to her.’
It’s actually Eva who first smells a rat. ‘I’m calling bullshit,’ she goes. ‘You’re not even gay. I knew you were totally making it up that day.’
Oreanna’s like, ‘What?’ and she’s genuinely furious with me. ‘You focking … wanker!’
I can see Tilly looking over. She heard her and she’s obviously thinking, yeah, no, he wasn’t wrong when he said the girl had mental issues.
I end up going, ‘I didn’t make him up. As a matter of fact, he’s around here somewhere,’ and I stort looking around me, trying to pick out a boyfriend for myself. Obviously it needs to be someone really good-looking, so as to be believable, but also someone too shit-faced to string a sentence together in the event that Eva and Oreanna want to actually talk to him.
And that’s when I spot him. He’s standing up at the bor – good-looking, well-built and out of his focking gourd. He’s counting out coins on the bor and he’s staggering backwards and forwards like a man trying to keep his balance in an airplane toilet in a patch of turbulence. I’m like, ‘Ah, there he is! There’s my Bart!’
Oreanna looks at him, then back at me and goes, ‘You are so full of shit!’
I’m there, ‘That’s him. I swear.’
‘Okay,’ Eva goes, ‘bring him over and introduce us then.’
So I tip over to where the dude is standing. Oreanna and Eva are watching. Tilly is also watching with a look of confusion on her face. I sidle up to him and go, ‘Hey.’
‘Up Cyahvan!’ he goes, trying to focus on me, but his eyes are spinning like I don’t know what. ‘Up the Lake County! And fuck them Monaghan cunts!’
He’s absolutely focking leathered. I’m thinking, this is going to be easier than I thought. I put my orm around his shoulder. He’s too horrendufied to even notice. I smile at Oreanna and Eva and their expressions definitely soften, although Eva still looks a bit dubious?
‘Have you torty cents?’ the dude goes. ‘I need torty cents for a paint bohull of Bulmers.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I go, putting my hand in my pocket, ‘why don’t I just buy you a pint bottle of Bulmers?’
‘That’d be fucken migh’hy, so it would. Did you just kiss me on the top of me head?’
‘No.’
‘Someone kissed me on the top of me head.’
I’m thinking, if only Sorcha could see me – who’s repressed now?
He goes, ‘I’m thrinking since one o’clock. Up the Lake County and fuck them Monaghan cunts!’
Oreanna and Eva are actually smiling now. Over the other side of the bor, Tilly is definitely not smiling. Fock knows what she’s thinking. She meets a dude on Tinder, he propositions her, focks off to talk to another woman and now he’s standing at the bor with his orm around some drunken bogman, giving him little pecks on the top of the head.
She’s not seeing me at my best, I’ll give her that.
‘Who’s them tooy bords looking over hee-or?’ the dude goes.
I’m there, ‘I actually know them. Do you want me to maybe introduce you?’
‘Are they dorty? They look fierce dorty!’
‘I don’t know about dirty, but the one on the left thinks she possibly knows you.’
The one on the left is Eva.
I’m there, ‘She says she was in love with you in college. Is your name Bart?’
‘Bayurt? No, tis a cyase of mishtaken idenhihy, so.’
I smile at him – I think it’s a word – speculatively? ‘Hey,’ I go, ‘she doesn’t know that. You could just say you’re Bart?’
‘Mon,’ he goes, ‘we’ll gaw hoaver to them so.’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, but maybe let me do the talking, will you?’
Over we go. I’m like, ‘Girls, this is the famous Bart. And Bart, this is Eva and Oreanna.’
Oreanna hugs him and goes, ‘Oh my God, I’ve been dying to meet you? Ross tells me you’re a quantity surveyor.’
This obviously means fock-all to him, but he’s too pissed to address it directly. At the top of his voice, he goes, ‘The Thrumlin Counthy, me fooken hoooooole! Fuck them Monaghan cunts!’
He laughs, puts his orm around Eva’s shoulder, then staggers forward, nearly dragging her to the deck in the process. She manages to somehow keep him upright, then she props him up against the bor at an angle where he can’t fall flat on his face.
Oreanna is sort of, like, studying him closely, obviously trying to put her finger on what I actually see in him. She can’t seem to find it. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she goes, ‘but he’s not exactly what I pictured for you?’
I’m there, ‘What did you picture for me?’
‘I don’t know. Someone more like you. Someone rugby.’
‘I never thought a Gaelic football person would do it for me. But I love him.’
And that’s when I notice that Tilly is suddenly standing beside me. She goes. ‘Okay, what the fock is going on?’
I’m trying to come up with an explanation for her, but Oreanna gets in there first. ‘You need to get over Ross,’ she goes. ‘He has no interest in you.’
And Tilly’s there, ‘Well, he has no interest in you either! You’re the one who can’t seem to come to terms with that basic fact.’
Before they get the chance to tease this argument out any further, the dude who’s pretending to be Bart suddenly throws the lips on Eva. She reacts by taking a step backwards, then slapping him hord across the face. So he’s suddenly going, ‘Whay did you do that? Are yee Monaghan girls?’ and he throws the pint I bought him over Eva. She responds by throwing a punch at him – an actual punch. Pissed as he is, the dude sees it coming and sort of, like, pirouettes out of the way and Eva ends up punching Oreanna full in the face. Oreanna’s nose – seriously? – bursts open like a dropped watermelon. There’s, like, blood everywhere.
Tilly, while shocked, goes, ‘Well, at least she’s saved me the trouble of doing that!’ Then Oreanna grabs her by the hair and storts swinging her round the bor.
Now, one of the things that made me the rugby player I very nearly could have been was my incredible sense of timing. I’m already moonwalking towards the door as the bouncers arrive and stort trying to pull them aport. I reckon I’ve got about thirty seconds before they all figure out where they each stand in relation to me.
Oreanna is holding her busted nose with one hand and pointing at Bart with the other. ‘You tried to kiss my girlfriend!’ she goes.
The dude is like, ‘Girlfriend? Is it lesbians yee are?’
And Eva’s there, ‘Yes – and you’re supposed to have a boyfriend!’
He’s like, ‘A what’s that now?’
She goes. ‘Er, Ross?’
‘Him? I only met that hooer just now when I asked him for torty cents for a paint bohull of Bulmers and he said you wanted the ride!’
