I was saying, ‘If God had meant men to iron . . .’ but wasn’t sure how to finish it.
Trish was saying, ‘This is not an ironing burn. Tell me the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Please yourself.’ She dabbed and I jerked and she said, ‘Will you sit still!’
‘Then stop fuckin’ stabbin’ me, it’s sore enough without you!’
‘Did I ask you to come here?’
‘No!’
‘Then shut up and sit still.’ She took a firmer grip on my hand. ‘You should go to the hospital with this.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine. Dan, I know you, you’re not being brave, you’re just scared of hospitals.’
‘So? You’re scared of . . . commitment.’
‘Hah! Don’t start me, Dan, please don’t start me.’ She shook her head. ‘Seriously, this is really deep.’
‘I know. But please, just . . . you know, do what you do.’
She held my gaze, then nodded and continued her work. We were in the kitchen on bar stools on either side of a counter. It was warm and bright and smelled of fresh pastry. It most probably came from a spray. Trish could hardly boil an egg. It had once been my home, and now it wasn’t. Even looking around the kitchen I could see that much of my accumulated clutter was gone. I was being spring-cleaned out of her life.
I said, ‘Big house, this. I used to have one just like it.’
‘You still have.’
‘Plenty of space. Spare bedrooms and the like.’
‘Dan, just say what you’re going to say, just ask what you’re going to ask, I hate it when you beat around the bush.’
‘You didn’t use to.’
She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile with it. ‘Out with it.’
‘How would you feel about having a lodger for a wee while?’
‘You?’
‘No. Jesus. That ship has sailed, baby. I mean, a fourteen-year-old boy.’
‘A fourteen . . .? What have you got yourself involved in now?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘No, wait. Wait.’ I could almost hear the cogs turning. ‘Fourteen-year-old boy. That boy. The missing boy?’
‘Ahm, yes. As it turns out, the whole Shankill Road thing seems to have been a bit of a red herring as far as Jack is concerned . . .’
‘That’s the case you were fired from?’
‘Yes, but what does fired actually mean?’
‘Dan.’
‘You know, like sometimes you say no, when you actually mean yes?’
‘No.’
‘I rest my case. Anyway, it turns out that the poor old bag who got burned to death must have been demented or something, because she left me her one-legged son in her will.’
‘She . . .?’
‘Well, more or less. He showed up at the office, nowhere to go and half the Shankill after him, so I put him up for the night. But, you know, it’s not right, a grown man with a young boy, I mean, this day and age. You know what I mean.’
‘And so? You want me to what, take him in? Some wee shite I don’t know from Adam?’
‘Yes. He’s a lovely lad, once you get to know him.’
‘Some wee shite who the police are looking for?’
‘The police and the UVF. But really, he’s cute, you’ll love him.’
‘Dan, why on earth would I want to do that?’
‘Because he needs help and I’m not equipped to give it.’
‘You mean you can’t be arsed.’
‘No, I tried, really. He’s fourteen, for God’s sake, he’s lost his leg, he’s lost his mum, he’s scared, he has nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He needs someone to talk to, look after him; you can do that, you’re good at that. Poor wee guy.’
She was just securing the final layer of cotton bandage around the burn. She gave it a tight pull. I yanked my hand back.
‘Jesus!’
‘Jesus nothing! I don’t believe you, Dan Starkey. Coming round here, trying to pressure me into taking some . . .’
‘I’m not trying to pressure . . .’
‘. . . fucking street kid, giving me the whole fucking guilt trip. Typical, you get yourself into something, you come crying to me, sort it out for me, Trish, please, Trish, I can’t cope, Trish, just so you can piss off back to whatever the fuck you’re doing and leave me to clean up the mess. Well I’m not having it, Dan. All you ever think of is yourself. You don’t for one minute think I might have a life? A job? That I don’t need this? You don’t even consider the fact that it might get me in trouble? That if the fucking cops don’t trace him to here then maybe the UVF might, and while they’re dealing with him they might just deal with me. Eh? Do you ever think of any of that, Dan?’
‘Trish, I—’
‘Shut up! I don’t want to hear it. Now just go. Go. You need to grow up, Dan. Sort your own problems out, all right?’
I kept my eyes on the counter and nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I will go.’ I held up my hand. She’d used so much gauze, and wrapped such a length of linen bandage around it, that my hand had all the dexterity of an oven glove. ‘Thanks for this. Really. I appreciate it. Could you, ahm, help me on with . . .?’
I took my jacket off the back of the stool. Trish came round and held it while I manoeuvred one arm into it, then helped to stretch the other cuff wide enough to get my injured hand through.
‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘And sorry.’
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. I walked out into the hall. Trish followed me as far as the kitchen doorway and stood there with her arms folded. I opened the front door and was about to step out when:
‘Dan!’
‘What . . .?’
‘I fucking hate you!’
‘Okay.’
‘This is the last time, I swear to God it’s the last time. Just for a couple of nights, okay? You sort it out, quick as you can, all right?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No! Now away and get him before I change my mind.’
‘No need,’ I said. ‘He’s in the car.’
Her mouth dropped open. I stepped out on to the driveway before she could say anything.
Bobby was in the passenger seat. He was wearing my sunglasses, the music was booming away, he had the window down and his elbow resting on it, and he had used the car lighter to light his fag. He looked just about as happy as a pig in shite. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the opposite of . . .
I waited until he was in the house, and had grunted a hello at her, to tell Trish that she might need to invest in some clothes for him, and to hide whatever booze she had, and that stealing his leg might be the only way to stop him from venturing out. He didn’t hear any of this because he was too busy rifling in her fridge. On the plus side, I assured her that Jack Caramac had paid me before firing me and that I’d be able to fully reimburse her as soon as his cheque hit the bank. She should keep receipts.
For some reason she did not look particularly thrilled.
I drove away, smiling.
But then I looked at my hand, resting on the steering wheel. Not only did it hurt like billy-o, it was a serious masturbation injury.