Ghosts and Lightning (28 page)

—What’d she want Maggit for? says Ned.

Pajo shrugs. —Maybe she wants him back.

Ned raises an eyebrow theatrically. —Ah here now Pajo. She wants him back? She wants a knife in his back more like.

Pajo scratches at his slightly yellowed incisor. It looks like he’s gonna say somethin but he just shrugs again and pats Ignatius on the head.

—Did he say wha time to ring? I say.

—Just in the mornin was all he said.

—Betcha he doesn’t go, says Ned. —Assumin he’s still alive.

—Ah no, he will, says Pajo. —He will. He said he would.

—Yeah, cos he’s well known for his reliability, isn’t he? says Ned. —Paragon of honesty wouldn’t yeh say, Denny?

I nod.

—Ah no Denny, he will, says Pajo. —He kept sayin. Seriously now, he’ll be there.

—Is he not over Bernadette, Pajo? I say.

—Don’t think so Denny, no. He says he is, like, but … nah, I think he still likes her.

—Ah well, says Ned. —It’s his own fuckin fault, lads. Not bein bad like, but it is. It’s one thing bein mates with him but imagine havin a kid with the cunt.

There’s silence for a while. The low whine o the wipers. Patta-patta o the rain.

*

Pajo and Ned chatter away as I drive. Ned rang Maggit and we’ve to meet him at the Foggy Dew in about a half an hour. Apparently it was Bernadette he was with. Ned asked him were they back together but unsurprisingly they’re not. Wonder wha it was all about, though? Course, there’s no chance Maggit’ll actually give anythin away; loves his fuckin mysteries, Maggit does.

We’ve to stop off at Inchicore to pick up this stuff, wharrever it is. Tommy’s new place is near the Black Lion, just round the corner in a little estate. I swing in and pull up outside a new-lookin house with a concrete garden
and the blinds still pulled down. There’s a big black satellite dish stickin out o the side o the house. Ned unclips his seatbelt and hops out. Not sure wha I feel about gettin supplies off Tommy. I mean, we’re sittin in Kasey’s van, and it was Kasey robbed all that cocaine off Dommo, Tommy’s brother. There’s no real way o tyin it to us, though. Not even Ned or Maggit know that it was Kasey, that’s strictly between me and Pajo.

—D’yeh reckon Kasey’d mind us gettin stuff off Tommy, Paj?

Pajo shakes his head. —Nah. Don’t think so, Denny. He wouldn’t want us, like … goin hungry or wharrever.

Pajo strokes Ignatius and nods and we natter away for a few minutes before Ned appears at the window again, this time with Tommy. Tommy’s wearin a housecoat and a pair o shorts but he has a raincoat thrown over him and he’s peerin out from under it. He could do with a shave. There’s a pile o somethin, about three feet tall, on the ground. It’s boxes or trays o some sort but I can’t see wha of.

—How yeh keepin Denny? says Tommy.

—Cool. What’s all this so?

Ned picks up one o wha I can now see is a covered aluminium tray and passes it through the window. I open it up. There’s cocktail sausages, chicken wings, sandwiches, sausage rolls and god knows wha else, piled on paper plates and wrapped in cellophane.

—Where’d yeh get this? Is it alright?

—Course it is, says Tommy.

—It was supposed to be for a weddin reception, says Ned. —One o Tommy’s cousins.

—And why have we got it?

—Munchies, says Ned.

—Yer man called her last night and said it was off, the prick, says Tommy.

—Jilted her?

—Yeah. He was in the airport when he rang her, headin for Spain, the cowardly cunt. Can yeh believe that?

—Fuckin hell.

—He’ll be in for some hidin if he ever comes back here, tellin yeh.

—And so we’re the beneficiaries?

—Suppose so, yeah.

—They’ll do for the drive, says Ned.

—So this stuff is definitely OK, yeah? I ask. —Not gone off or anythin?

—Yeah, it’s sound, says Ned. —It was meant for today.

—Ye of little faith, says Tommy.

—There’s not much vegetarian stuff, says Pajo.

—God love yeh, says Tommy. —Yer gettin it for next to fuck all.

—Don’t worry about it, I say. —He’ll live. Thanks. Right, we’d better get movin.

—Good luck lads, says Tommy. —Write me a postcard.

—I’ll bring yeh back a turnip.

—Fuck off. Grab us a bottle o poitín if yeh can.

—We’ll see.

—Ah, go on, so. Be off with yiz. Watch out for randy farmers’ daughters. They’d fuckin crush skinny cunts like youse to death.

—We’ll be grand.

—Ah yiz will. Good luck, so.

Tommy slaps the side o the van and steps back. We pull away and head for town.