Thirty seconds later, I’m in a taxi on the way back to the old man’s gaff. I’m telling the driver about my evening and he’s laughing so hord at one point, he ends up nearly driving into a lamppost on Lower Leeson Street. I think I’m going to enjoy being back in the singles morket.
As I’m paying the dude, I notice two Gordaí in, like, full uniform standing outside my old man’s gaff. There’s another dude with them, presumably a plain-clothes Gorda? He’s the one who actually approaches me.
‘Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?’ he goes.
I’m like, ‘Yeah? What do you want?’
And he’s there, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of being an accessory to murder.’
‘Why am I here?’ I go – here meaning Blackrock Gorda Station. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
The dude’s like, ‘Time? Sure you’ve all the time in the world. I can keep you here for up to forty-eight hours.’
O’Maonaigh is his name.
‘Forty-eight hours?’ I go. ‘That’s, like, three days.’
He’s there, ‘It’s two days.’
‘Two days, then. I’m not staying here for two days.’
‘You’ve been arrested on suspicion of aiding and abetting a murderer and conspiracy to cover up a serious crime.’
‘I want a lawyer,’ I go, drumming the table with my index finger. ‘I want Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara. You should have his number at the front desk.’
‘Oh, we know Hennessy well. And I could interview you in his presence – like I said, over the course of the next forty-eight hours – or you could answer my questions and you’ll be out of here within the hour.’
So what choice do I have? I end up going, ‘What do you want to ask me?’
‘Ari’s daughter,’ he goes, looking down at his notes, ‘Tiffany Blue – she said you told her your mother was capable of anything, including murdering her grandfather for his money.’
‘I said that in the course of trying to have sex with the girl. I was chatting her up.’
He looks totally focking baffled – like me having the Nando’s ordering policy explained to me for the fiftieth time.
‘Then a few weeks later,’ he goes, ‘the man was found dead in highly suspicious circumstances.’
Okay, I can see the twist he’s trying to put on it.
I’m like, ‘Dude, I hate my old dear more than anyone. She has a face like a punched doughnut. But despite what I said, I actually don’t think she’d be capable of killing someone?’
He goes, ‘Your mother’s account of what happened doesn’t add up. Ari takes a bath, then he dries himself off, then he puts on a tracksuit and goes for a run on the treadmill.’
‘Your point being?’
‘My point being, why would he take a bath before he got on the treadmill?’
‘Because he wasn’t right in the head. The dude was loop the focking loop.’
‘Not according to your mother. He was of sound mind – she made a sworn statement to that effect before they got married.’
‘She was lying then.’
‘She’s lying now. Telling all sorts of lies. She’s saying now she wasn’t home when it happened. She was in Stillorgan Shopping Centre. Then she came home and found him dead.’
‘So?’
‘But no one saw her when she was out. She has no alibi. She’s not even on any security footage from the shopping centre that afternoon.’
‘Random – as you say … your mother drank half a pint of vodka at lunchtime. Would that be unusual for her?’
I actually laugh. I’m there, ‘Lunchtime is pretty late in the day for her to be storting.’
He goes, ‘We found the glass in the sink. A tall glass. It had been filled to the top with vodka and her saliva was on it.’
‘Yeah, that’s called breakfast. The woman is a focking dipso.’
‘Do you think she might have needed a bit of Dutch courage if she had something unpleasant to do – like, for instance, drop a two-bar electrical heater into her husband’s bath?’
‘We’ve never owned a two-bor electric heater. I’ve seen them – usually when I’ve maybe pulled a student and gone back to her bedsit. Or a poor person.’
‘So what do you think caused the burn mark on Ari’s shin?’
‘Yeah, no, that actually happened when they were on honeymoon. Supposedly a piece of coal spat out of the borbecue and hit him.’
‘Because I’ve looked through all of their honeymoon photographs. Nearly three hundred of them …’
He chuckles to himself.
He goes, ‘Some of them are of, shall we say, an intimate nature!’
Jesus Christ, she’s a focking disgrace.
I’m there, ‘Seriously, don’t. I’ll get sick all over the floor.’
‘There’s not one single photograph that suggests the man had a burn on his shin,’ he goes.
‘So you think it was caused by …?’
‘A heater dropped into the bath – yes, I do.’
‘Dude, Ari was in his nineties. She didn’t need to kill him. He was going to die soon anyway and she’d have inherited everything.’
‘He was due to have his mental state assessed two days after he died. And she knew that if he kept that appointment, the marriage would be declared void and she wouldn’t get a penny. So she killed him while he lay in the bath, then she dried him off, dressed him in a tracksuit and dragged him downstairs to the basement. She switched on the treadmill, then left him lying beside it.’
‘You’ve no actual proof of that.’
He continues staring at me for a good, like, thirty seconds. Then he goes, ‘She’s evil, Ross.’
I’m there, ‘Hey, I’ve been saying the same thing for years. You know she has a tail? That’s a little-known fact about her. The doctors found it about ten years ago after her gastric band snapped.’
He goes, ‘I’ve met a lot of killers. Most of them never considered themselves capable of killing anyone and regretted it straightaway. I don’t see any of that in her. She’s cold-blooded. Completely and utterly without human feeling.’
I think back to one of my earliest memories. I was sitting in my high-chair in Sallynoggin slash Glenageary, waiting to be fed, literally screaming with the hunger, while she poured a jor of Dolmio spaghetti sauce and half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire into the blender to fix herself a Bloody Mary first.
I’m there, ‘It doesn’t mean she’d be capable of, like, murdering someone – does it?’
And that’s when the door suddenly flies open and in storms Hennessy with a face like thunder and lightning. He goes, ‘What did you tell him?’
And I’m like, ‘Nothing – fock-all.’
He points at O’Maonaigh and goes, ‘Don’t you fucking ever interview one of my clients again without me being present!’
O’Maonaigh goes, ‘Hello there, Hennessy. Your client is free to go.’
I stand up.
As I’m walking towards the door, O’Maonaigh goes, ‘Your mother killed that man in cold blood, Ross. And if I find out you’re hiding that two-bar electric heater, I’ll make sure you go to prison for a very long time.’
I’m looking at her across the table in the visiting room and I’m thinking about what the dude said – a cold-blooded killer, incapable of human whatever-the-actual-word-was – and this is going around in my head to the point that I haven’t even commented on the fact that her hair is purple.
Or maybe that’s because, despite everything, I still for some bizarre reason care about the woman?
