Ghosts and Lightning (8 page)

—That’s very good, I say.

I can hear the toilet flushin. Then there’s a flurry o footsteps on the stairs and little Anthony skids into the kitchen. He’s wearin a mini Liverpool jersey and he’s got Maggit’s Champions League trophy ears and Bernadette’s green eyes. He looks up at his da.

—Howayeh Anto, says Maggit, a big grin on his face. He drops down to his knees and holds out his arms. Anthony jumps up and into him.

—His name’s Ant’ny, Bernadette calls over. The other women shake their heads, clearly disgusted.

— Ant’ny, says Maggit. —Happy birthday son.

Cakeface and Redser are still breakdancin beside us.

—He’s my da, Anthony says to them. They stop and look at Maggit.

—Are you his da, mister?

—Yeah, he says.

Maggit looks dead proud. It’s mad seein him like this. Nice, though. He pats the Nike bag and unslings it, then puts it on the lino.

—Wait and yeh see this, Anto.

—Ant’ny, says Bernadette.

—Ant’ny, says Maggit. He looks at Anthony. —Go on so, he says. —Open it.

Anthony takes hold o the zipper and pulls it back. Bernadette arches her head for a better view. Cakeface and Redser peep over Anthony’s shoulders and Anthony reaches into the bag. He pulls out the jumble o plastic and wires and plugs and joypads. I can see now that the stickers are them football ones yeh collect for the sticker books.
One o them’s Damien Duff, from when he used to play for Blackburn Rovers.

—Playstation, says Anthony.

Maggit nods his head. —Yeah, he says. —The Playstation. That’s a great one that, isn’t it? Isn’t that the one all the big boys have?

Cakeface and Redser and Anthony look at each other.

—Playstations are stupid, says Anthony.

—Wha? says Maggit.

Anthony’s turnin one o the joypads in his little hands. —They’re gank, da. Playstation 2s are good.

He holds up the joypad and Maggit takes it, lookin at it like it’s some unfathomable fossil, alien and infinitely strange.

—That’s the old one da, says Anthony. —That’s Playstation 1.

Maggit stands up. He looks crumpled or somethin, dead deflated. He places the joypad on the drainin board.

—Jaysis. Is that one no good then? It still plays games and that doesn’t it?

—It’s no use, says Cakeface.

—No use? says Maggit. He looks at the kid and the sensitive Maggit disappears instantly. —Wash yer fuckin face you, will yeh?

—Don’t talk to my son like that, says one o the single mothers, standin up. She flicks her floppy pink fringe and stubs out her cigarette. —He’s only a bleedin child. C’mere to me Kyle.

Kyle starts to cry.

—Yeh alright? I say, and reach out to rub his head. Me palm comes back sticky with cream and jam.

—Fuck.

Kyle runs over to his mother.

—Don’t fuckin curse in front o my son, says Pink Fringe. —Don’t mind them Kyle, she says, huggin the bawlin child.

—Wha did I do?

Pink Fringe kisses Kyle’s sweetened head.

—I think yiz better go, says Bernadette.

—I’m only here two fuckin minutes, says Maggit.

—Yeah, and yiv worked fuckin wonders. Gerrout.

Maggit scoops up his empty bag.

—I’m entitled to see me own son, Bernadette, he says.

Bernadette walks over, picks up the Playstation and shoves it into Maggit’s arms.

—Yeah, yeh are. And if yeh bring robbed stuff into this house again I’m entitled to phone the fuckin police. That fair?

—It’s not robbed. Is it Denny?

I’m sayin fuck all. Last time I’m ever comin over here, I swear. Fuckin nightmare.

—I’ll get yeh somethin better durin the week, Anto. Yeah? An Action Manjeep or one o them other Playstations. The new ones.

Anthony nods.

—With Tekken 3? he says.

—Yeah, no probs. Anythin yeh want. Tekman 3 and loads o other ones.

—Tekken, not Tekman, Cakeface shouts over, between sobs.

—Tekken, yeah. That’s wha I said. Right.

He leans down and hugs Anthony.

—See yeh son, he says. —And happy birthday.

*

—That went well.

—Don’t start Denny.

We’re cuttin through the Lawns. Well, cuttin through an under 11s five-a-side, to be exact. The kids stop and look at us. One o them picks up the ball.

—That’s a free, says a kid on the other team. —Handball.

—There’s people on the pitch yeh sap, says the fella with the ball. He’s small, with a snotty, runny nose.

I look at Maggit.

—Wha d’yeh mean, don’t start? Don’t start wha?