*

It’s only early so the Foggy Dew’s still pretty empty. I trail me fingertips along the polished near-yellow wood o the bar and scan the taps. The girl behind the bar is Chinese, with a small mouth and brown eyes. Looks a bit like yer woman out o Wayne’s World, can’t remember her name, like, but she’s younger, this girl, probably a student or somethin. She smiles at me by way of enquiry and absentmindedly touches the lobe of her ear. It looks dead cute, actually, the way she does it. I fancy somethin lighter than a Guinness but since the bargirl’s after catchin me early in the decision-makin process and for some reason I don’t wanna look like an indecisive sap I knock on the Guinness tap with me knuckle and smile. The girl ducks down and grabs a glass and holds it at an angle under the tap and draws the pump back, fillin the glass about three quarters full and then leavin it to settle. Proper way to pull a pint o Guinness, that. Loads o the foreign bar staff just fill it straight up and hand it over.

The cash register bleeps. I hand over the money and she places it in the till and hands me the twenty-cent change and nods and wipes the bar. I should have told her to just keep the twenty cent but it’s too late, if I gave it to her now it’d look like awkward charity rather than a tip. Someone with a bit o savvy, someone like Ned, would o been on the ball and the second she turned he would o held up his hand and said nah, it’s grand, and smiled. Although it’s only twenty cent so fuck it, like, I could be James fuckin Bond,
a suave, debonair prick, and it’d still be a poxy, unworthy tip. Yeh couldn’t get a packet o Chickatees for twenty cent these days. All go in the Celtic Tiger, like.

I turn and lean back against the bar and scan the pub while the Guinness is settlin. Ned’s already after gettin a round in and I said I didn’t want one, I’m drivin. But after lookin at the lads tuckin in I can’t help it. One for the road, as they say. There are a couple of oul lads in one o the booths, chattin away loudly. One o them starts laughin this big harsh brass laugh and his shoulders shuck up and down. There’s a giant cluster o warts on his cheek and he has small eyes, deep and pooled with memory. There’s a couple o pints o Guinness in front o them, with rings o froth at intervals above the inch or so o dark left at the bottom o the glasses. Sign of experienced Guinness men, them rings. Each one measurin a gulp, well formed and evenly spaced; another ritual I’m aware of but personally indifferent to. Badge of honour among these old-school boozehounds, though.

I turn back to the bar and I can see the Chinese bargirl from three different angles because o the mirrors. She’s leanin against the till and without lookin directly at her I can see that’s she’s worryin over a tatty pad and she’s rubbin her earlobe like it’s part o some spell she’s castin to make wharrever bad sum she’s glarin at add up. I can see this in both profiles, left and right, and over her shoulder the back of her head and the red scrunchy that’s holdin up her hair, the tip of her ponytail dyed white. She catches me gaze and smiles and puts down the pad and biro, then tops up the Guinness and places the pint on the bar. I thank her and she smiles again and I take me drink away towards the back and wonder wha her voice sounds like.

*

Maggit’s sprawled out in the back room, a huge weary grin on his face. His long skinny legs are crossed, one giant laceless workboot on top o the other. His blue jumper sits snug on the beginnins of his beerbelly and the sleeves are rolled back to his elbows. The fucker looks exhausted and he raises his half-gone pint o cider to me and winks. Ned’s sat on the opposite side o the table with Pajo, and he smiles and gives me a mini-salute.

—Fucker stole a march on us, says Ned. —Sneaked a few while he was waitin.

Ned’s fingerless gloves are on the table, on top of a pile o newspapers. Pajo’s sittin beside him with Ignatius’s head pokin out o his jacket. I have to push the papers aside to make room for me pint. There’s a copy o the
Daily Star
flopped across Maggit’s lap.

—Paper round?

—Celebratin, says Maggit. —Fuckin deadly.

Maggit hasn’t shaved in a while and his oversized ears are especially noticeable today cos he’s after gettin his head shaved. It was gettin fuzzy the last time I saw him but it’s dead short and bristly now. He keeps subconsciously pattin his skull with his non cider-holdin hand.

—Looks nice, I say, lookin at his head.

Maggit shrugs and looks kind o uncomfortable for a split second. Maggit can be weirdly sensitive when it comes to his looks. Especially his ears. They used to call him earoplane when we were kids. Jesus, the amount o scraps he got into over them ears. He’s always sayin, when he’s drunk, like, that he’s gonna get them pinned back, but I think admittin any ear-related abnormality while sober,
even to himself, is too acute a pain for him to bear. And so the ears abide.

Maggit sits forward, kind o hunched over his drink. After the momentary wobble over his haircut the smile’s back in place, a big wide grin showin teeth that are surprisinly well kept.