‘The focking state of you,’ I eventually go. ‘You look like a horror clown.’
She’s like, ‘Yes, it’s horrid,’ in her usual whiny voice. ‘I told you about my troubles with the water in here. Then I heard someone mention this woman – they said she was one of the Scissor Sisters. So I went to see her and I asked her if she had any suggestions for putting some pizazz back into my hair.’
‘The Scissor Sisters aren’t focking hairdressers.’
‘Yes, I realize that now, Ross! Look at me!’
‘Hey, watch your focking tone. I was arrested the other day.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, no, I was arrested on suspicion of aiding, then another thing called abetting. They think I helped you do it.’
‘They’re just using you to try to get at me. They think if they keep persecuting the people I love, then I’ll make some kind of confession. Your father’s right – the entire thing is political. They’re terrified that he’s going to win the next election and take the country out of Europe. That’ll be the end of their plumb jobs.’
‘The dude said you drank half a pint of vodka on the morning of the murder,’ I go. ‘Jesus Christ, I remember you used to at least put tomato juice in it. Of course, that was when you were still pretending to be human?’
‘Yes, I had a drink, Ross – I had just arrived home to find my husband dead on the floor. I was in shock.’
‘You didn’t tell me you went out. In fact, you said you were at home when it happened.’
It’s obvious that Hennessy’s been coaching her.
She goes, ‘I was confused. It was only later on I remembered that I went to Stillorgan to see did Donnybrook Fair do those potato latkes that Ari so loved. He was rather homesick, you see – dear, dear Ari.’
‘They have CCTV in Donnybrook Fair. Why didn’t you show up on that, you focking cyclops?’
‘Because when I got out of my car, I realized that I’d left my purse at home, along with my mobile phone and everything. So then I drove back home.’
‘And you didn’t talk to anyone?’
‘Oh, yes, I did. Very briefly. I’d parked in two parking spaces, you see.’
‘Why do you always do that?’
‘Because I don’t want somebody opening their doors and hitting my car. Some awful man told me that I didn’t know how to drive. I said something along the lines of, “That’s your opinion,” and then I drove home. I walked into the house and – yes, that was it – I heard that the treadmill was on. Which I thought rather odd. So I rushed downstairs to find darling, darling Ari … oh, I can’t even say the word.’
I’m there, ‘The word is dead, you focking drama queen.’
‘Yes, dead,’ she goes. ‘And now it’s all this. Oh, it’s a living nightmare, Ross.’
She storts making the noise of someone crying, although there’s no actual water coming out of her eyes. That face has been lifted so many times, her tear glands are halfway down her focking back.
I’m there, ‘The dude said he went through your honeymoon photos. They were filthy, he said, some of them. But there wasn’t one of Ari with a burn mork on his leg.’
‘All of our photographs were from the first two or three days of the honeymoon. Then we stopped taking them. Ari said, “Who the hell are we taking all these photographs for? Why don’t we just enjoy our time together while we’re both still here?” He meant why don’t we just enjoy each other’s company and – yes, Ross – each other’s bodies –’
‘Move on. Quickly.’
‘– without having to photograph everything. So I put the camera away and I didn’t take it out again.’
All of a sudden, I hear a woman’s voice shouting at us across the visiting room. She’s like, ‘Ah, there thee are – howiya!’
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s focking Dordeen.
The old dear screws up her face in disgust, like she swallowed a mouthful of tonic with no actual gin in it. ‘Howiya?’ she goes. ‘Ross, who is that awful woman? She seems to think she knows us.’
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, that’s Shadden’s old dear.’
‘Who?’
‘Shadden? As in, Ronan’s girlfriend? As in, the mother of your great-granddaughter?’
She hates being reminded.
‘Great-granddaughter,’ she goes. ‘Oh, don’t, Ross – that makes me sound old!’
I’m there, ‘You are old. You’re older than dirt. And horder to shift.’
Dordeen doesn’t like the way we’re totally blanking her, because she makes a big point of coming over to our table. She goes, ‘Did yiz not heerd me? Ine arthur been shouting at yiz,’ and she flicks her head in the direction of the table she’s come from. There’s a woman sitting at it who I’m guessing weighs about three stone. ‘Ine in visitodding a veddy good friend of moyun. Mandy’s in for shoplifting – professional, but. Howiya, Fidden Newilla? Hab ya settodled in, hab ya?’
The old dear just stares at her in horror. It reminds me of the time I had a porty in the gaff and one or two Terenure heads crashed it and did a shit in her jewellery box. It’s the same look of revulsion on her face.
I go, ‘She’s asking you if you’ve settled in,’ because I’ve spent so much time in Finglas over the years that I’m practically fluent.
The old dear still doesn’t say shit, so Dordeen changes the subject.
‘The utter fedda thinks he fayult he’s exaddems,’ she goes, sounding delighted about it. ‘Probley for the best. Your heer’s lubbly, Fidden Newilla. I’ve been meaden to say to you, if you ebber need athin in hee-or, just gib me a shout, do you wontherstand? If addyone’s gibbon you a heerd toyum – athin like that – I’ve veddy good connect shiddens in hee-or. Do you get me? You oatenly have to say the woord. We’re famidy, arthur awdle … Cost you a few bob, but.’
Then off she focks, back to her rake of a mate.
‘What a ghastly woman!’ the old dear goes. ‘PGM, Ross! PGM!’ which stands for Poor Genetic Material. I remember the phrase from the time someone on Westminster Road hired a bouncy castle for a children’s birthday porty and the old dear took out a High Court injunction to force them to take it down. I laugh. See, she’s not all bad – she can be very funny.
I suddenly stand up to go. She’s there, ‘Is it over already? I didn’t hear the bell!’
‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘that’s because it didn’t ring. I’m just bored.’
‘Oh, well, you’ve got a life to lead, I’m sure. Things to do. I’d better get back to my suite.’
‘Yeah, it’s actually called a cell.’
‘Sorcha is coming to visit me on Thursday. Has she seen sense yet?’
‘The opposite. She now wants a divorce.’
‘A divorce? How awful?’
I’m looking at her closely to see does she actually mean it? Does she even give a fock, or, like the dude said, does she actually even have human feelings? It’s impossible to tell. So much of her face is just rubber and polyurethane with a series of levers and pulleys underneath controlling her expressions.