—Yeh know wha I mean Denny. Just don’t fuckin start.

The kids are gettin indignant now.

—Gerroff the pitch!

—We’re in extra time yiz pricks!

There are ten mucked-up faces glarin at us. Most o them are wearin Liverpool or United jerseys. One o them’s hopped on the bandwagon early and he’s wearin a Chelsea jersey. The biggest kid is in United’s white away kit, a big number 7 on the back with CUNZER above it.

—Wha are we walkin through their game for?

—Fuck them, says Maggit. —It’s a public park.

—We could o walked round just as easy.

A clump o wet muck, little blades o grass stickin out of it, sails through the air and lands on Maggit’s shoulder.

Maggit turns round.

—Who the fuck threw that?

None o the kids answer. Maggit grabs up a handful o muck and hurls it indiscriminately at the group o kids. They part ranks and the muckball splats in the middle o one o the goals.

—Gunner eye, says Cunzer.

—Wha did you say?

—Spanner eye, says a different kid.

Maggit looks livid, like he’s gonna lose it completely.

—Calm the fuck down you, will yeh? I say. I put me hand on his elbow. —They’re only kids yeh fuckin lunatic.

Maggit shrugs me off and runs back a few feet. The kids scarper all over the place, stoppin when they’re safely out o range o Maggit’s temporary madness. Maggit stands there, fists balled, soakin up their taunts:

—I’ll get me da after you!

—Big ears!

—Wanker!

—Giz a chase!

Fuck this.

I turn and start walkin. He’s a mental fuckin bastard, Maggit is. I know he’s a mate but he’s mad as fuck and he wrecks me head sometimes. I head for the gate at the bottom o the park, the one straight across from where me nanny Cullen used to live. The steel’s bent and rusty. I squeeze through the half-fucked turnstile and turn back on the other side o the railins. Maggit’s a hundred feet or so behind me. The kids are standin in a bunch, hurlin abuse and muckballs at him. I wanna wait for him but yeh have to draw the fuckin line. Need a drink man, too fuckin right. I’ll give Maggit a buzz when I get to the pub. I’ll get the drinks in like, so no fuckin change there. It’s still too cold for Bulmers so it’s two pints o Guinness and the rickety table by the window. Fuck, when did things get this predictable? Need a change, man. Need fuckin somethin, yeh know?

The anointed day. Stupid fuckin séance, like. Why I’m goin along with this I don’t fuckin know. We’re standin underneath the Spire. Another one o Bertie’s deadly ideas. What a fuckin waste o money. I mean, I’m all for culture and that but, given Dublin’s troubles with heroin, spendin millions on somethin that looks exactly like a four hundred foot tall syringe in the middle of O’Connell Street is a bit fuckin thick. And I don’t think Bertie and his mates are streetwise enough for it to have been ironic.

—I’ll meet yiz here at six, yeah? I say. —Don’t be late. Pajo wants to get started by about eight.

—The stiffy by the Liffey, says Maggit, pattin the Spire and winkin.

—The nail in the Pale, says Ned.

—Yeah. The poker near Croker, I say.

Ned and Maggit laugh. —Never heard that one, says Ned. —Ever hear that one, Maggit?

—Nah.

Maggit and Ned don’t seem bothered about the séance at all. Although there’s no reason they should be, really -I’m the one who has to live with the consequences. I still think Paula would be better off just givin up the drink for
a while, gettin her head together. But at the same time the whole situation still bothers me; it kind o gnaws away at me. Ghosts and drink and madness. Which causes which, like? In what order do they come? Gives me the creeps.

I take out me mobile and have a look. It’s ten to five. Loads o time. We cross O’Connell Street to the GPO. There’s two women and an oulfella standin to our left, a table in front o them covered with leaflets and forms. There’s a load o posters behind them, stuck to the wall o the GPO. Horrible pictures o slimy dead foetuses. They look like tiny, semi-translucent aliens. I fuckin hate that — people pushin their beliefs onto yeh, tryin to shock yeh into submission.

—Make sure yeh get a proper bunch, Maggit, I say.

—Fresh.

Maggit nods.

—Make sure, I say.

—Yeah, fuck sake. I will.

—Right. I’ll meet yiz in an hour, yeah?