—Fuckin Man U went out yesterday, didn’t they? he says. —Deadly. Readin all the post-match discussion while I’m havin me breakfast. There’s an article by Dunphy. And stupid Ferguson’s excuses as well. Fuckin delighted I am.

—They’re out?

I’m usually well up to speed on football but the past few days have been mental so I’ve completely lost track.

—On their poxy arses. Deadly. I was out watchin it with a few heads last night. Some fuckin laugh, I’m tellin yiz. Went on a mad one after that. I’m fuckin wrecked, like. But yeh have to read the papers as well, that’s the icin on the cake. All the excuses and that.

—Thought yeh were seein Bernadette?

—Wha?

—Were yeh not supposed to be seein Bernadette last night?

Maggit looks into his pint. —Yeah, he says. —I did.

—Everythin alright?

—Yeah, grand.

—How come yeh ended up out with the lads?

—Ah, leave it Denny.

—Yeh didn’t propose to her, did yeh? says Ned. Maggit eyes Ned.

—Yeh didn’t, did yeh?

—Yeah, says Maggit.

—I’d say she jumped at the chance, did she? says Ned, winkin.

Maggit places his pint on the table and looks at Ned. —Will you ever shut yer gob yeh mouthy cunt? Now yer ridin that posh slapper yer God’s gift, wha?

—Leave it out Maggit, for fuck sake, I say. —He’s only messin.

Maggit takes a big gulp of his cider, finishin it off. We sip at our drinks in silence for a minute or so.

—Were yeh serious, Maggit, askin her? I say. I have to be careful, here, I don’t wanna annoy him. I mean, he’s a pain in the fuckin arse but still, I don’t wanna see him down.

—Yeah, says Maggit, and to be honest I’m surprised I’m even gettin this much out of him. —I got a ring. I got it off a fella in Cork. That’s where I was when them poxy knacker fucks were hasslin yeh.

—Yeh still that hung up on her?

—I have a fuckin kid with her, Denny.

—I know, yeah. But … doesn’t mean it’s gonna work, does it?

Maggit shrugs. —No fuckin chance now, anyway. I dropped up to the house a few weeks ago, like, to talk to her. We went for a drink and that. I told her I was still into her. But then a few days ago she saw me with that knacker youngwan, Niamh, and that was it, fucked.

—So yeh still proposed? Wha did yeh expect?

—Don’t know. She’s a fuckin cunt, anyway. Does she expect me to believe she’s never been with a fella since we split up? She’s a fuckin hypocrite.

—Yeah, but after yeh said yeh were still into her, like, she probably thought –

—Ah, fuckin … just shurrup about it Denny. I’m not in the mood.

I take a sup o me pint. Maggit’s fuckin deludin himself. There’s no way in hell Bernadette would ever o had him back, one way or the other. But he has an excuse now, a reason to be angry. The world makes sense again.

—Nice pint, I say, noddin me head, even though it’s just that same smoky gloop. Just feel like sayin somethin positive, yeh know? Liftin the gloom.

—Pulled it right, did she? says Ned, obviously completely uninterested one way or the other. He looks like he’s fumin after wha Maggit said about Sinead, and I don’t blame him. This is turnin into a total fuckin mess. But it’s Kasey’s funeral so fuck it, we have to go through with it.

—Yeah, she did, I say, and I smack me lips to emphasise the point, like yeh see the oul lads do. —Grand.

Maggit glances over at the bar. —Pulled right? I’d fuckin pull
her
right.

Ned rolls his eyes.

—Seriously, says Maggit. —Them fuckin Asians. See them on the internet? Tommy was showin me on his mobile a while ago. Fuck sake.

—Wonders o modern technology, wha? says Ned. —The spread o information, the exchange of ideas. Meetin o cultures. Porn.

—Hilarious, yeah. I didn’t put it there, did I? I only watched it. Mental stuff though all the same. Them fuckin Asian youngwans, tellin yeh. Saw this video where about fifty chinky businessmen wank over this bird. Head to toe in spunk, like. I was … actually, there’s Triads holed up off Parnell Square, know that? Serious. Fuckin gang warfare;
it was in the
Herald
. Put yer fuckin eyes out, them Chinese. Stick them in formaldehyde.

Ned looks at me.

—Fuckin chinks, like, says Maggit. —Tellin yeh. Near as many chinks over here now as there are fuckin Polish, swear to God. Breedin us fuckin out. Maggit fishes a packet o cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in his mouth.

—Smokin ban, yeh sap, I say, and Maggit, shakin his head, sticks the cigarette back into the packet. —You fuckin losin it or wha? I say. —Gerra grip.