As I go to leave, she reaches for my wrist and squeezes it a little too tightly for my liking. ‘I know how it looks,’ she goes, ‘but I wouldn’t have it in me to take someone’s life.’
And I have to admit – and this is possibly me being too soft for my own good – but in that moment a big, big doubt definitely enters my mind. She obviously senses it, because she smiles at me. ‘I love you,’ she goes.
And I’m there, ‘I might bring the kids with me next time. You need to do something about your focking hair, by the way. You look like Sharon Osbourne at a hundred.’
Erika looks incredible. And I don’t mean that in, like, a creepy way? I mean it in the way anyone would pay their sister a compliment. Her legs are brown and well-toned, her honkers look fantastic in that white t-shirt and she’s wearing her hair pinned up in a way that always did it for me before we found out that we were technically related.
She’s been home five minutes and already the sporks are flying. It’s the usual banter between us. She goes, ‘Have you been rooting through my underwear drawer?’
I’m there, ‘No, I haven’t been rooting through your underwear drawer,’ and, as I’m saying it, I’m holding little Amelie in my orms. ‘Look how big you’ve grown! Do you remember me? I’m your Uncle Ross, who your mom is presumably always talking about!’
‘Ross!’ she goes.
I’m like, ‘That’s right! Uncle Ross!’
Erika is unpacking their things. We’re in my bedroom – or her bedroom, as she’s insisting on calling it. She’s in terrible form, it has to be said. She goes, ‘I can’t believe you were rooting through my underwear drawer.’
I’m like, ‘Erika, for the last time, I wasn’t rooting through your underwear drawer. I might have opened it – yeah, no – just to see what was in there. I see you’re still into v-strings, by the way.’
‘There’s something wrong with you,’ she goes. ‘There’s something seriously, seriously wrong with you. Why haven’t you moved all your shit out of my room? I told you I was coming home.’
I’m there, ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’
‘There are other bedrooms in this house.’
‘Yeah, no, they’re all freezing. Why don’t we share the room and see how it works out? It might not be weird?’
‘If your clothes aren’t out of this room within the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to throw them out the window, okay?’
Helen and the old man suddenly arrive home. I hear them coming up the stairs, then they’re suddenly in the room and it’s all hugs and kisses. ‘You should have told us what time you were coming in!’ the old man goes. ‘We would have picked you up at the airport!’
I can see Erika checking out the old man’s head. She’s like, ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you with hair. You look … different.’
‘And I feel different! Like the old Charles O’Carroll-Kelly! Oh, I’ve got them all on the back foot! Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael! Sinn Féin and the so-called Labour Party!’
Helen goes, ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about politics tonight, Charlie!’
I’m getting the impression they’ve had words.
The old man takes Amelie from me. He’s like, ‘Will you look at this little one? Oh, she loves her granddad, don’t you?’
‘Yes!’ Amelie goes, clapping her two little hands together.
‘Yes, you do! And I don’t need a bloody well opinion poll to tell me that much!’
The next thing any of us hears is a voice calling up the stairs, going, ‘Hello? I let myself in – I hope that’s okay!’ and up comes Sorcha.
There’s the usual scene out on the landing. Hugs and all the rest of it. Sorcha’s there, ‘Oh my God, look at you – you’re teeny-tiny!’
And Erika goes, ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ which is a typical Erika line – could be taken either way.
Sorcha’s there, ‘It’s so, so amazing to have my best friend back! And look at Amelie! Oh my God, look at the size of you!’ and she takes her out of the old man’s orms.
He’s obviously still avoiding her because he tries to slip away by going, ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you all to get reacquainted! I forgot I left poor Kennet outside in the car!’
Sorcha’s not so easily fobbed off. ‘Chorles,’ she goes, ‘you haven’t been returning my calls.’
He’s like, ‘The last few days have been horrendously busy, Sorcha, as you can imagine!’
‘Did you listen to any of my voice messages?’
I go, ‘He didn’t need to. I told him you weren’t happy about the Europe and the water things, which is why he’s been avoiding you ever since.’
She goes, “Chorles, you never said anything about pulling out of the European Union when I agreed to stand for New Republic.’
He’s there, ‘Europe turned its back on Ireland in its hour of need, Sorcha! They have saddled the people of this country with a debt that little Amelie’s grandchildren will be paying!’
Thank fock it’s not us paying for it – that would pretty much sum up my attitude.
He goes, ‘In times of prosperity, friends will be plenty! In times of adversity, not one among twenty! Amici secundis et plurima – something, something, something!’
She’s like, ‘Well, I’m not in favour of Eirexit, or whatever it’s called. And I’m saying that as someone who was lucky enough to spend a college term in Annecy. And what about my White Paper?’
He’s already forgotten. I said she’d regret it.
She goes, ‘My White Paper on the future funding of Ireland’s domestic water service. Chorles, five thousand people die every day for the want of a resource that we take – oh my God – for granted. I genuinely believe that if we knocked on doors and explained to people the environmental benefits that will result from us, as a society, becoming more aware of our water consumption, then nobody would be against paying for water. I think they’d see that they were getting actual value for money.’
‘I’ve given the matter a considerable amount of thought, Sorcha.’
Erika goes, ‘Hear her out, Dad.’
He’s there, ‘I’ve heard her out,’ and he actually shouts it. ‘I looked through her – what’s this you called it, Sorcha? – your White Paper? And I am still of the view that water charges represent a tax too far! Metering people’s water supply runs counter to the New Republic message, which is that ordinary people have been bloody well squeezed enough!’
Sorcha hands Amelie over to Erika.
‘In that case,’ she goes, ‘I have to tell you, Chorles, that I don’t think I’m the right person to represent New Republic in Dublin Bay South.’
The old man does the most incredible thing then. He agrees with her. He goes, ‘As it happens, Sorcha, you’re not alone in that view.’
And suddenly, she’s like, ‘Excuse me?’
Helen goes, ‘Maybe now isn’t the time to have this discussion, Charlie.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘No, whatever it is, Helen, I want to know.’
‘Well,’ the old man goes, checking out his reflection in the mirror at the top of the stairs, then fixing his hair with his hand, ‘I know you’ve been out there, pressing the flesh – quote-unquote – on the streets of Ranelagh, Sandymount and so forth!’
‘I’ve been working, like, six or seven hours a day for the porty.’
‘We did some private polling, Sorcha! And the feedback we got about you wasn’t good!’