Ned and Maggit nod. I take a last look at the strange and gory pictures behind the pro-lifers and hurry along O’Connell Street. Next stop Trinity College. I cross at Bachelor’s Walk, the dyin sun glintin orange off the Liffey as I cross O’Connell Bridge. Town’s still packed so I have to weave in and out o the crowd. Exhaust fumes and the wordless drone o hundreds o voices. Tacky traditional Irish music spills from the open shop front o Carrolls, the Polish workers behind the tills smilin and noddin to American tourists, and a huge black security guard mumblin into his walkie-talkie. There’s fuck all Irish people workin in shops these days. It’s pretty much all foreigners. Polish especially. There’s loads and loads o them. There’s even a Polish
supplement in the
Evening Herald
— the
Polski Herald
. The thing that seems maddest to me, though, is that I’ve never even spoken to a Polish person. Ever. No one’s integrated here. When I was over in Wales that time it wasn’t too bad, yeh got to talk to people from all over. Well, in Cardiff, anyway — the Valleys were backwards as fuck, worse than here. I reckon there’s somethin nasty brewin in Ireland, though; yeh can feel it. People gettin angry, lookin for someone to blame for their woes. Mad bastards like Slaughter stewin over it, formulatin their twisted theories; the worst o them honin their arguments with broken logic and fucked up economics.

Ah, fuck it anyway. Does me head in thinkin about it; it’s fuckin embarrassin to be honest. Although it’s helped the journey pass at least; I’m nearly at the Bank of Ireland when I clock one o them charity workers in front o me. A short, slightly plump girl with blonde hair and a bright yellow bib. I’ll have to make sure I don’t –

Bollix. Too late, I’m after makin eye contact. Shite. I don’t have time for this. Or the money. Head down, Denny; look away. Just keep goin, look like yeh have a purpose, somewhere to be. Fuck that, I do have somewhere to be. I have an –

—Hi, can I talk to you for a minute?

I’m still a few feet away when she says it. Just keep walkin, Denny.

—I like your hair.

Me hair? I look up and make eye contact again and that’s it, game over, I’m fucked. I stop.

—Thank you, the girl says. She has an accent. One o these hard-to-place European ones. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles.

—Do you have a couple of minutes?

—Ehh well, I kind o –

—Just a couple of minutes? Please?

She tilts her head and smiles. It says BODIL on a tag on her bib.

—It’ll only take a couple of minutes, I swear. She smiles again and raises her eyebrows. I glance over at Trinity and back at the girl.

—Are you a student?

—Me? Ah no, no.

—Oh, OK. You look like a student.

Do I? I don’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing. Bad, I’m inclined to think. Ah well.

—I’m with Enable Ireland. Do you know anything about Enable Ireland?

I shake me head. It sounds familiar, but no, I don’t know anythin about Enable Ireland. Course, I’m about to find out, even though I’m late and, worse, when we get to the end of her spiel it’s gonna be embarrassin for both of us cos I don’t have anywhere near enough money to open a direct debit or a standin order or wharrever.

—Well, we’re a charity that helps with the education of young people in Ireland with difficulties of all kinds, including Down syndrome. We do really good work. Really good. Do you know that Ireland is the richest country in Europe per head of capita?

—Ehh –

I kind o shrug me shoulders. I’m not unaware of Ireland’s wealth, I’m just not party to it.

—Oh it is, it is. There’s a lot of money in this country. And I mean a lot. I’m from Sweden and we have a lot of
money floating around in Sweden but nothing to what we’ve got over here.

I nod. Bodil, if that’s her name, which I assume it is, is beamin. She’s really into this. Fair play, like. Fuck, I wish I had the money to give but I don’t, I’m pure broke; penniless, brassic, near fuckin destitute if truth be told. If Bodil was some pushy student-type from Blackrock it’d be easier to break the news, but she’s not; she seems dead nice, dead genuine. And from Sweden, as well: a Swedish girl miles from home workin away for an Irish charity while I’m a native and on the dole, no good to anyone. It pops into me head to ask her about the gjengangers Pajo mentioned, just for somethin to say, but I decide against it.

—The problem is, says Bodil, —not a lot of that money is being set aside for the people who need it most. It’s a really bad system, really unfair. I mean, education is not only there for people with money, or people who just happen to have been born without any difficulties.

Me mobile briefly buzzes in me pocket; a text.

—Enable Ireland is really trying hard to take up the slack. It organises all kinds of events and offers all kinds of support to the families of people with learning difficulties. It’s –

—Sorry, emm … I’m gonna have to go. Sorry.

Bodil blinks, then kind o nods her head. She clutches her clipboard to her chest.

—Oh, OK, she says. —You’re in a hurry?

—Yeah. Well, like, I don’t have much, emm …

Why am I even explainin all this? All I have to do is say I’m late and fuck off.