Helen goes, ‘Erika, are you hungry? We should all go out to dinner tonight.’
But Sorcha’s not going to just let it go. She’s there, ‘What do you mean, the feedback wasn’t good?’
‘Look,’ the old man goes, ‘from the soundings we took, we discovered that people in more affluent areas are likely to remain loyal to Lucinda. Which means, to get elected, you would have to win a lot of votes in less affluent areas – your Ringsends and your Harold’s Crosses! And unfortunately your approval rating isn’t particularly high in those areas! From our research, it’s clear that people think you come over a little …’
She’s like, ‘Say it?’
‘Pleased with yourself!’
‘Pleased with myself?’
‘Smug is the word that’s being used over and over again! Apparently, you keep mentioning that you went to Mount Anville!’
‘Only in the context of being Head Girl and how that shows that I have definite leadership qualities?’
‘The impression people have of you is that you’re smug and élitist!’
‘There’s nothing smug or élitist about Mount Anville, Chorles. Oh my God, Mary Robinson went there. Erika, tell him!’
‘It all comes down to the impression you create, Sorcha! And you’re not creating the right impression! The people of Harold’s Cross don’t know you like I know you! Bright! Hard-working! Able! Sadly, we live in an age where those things aren’t always enough!’
‘Well, what do I have to do to win people over?’
The old man is un-focking-believable. She came here to tell him she was leaving the porty and he’s somehow managed to turn it around. Because more than anything else, Mounties want to be popular – Sorcha once wrote a four-stor review of a Bodum coffee plunger on Amazon, and she nearly burst with excitement when four people said they found it helpful – and he’s totally playing on that.
She goes, ‘Okay, Chorles, give me one more chance to try to get my message across to the people.’
He’s there, ‘How are you going to get your message across to the people if the people can’t understand you?’
‘You need to work on your accent, Sorcha!’
‘Her accent?’ Erika goes. ‘What’s wrong with her accent?’
She’s only saying it because she’s got the exact same one.
He goes, ‘Nothing at all if the fate of Dublin Bay South were to be decided by a vote of female members of tennis clubs in the Sandymount and Clonskeagh areas! Unfortunately, that’s not how democracy works! Sorcha, have you ever seen the picture My Fair Lady? Starring Audrey Hepburn and the famous Rex Harrison?’
She’s like, ‘Loads of times. I actually did Pygmalion with the Rathmines and Rathgor Musical Society when I was in, like, college.’
‘Yes, you probably shouldn’t mention that out on the streets either! Well, as you know, My Fair Lady is the story of a peasant flower-girl who is taught to speak and act like a member of the upper classes! What I want to do with you is to achieve the exact reverse of that!’
‘You’re seriously asking me to change the way I speak?’
I’m there, ‘Tell him to fock off, Sorcha.’
He goes, ‘I’m just asking you to dial the accent up a few postcodes! To beat Lucinda, you are going to have to win a lot of votes in areas like Harold’s Cross and Irishtown – to say nothing of Terenure!’
Sorcha and Erika exchange a look.
‘Terenure?’ Sorcha goes. ‘What would I have to say to someone from Terenure? I know nothing of their struggles.’
He’s there, ‘It matters not what you say, Sorcha – it matters only how you say it! Someone said that once!’
She goes, ‘I don’t think I could do it, Chorles … Erika, I’m trying to think what Miss Barrington, our Speech and Deportment teacher, would think if she even heard this conversation?’
Like I said, the old man knows what buttons to press. He goes, ‘There have been many brilliant politicians whose careers have foundered because of an inability to relate to ordinary people.’
That seems to do the trick.
‘Okay,’ she goes, ‘I’m prepared to try it. But I want you to know, Chorles, I haven’t given up trying to persuade you that you’re wrong about Europe and you’re wrong about water chorges.’
Erika’s like, ‘So who’s going to teach her to speak like a skanger? Who’s going to be her Henry Higgins?’
And from the bottom of the stairs, we suddenly hear a voice go, ‘Are you g … g … g … g … godda be long, Cheerdles? Ine d … d … d … d … double-peerked down hee-or.’
So I’m back on Tinder. And I arrange to meet – this time? – this bird called Shivail Deasy, who I think looks a little bit like Melanie Iglesias, although – again – the thing to remember about profile pics on dating apps is that they’re basically a snapshot of the hottest the girl has ever looked or is ever likely to look in her life.
The rule, I’ve discovered, is that you look at the picture, you try to imagine her twenty to thirty percent less attractive, and you make up your mind on that basis whether you’re still interested. In Shivail’s case, the answer is yes. She’s got what’s known in the Paris fashion world as ‘big mickey lips’, and she lets it be known during an hour of flirty text exchanges that she has a thing for rugby players.
We arrange to meet for a drink in Dakota. And, to cut a long story short, she ends up standing me up, then not answering her phone when I ring her to try to find out why. It might be that she was hoping for a more successful rugby player than one who was last seen plying his trade in Division 2B of the All Ireland League. Or maybe she felt one or two comments I made about her lips crossed a line.
Either way, I end up not giving a fock, because I decide to make a night of it anyway. So I’m walking back up South William Street. It’s seven o’clock on a beautiful evening in July and I’m thinking I might hit Bruxelles for one or two and see where the night ends up taking me.
And that’s when, all of a sudden, I see something that causes me to lose my train of thought. It’s not so much something as someone – or rather two someones? – sitting outside, under the awning of Taste! At first, I think, yeah, no, maybe I’m imagining it. But then I realize I’m not. It’s Magnus. And he’s with Oisinn.
They’re looking – I’m going to just come out and say it – weirdly cosy together? And I’m suddenly asking myself all sorts of questions, although mainly it’s, what the fock? Is this who Magnus has been – oh my God – seeing? Hang on, how do they even know each other? I’m thinking, yeah, no, they met that night in Kielys when Magnus arrived in with Sorcha. But Oisinn isn’t … Or is he? Then I’m thinking, no. Not a chance. Who, Oisinn? He’s as straight as I am.
But they’re both drinking what look very much to me like fruit smoothies. Not that that’s evidence of anything per se. I’m just stating it as a fact. They’re both drinking fruit smoothies. On an evening in July. People can make of it what they will.
Just as I’m thinking this, I accidentally catch Oisinn’s eye. Oh, shit. Except he’s not embarrassed? He actually smiles, then Magnus turns and sees me as well. And he smiles, too. Oisinn sort of, like, beckons me over. I mouth the words, ‘I’ve got to go,’ but Oisinn pulls a face as if to say, ‘Stop being a wuss!’ and he beckons me even horder, so I have no choice but to tip over to where they’re sitting.
My suspicions are immediately confirmed. It’s definitely smoothies they’re drinking. I can smell the mango.
I’m there, ‘Hey, Oisinn. Hey, Magnus,’ for some reason trying to make myself sound more, I don’t know, manly. ‘How the hell are you goys?’
Oisinn goes, ‘What’s the story with your voice, Ross?’
I’m like, ‘Nothing. What’s going on between you two? By that, I just mean what are you up to?’
Magnus smiles at Oisinn and goes, ‘Do you want to tell thish guy whatsh going on or will I tell him?’
Oisinn’s there, ‘I suppose we have to tell him now – we’ve been busted!’
Magnus laughs. I’m thinking, okay, I’m not ready for this, and that’s not me being – what was it Sorcha said? – repressed?
Oisinn goes, ‘Ross, you can’t tell anyone what we’re about to tell you, okay?’
I’m there, ‘You don’t even have to tell me. Whatever it is. I’m wondering do I actually need to know?’
‘Well, you’ve kind of caught us in the act here,’ he goes, ‘so we kind of have to tell you. Magnus is my portner now.’
Now, I don’t want anyone to think for even ten seconds that I’m not one hundred percent cool with the whole gay thing. It’s just that this is coming as a genuine shock to me. At least if Oisinn had texted me the news, I would have had time to process it before facing him – probably with a few funny one-liners to take the sting out of it.
Instead, I’m like a focking gibbering idiot, going, ‘Er, yeah, no, em, definitely, yeah, big-time, very good, yeah, definitely, blah, blah, blah.’
Magnus goes, ‘Ish everything okay, Rosh? Would you like a shmoothie?’
‘No!’ I hear myself go. I actually shout it. ‘I mean, no thanks. Definitely, yeah, no, big-time, no thanks.’
‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘you jusht look a lidl beet pale, that’sh all.’
‘I’m just, I don’t know, trying to get my head around it. I’m wondering when did this actually happen? As in, like, you two?’
Oisinn goes, ‘Very quickly really. We met that night in Kielys – when was that? Two, three weeks ago? I rang Sorcha and asked her if I could have Magnus’s number, then I rang him and said I had a proposition to put to him.’
‘Jesus Christ. Keep going. Or don’t. I’m equally fine not knowing.’
‘So we arranged to meet for a drink. I told him I’d never done anything like this before. I was kind of a virgin in that way. So he’d have to be my guide.’
I’m looking around me, going, ‘What did this place used to be before it was Taste! Was it Cook’s Café, or was that further down?’
Oisinn goes, ‘So we had a few drinks and we talked and we both said, “Okay, let’s do it.” ’
‘It might have been Kaffe Moka.’
‘Yesh,’ Magnus suddenly goes, ‘sho now we’re in bishinish together.’
Hang on, what did he just say?
I’m like, ‘Business?’
Oisinn’s there, ‘Yeah. I told you we were portners, didn’t I?’
I laugh. It’s suddenly all clear to me now. I’m there, ‘When you said that Magnus was your portner, I thought …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I thought we were having a totally different conversation. Okay, I get it now.’
Magnus goes, ‘Osheen hash the idea to shet up a travel agenshy that will hopefully make Dublin the gay shtag and hen capital of the world!’
I’m there, ‘That’s an amazing idea,’ because it sounds like a licence to print money. ‘The whole BLT … BFG thing is suddenly massive, isn’t it?’
‘Alsho,’ Magnus goes, ‘there ish a lot of good feeling for Ireland ash the firsht country in the world to vote for gay marriage by a referendum.’
‘A lot of gays are going to be thinking, fair focks to Ireland – fair, fair, fair, fair focks.’
‘Exactly,’ Oisinn goes. ‘Ireland is now officially the most tolerant country in the world. So where better for LGBTQ people to celebrate their last night of freedom? What do you think of the name Gaycation Ireland?’
I laugh.
‘Brilliant!’ I go. ‘Absolutely focking brilliant!’
He goes, ‘Thanks, Ross. Anyway, I rang Magnus because, well, he knows the scene. All the best pubs, nightclubs, restaurants – obviously smoothie bors.’
‘Osheen hash ashked me to put a broshure together,’ Magnus goes. ‘Look, I have not yet told Shorcha. Obvioushly, becaush of the bishinish, I will heff to shtop my job of looking after the cheeldren, which of coursh makesh me shad. I would like to tell thish newsh to Shorcha myshelf.’
And I’m there, ‘Don’t sweat it, Magnus. I won’t say a word. I have to say, this is a very different conversation to the one I thought we were about to have.’
I pull up a chair and I sit down. So Sorcha thinks I’m repressed, does she?
‘Do you know something?’ I go, looking around me for a waiter. ‘I might have a smoothie after all?’
Genius. I’m using that word. Honor is touched by genius. She’s scored, like, two tries already and she’s doing pretty much as she pleases out there? The only problem is that, as I remember all too well from my own playing days, there’s always someone who wants to clip your wings.
One or two of the parents are moaning, going, ‘She’s not sharing the ball with her team-mates!’, like that’s the point of the focking game.
As she’s about to go on yet another of her mazy runs, Rob – who’s supposedly a qualified coach, bear in mind? – goes, ‘Offload it, Honor! Offload it!’ and this is when there’s no one even tackling her.
I go, ‘Don’t focking listen to him, Honor!’, even though I know I’m undermining him here. ‘Never offload the ball unless you absolutely, one hundred percent have to!’
But Rob acts like I haven’t said a word – someone who’s been there and done it and was twice the player that he could ever dream of being. The next time there’s a break in play, he turns around to Honor and goes, ‘You have to pass the ball, Honor! Some of the other kids haven’t even touched it yet!’
I decide that I can’t listen to it. I end up having to go, ‘Sorry, since when is that the focking object of the game?’
He goes, ‘What?’
This is the same bullshit as the last day, when he tried to let some random kid take the penalty that Honor won through sheer talent.
Belvedere College, bear in mind. Belvedere focking College.
I’m there, ‘Since when is it important that everyone gets a touch? It’s supposed to be a competitive game.’
‘You’re only a prick!’ Brian shouts. ‘A focking prick with ears!’
‘Ross,’ Rob tries to go, ‘they’re just kids. We’re trying to show them that the game can be fun and inclusive.’
I just think, yeah, that’s how the Leinster Schools Senior Cup ended up being photographed in a sheep paddock in Roscrea, then splashed all over the Internet.
A couple of the other children’s mothers decide to get involved then. ‘Sebastian hasn’t had the ball once!’ one of them goes.
I’m there, ‘So focking what? There’s players who win Man of the Match awards without ever getting their hands on the ball. What’s your point?’
The woman is around my age. She looks a little bit like Val Keil, but she loses points for knowing fock-all about rugby.
‘Everyone’s supposed to have a turn with the ball,’ she goes. ‘Your daughter won’t give it to anyone else. She seems to want it all the time.’
I’m like, ‘Which one is Sebastian?’ because I’ve already got a pretty good idea. ‘Is it the kid who looks a bit cross-eyed?’
She’s there, ‘I beg your pardon?’ getting ready to take offence.
I go, ‘The kid with the turn in his eye then? I’m sorry to tell you this – because the coach here doesn’t seem to want to say it – but your son is no focking good.’
One or two others decide to throw their two yoyos in then.
‘Josh hasn’t touched the ball either,’ this other woman goes – it’s mostly women complaining, by the way? This one isn’t the easiest on the eye either. I’m only mentioning it so you can picture the scene. She looks like Mattress Mick.
‘That’s because he’s shit,’ I go, ‘and you’re having trouble facing up to that basic fact.’
You can see one or two of the fathers – in fairness to them – looking at me and clearly thinking, ‘Who is this obvious winner who’s not afraid to make the big, big calls?’
Rob goes, ‘Ross, none of this is helpful.’
‘What does helpful have to do with it? Do you think this is what kids are being taught in New Zealand? That they need to pass the ball in case someone goes home with their feelings hurt? No, they’re being taught to be winners from the age of two. Focking killers.’
That’s when Honor – with the ball still in her hands – goes, ‘It’s just because I’m a girl.’
Josh’s old dear goes, ‘That’s ridiculous.’
And I’m there, ‘Yeah, shut the fock up, Mattress Mick – you’ve had your say. Honor, make your point.’
‘It’s because I’m a girl,’ she goes, ‘and I’m playing against all boys? And because I’m the best player here, I’m expected to apologize for it, or pretend that I’m not as good as I actually am. It’s totally sexist.’
God, I love her attitude – she actually knows how talented she is?
I’m there, ‘It’s what they do to great players, Honor – they try to drag you down to their level of ordinariness. I had it for my entire career.’
Mattress Mick goes, ‘It’s hordly sexism. I’m a woman.’
‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘we only have your focking word for that.’
That ends up being the last straw for Rob. He goes, ‘Ross, I can’t have you constantly interfering like this. I’m the coach, okay?’
I’m there, ‘Coach?’ and I laugh. ‘You went to a school that lost the Leinster Schools Senior Cup final this year to a school from Tipperary.’
I notice one or two of the dads especially exchange looks of genuine concern.
Rob goes, ‘Cistercian Roscrea is technically in Offaly.’
I don’t respond to that point because no response is necessary.
I’m there, ‘The players took photographs of the cup in a sheep paddock. Look it up. It’s all over Google. I drank hundred-year-old Champagne from that cup. Now it’s literally in the hands of farm boys with hairy focking gums. It’d be a brave man would ever drink anything from it ever again. And your school let that happen – you who thinks that the most important thing is that everyone gets a touch of the ball.’
‘You’re only a focking wankbag,’ Leo shouts.
Wisely, Rob decides not to get sucked into an argument he can’t win. He just goes, ‘Okay, can we all just dial it down a notch and remember that this is supposed to be fun!’ and he restorts the game.
And being a last-word freak when it comes to rugby, I shout, ‘Rugby is like life, Honor. It’s shit unless you’re winning at it.’
So Magnus has given Sorcha his notice. She looks all sad and goes, ‘I can’t believe we’re losing you! The children are going to be – oh my God – devastated!’
Which is a definite exaggeration. He’s only been on the scene for, like, a month and I don’t think Honor was ever that wild about him.
He’s there, ‘Like I shaid, the mannying wash alwaysh jusht a shtop gap for me. Thish ish an opportunity to go into bishinish for myshelf.’
She goes, ‘I know. I’m being so selfish – I haven’t even asked you what this business even is yet!’
It’s Oisinn who answers. He goes, ‘It’s kind of a travel agency cum event management company. We’re hoping to turn Ireland into a destination spot for gay stag and hen nights.’
‘Gaycation Ireland,’ Magnus goes.
Sorcha’s there, ‘Great name! Oh my God!’
We’re in Kielys, by the way, and it’s all the old crew. We’re talking me, Oisinn, Christian, JP and Fionn, then Sorcha, Chloe, Sophie, Amie with an ie, but then also Muirgheal and – like I said – Magnus.
Erika is an hour late. To her own supposed homecoming drinks. We’re all standing around waiting for the girl to make her grand entrance. It’s just like old times.
Amie with an ie is telling Sophie that her sister is getting married next year and she found this amazing – oh my God – teeny-tiny church in the middle of Wicklow, but they won’t let her get married there because of, like, a stupid technicality – the church is, like, Church of Ireland and Amie with an ie’s sister and her fiancé are both, like, Catholic. Sophie agrees that it’s a disgrace. She goes, ‘It’s, like, oh my God, Church of Ireland, get over yourselves!’
I hear Muirgheal telling Christian out of the corner of her mouth that Sorcha is a bitch and that she – oh my God – took all the credit for the work they both did on the marriage equality referendum and used it to launch her own political career – ‘like the sly bitch she was back in school’.
Christian’s there, ‘Maybe tonight is not the night to bring it up, Muirgheal.’
And Muirgheal goes, ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to be super-nice to her face!’
Then literally five minutes later, she says to Sorcha that she always knew she’d go into politics one day and that it’s a great way for her to refind her pre-marriage identity, now that her marriage has fallen aport. ‘And that’s not me being a bitch,’ she goes. ‘I just remember that when Tchaik and I split, I spent the first six months thinking, okay, who was I before?’
I’m tempted to point out that she was the girl who rode JP in either Templeville Road or Lakelands Pork. But I don’t out of respect for Christian’s feelings. And also because Sorcha is being weirdly frosty to me tonight – as in, she’s barely looked at me, for whatever reason.
‘I have to admit that politics is – oh my God – so much horder than I thought it was going to be?’ she goes. ‘I’m having to make so many compromises in terms of the way I speak and some of the things I firmly, firmly believe in!’
Muirgheal’s like, ‘What do you mean by having to compromise the way you speak?’
I’m thinking, don’t tell her, Sorcha – she’ll only use it against you. But then she does tell her? She goes, ‘Chorles thinks the reason I’m struggling to get my message across is that a lot of voters can’t understand what I’m actually saying. So I’m going to be working on my accent to try to sound a little bit less middle class.’
Muirgheal smiles at her and goes, ‘See, that’s why I’m not cut out for politics? I could never sell out like that – and I’m saying that as a compliment to you.’
Sorcha’s like, ‘Oh, em … thanks.’
Fionn looks at Sorcha – his face all full of concern. ‘Don’t go compromising too much,’ he tries to go. ‘Like I said to you before, I’d hate to see you lose sight of the things you’re passionate about – the things that made you want to go into politics in the first place.’
He’s so trying to get in there, it’s embarrassing.
Erika decides to finally make her grand entrance, looking fantastic – let’s just get that out of the way. She says her hellos. Sorcha tells her she looks ‘Oh my God – amazing!’, while the other girls stare at her nervously over the tops of their vodka and cranberry juices.
I’m like, ‘Hey, Sis – how the hell are you?’ and I give her a big hug.
She goes, ‘Yeah, Ross, can you stop pressing your crotch up against my leg?’
Which gives everyone a good old laugh – including Fionn. That’s why I decide to put him back in his box. I go, ‘Hey,’ making sure everyone in the group hears me, ‘this must be seriously awks for you, Fionn, is it? First time seeing Erika since she ditched you at the altar. And she’s looking well. Very, very well.’
Erika fake-smiles me. Of course, she doesn’t know any other way to smile. She goes, ‘It’s not our first time, Ross. It was Fionn who met me at the airport.’
I’m like, ‘What?’ because this is news to me.
Fionn’s there, ‘Yeah, we didn’t want things to be awkward when Erika came back. So we talked on the phone and we decided that what happened in the past should be left there and there should be no hard feelings.’
That’s annoying news. That’s very annoying news. But I try not to let them see how much it pisses me off.
Sorcha introduces Erika to Magnus and says he was – oh my God – the best manny in the world, but he’s leaving to go into business with Oisinn. Erika says fair play. Oisinn asks her if she has any plans herself. Erika says she’s hoping to set up an ort gallery – in fact, she’s already seen the perfect unit for it on Duke Street.
The usual ends up happening then. Everyone splits up into, like, little groups. Sorcha, Muirgheal, Christian and Fionn stort talking about – big focking yawn – politics, while JP and Chloe stort bickering with each other out of the corner of their mouths about baby stuff, hoping the rest of us don’t notice.
Erika pulls me to one side. She says she wants a word, so we step away from the group, towards the bor.
‘Is this about Honor playing rugby? I know she’s your goddaughter. You were probably hoping it was going to be showjumping.’
But it ends up not being about Honor at all. She’s there, ‘What’s going on with Dad?’
I’m like, ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? He’s become so obnoxious.’
‘Erika, he was always obnoxious. He’s just gone back to being the person he was when he was married to my old dear.’
‘My mum is really worried about him. She said he’s being really horrible to her.’
‘Look, he’s just loving being the centre of attention right now. The whole “CO’CK for Taoiseach” thing. I’m sure he’ll settle down when everyone goes back to thinking that he’s just an annoying penis.’
‘I hope you’re right. I really do.’
That’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that makes me suddenly lose it. Sorcha throws her orms around Fionn’s shoulders and kisses him full on the mouth. I end up reacting – badly.
I race over there, going, ‘Whoa, what the fock?’
Fionn goes, ‘Calm down, Ross. Sorcha’s just asked me to be her campaign manager. Although I have to tell you, Sorcha, I still see you as either a Green or an Independent.’
I’m like, ‘Campaign manager? Yeah, that’s some slick work, Fionn!’
He’s there, ‘What are you talking about, Ross?’, pretending he doesn’t know.
‘You’re trying to get in there now that you know I’m off the scene. That’s why you were totally cool with Erika coming home. You’re back in love with my still technically wife.’
That’s when Sorcha totally loses it with me – and I end up finding out why she’s barely looked at me all night.
‘The nerve of you,’ she goes, ‘to tell me who I can and can’t see. I heard what happened, Ross – between you and Claire.’
I’m there, ‘Me and Claire? Sorcha, I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You had sex with her. She told me.’
‘Oh. That.’
‘I can’t believe you would do something like that.’
‘Sorcha, I know you’re not ready to hear this, but it was a spite-ride situation.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Hey, the divorce was your idea. I’m a free agent, Sorcha.’
‘And what you did afterwards was just despicable. Going to the airport and putting her knickers into Garret’s hand.’
Muirgheal – I swear to fock – decides to stick her hooter in. She goes, ‘The thing I don’t understand, Sorcha, is how you could have stayed married to someone like him for as long as you did.’
And I’m there, ‘Yeah, this coming from the woman who rode JP in either Templeville Road or Lakelands Pork.’
‘It was Templeville Road,’ JP goes – he’s clearly hammered. ‘And it wasn’t a ride. She just pulled me off.’
Fionn then tries to tell me that I’m the one who’s out of order. And Christian tells me that I probably should apologize to Muirgheal. So I just go, ‘Yeah, whatever! Enjoy your night!’ and I end up just walking out of Kielys.
I decide to hit town to grab another drink. There’s no cabs around, so I stort walking in the direction of Leeson Street, hoping to possibly flag one down on the way? As I’m passing the laneway between Kielys and the Porty Shop, I just happen to glance to my right and I see something that stops me dead in my literally tracks.
Now, I’ve been around a few corners over the years. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life and I thought there was pretty much nothing in the world that could shock me to the point of not being able to even move. But that’s what ends up happening. I’m, like, literally rooted to the spot, not wanting to stare, but at the same time, not actually able to turn away from what I’m seeing?
Oisinn and Magnus are in the laneway. And they’re snogging the face off each other.