The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes (5 page)

Rabbit watched, terrified and thrilled. ‘They’re not really going to hurt them?’ she said urgently.

‘Nah,’ Johnny said. ‘They’ll be happy when at least one pisses himself.’

They didn’t have to wait long. Eugene was the first to go and, as urine darkened the leg of his red tracksuit bottoms, Johnny took a Polaroid camera out of his bag. ‘Say cheese.’ He took a photo of the boy, with a golf ball in his mouth, who’d just messed himself. The kid on the ground was crying so hard he had mud tracks on his face. Johnny snapped him too. The lads held the two boys where they were while Johnny waited for the Polaroid photos to process. When they were ready, he peeled them. ‘The miracle of the modern age, boys.’ He showed them the photographic evidence of their humiliation. Francie and Jay allowed them to stand up. Johnny called Rabbit over from the wall and she walked to him cautiously, still scared and exhilarated, her heart beating in her ears. Johnny handed her the photographs and she shoved them into her schoolbag.

He turned to the boys, his friends holding them by the backs of their collars. ‘See her?’ He pointed to Rabbit, and both boys nodded vigorously. ‘From now on, your job is to protect her. Anyone lays a finger on her, or says anything that upsets her, you need to sort them out or the penalty is you both lose your little dicks, understand?’

‘Yous can’t do that,’ Chris said, in a voice full of tears. Eugene, with the ball still stuck in his mouth, nodded again, to show he agreed with his friend.

‘Yeah, we can,’ Francie said.

‘And we will,’ Jay agreed.

‘Yous’ll go to prison.’

‘Five years for GBH, cut in half immediately because the prisons are too full, then halved again for good behaviour.’

‘And when it suits us, we’re real charmers,’ Jay said.

‘So that’s just over a year. I could do that standing on me head,’ Francie said.

‘There’s a course in prison I’d love to take a look at,’ Jay said.

Johnny smiled. ‘A year in a cell with me own TV is nothing, but a lifetime without a dick, well, that’s a long time, kids.’

The two boys burst into tears again.

‘Right,’ Chris said. ‘We’ll do it.’

Eugene agreed enthusiastically.

‘Good,’ Johnny said.

‘Great.’ Francie patted Chris on the shoulder while Jay pushed Eugene forward.

‘You can take that ball out of your mouth now,’ Johnny said to Eugene, and he tried, but it seemed really wedged in there. ‘Help him,’ Johnny ordered Chris.

‘How?’

‘Stick your fingers in.’ Jay offered the basic solution.

‘Ah, wha’?’ Chris said.

‘Just do it,’ Francie said.

‘Ah, Jaysus, lads . . .’

‘Don’t be a bleedin’ baby,’ Jay told him.

‘Right, right.’ Chris stuck his dirty fingers into his friend’s mouth. ‘It’s really tight in there.’

‘Just pull it from behind,’ Francie said.

‘But watch his teeth,’ Rabbit warned, walking up behind Johnny.

‘Ha hotch me meat,’ Eugene tried.

‘Wha’?’ Chris asked Eugene.

‘He said, “Yeah, watch me teeth,”’ Rabbit said.

‘Just open up a tiny bit more, Euge, will ya?’ Chris made a gagging sound. ‘Oh, I can feel his tongue.’

‘Right, I’m bored, let’s go.’ Francie slung his golf club across his shoulders and hung his arms over it.

Johnny pointed at the two boys. ‘Don’t forget now, watch out for our girl or . . .’ He made a snipping gesture with his fingers.

Chris stopped digging in Eugene’s mouth long enough to agree. Johnny smiled at Rabbit, and she fell into line between him and Jay, with Francie at the end, talking about his yearning for a battered sausage. When the boys had branched off to stop at the local chipper, Johnny walked Rabbit to her wall, where they sat for a few minutes to watch two dogs chasing each other on the green.

‘Why didn’t you bring Louis and Davey?’ Rabbit asked.

‘Louis doesn’t have the stomach for it, and Davey . . . Well, if we’d told your brother he would have cut off their little dicks right away.’ He laughed.

‘Really?’ Rabbit asked, scrunching her nose. At twelve she wasn’t sure her brother liked her enough not to throw her under a bus if she was in his way, never mind stand up for her.

‘Everyone loves you, Rabbit,’ Johnny said. ‘How could they not?’

Rabbit blushed and he flicked her bunches, got off the wall and walked up to the side door. By then the band had their own keys to the garage. He unlocked it and turned to her. ‘See you on the other side, Rabbit,’ he said, and was gone.

Rabbit woke in pain and, for a moment, she had no idea where she was. All she could process was an agony so intense she had to call out. It was when the nurse came running in that she remembered.
Oh, no, I’m dying
. Jacinta was a country woman, five foot nothing with a friendly face, a large chest and tiny hands. She checked Rabbit’s file, quickly managed the breakthrough pain, then waited until Rabbit’s fists unclenched and she was breathing more regularly.

‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Better,’ Rabbit said.

‘Good stuff. I’m Jacinta, by the way.’

‘The singer.’

‘Ah, you heard.’

‘“Delilah”,’ Rabbit said, and curled in her cracked bottom lip.

Jacinta took a swab lolly out of her pocket, unwrapped it and handed it to her. ‘Try it.’

Rabbit sucked it and rubbed it on her lips. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘So “Delilah”.’

Jacinta checked her watch, then sat in the recliner and stifled a yawn. ‘Well, now, truth be told, “Forever In Blue Jeans” is my favourite but “Delilah” is the crowd-pleaser,’ she chuckled a little to herself, ‘but while I’m being honest I don’t get half enough acclaim for my “Wonderwall”.’ She was joking: she knew she was bad but she didn’t care and Rabbit liked that about her.

‘I knew a singer once,’ Rabbit said.

‘Oh, yeah? Any good?’

‘He was amazing,’ Rabbit said. ‘He could have been the biggest star on the planet at one point.’

‘What happened?’

‘He let me go,’ Rabbit said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jacinta said, and clearly meant it.

‘Me too,’ Rabbit said, eyes closing.

Davey was the first to leave the hospital. He found it too difficult to stay. He didn’t know what to do or say and it was easier to walk away. It was still early enough in the evening to meet up with the lads. Francie was working late, but Jay was around for a pint, if he was willing to make his way across the city. He picked up a cab outside the hospital and called him en route. Jay was subdued on the phone. He’d heard about Rabbit’s diagnosis, even though he’d moved to the mountains.

‘Me ma met Pauline in the shops,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I’m sick for you, man. In fact, I’m sick for us all.’

‘I know.’

‘It’ll be good to see you, though.’ Jay hung up. It had been six months since Davey had been home and Jay had been on holiday with the family in Spain then so they’d missed one another. Davey realized it had been two years since they’d met.

The taxi driver was quiet: he was listening to Talk Radio. The presenter was attempting to get a politician to answer a straight question, with little success. Every now and then, the driver would mumble to the radio: ‘Oh, it’s all right for you, you shower of bastards.’ Or ‘Where’s my petrol allowance? You sons of bitches.’ And ‘You can shove your property tax up your bleedin’ hole.’

Davey didn’t engage with him. Instead he watched Dublin City pass him by. It was dusk and the pavements were filled with people in suits walking to their buses, cars and trains. Some were talking on their phones, some listening to their iPods, others walking in twos, chatting and laughing. One guy was singing to himself as he walked past the taxi, which was stuck at traffic lights. It was just a normal April evening in Dublin.
Life goes on
, Davey thought.
I’ve always hated that poxy saying.

Jay was waiting for him in the pub. As soon as they spotted each other he stood up and greeted Davey with a bear hug, then ruffled his hair as they pulled apart.

‘Looking good, DB.’

‘Back at ya,’ Davey said. They sat on stools and Jay ordered two pints without asking Davey what he wanted. They clinked glasses and took a sup before either spoke again.

‘How’s she holding up?’ Jay asked.

‘You know Rabbit. She’s hanging in there.’

‘Sucks, man,’ Jay said.

‘That’s life.’

‘So I’m changing the subject,’ Jay said. ‘How’s life in the fast lane? Tell me something good because I’ve just spent the day engineering sound for a cartoon that consists of beeps and whistles.’

‘It’s the same old same old.’

‘That’s not good. I want something good.’

‘I live on a fucking bus.’

‘Still not good.’

‘I’m boring.’

‘Don’t make me punch you.’

Davey took out his phone and pulled up a photo of a young blonde American beauty. ‘I’ve been seeing her, on and off.’

‘Oh, wow! What age is she?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘A model?’

‘Aspiring actress.’

‘Who would have thought it? DB’s such a stud.’

‘Not me,’ Davey said.

‘Not any of us, the bleedin’ state of you. You like her?’

‘She’s nice but . . .’ Davey shook his head ‘. . . she’s not—’

‘Marjorie?’

‘Don’t start.’

‘She’s separated now. It’s been official for ages.’

‘Not interested.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘How’s your missus?’

‘Closed the door to her business three months ago.’

‘Poor Lorraine.’

‘She’s one of many. She’s trying to sell off stock online. If it works, maybe she’ll continue in cyberspace. We’ll see.’

‘The kids?’

‘Den moved to Canada last year. He’s working in Nova Scotia. He likes it. Justine is doing her Leaving Cert in a couple of months.’

‘I feel old.’

‘You are old – too old for that girl.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Marjorie’s renting an apartment in town now.’

‘Jay . . .’

‘Right, right, I’ll leave it at that.’

Francie arrived just before last pints. He lifted Davey up in the air and shook him. ‘It’s great to see ya, DB. I’m heading in to see your sister tomorrow, so let’s just enjoy our catch-up tonight.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Davey said.

‘Nice one.’ Francie slapped him on the back. ‘Now show us the photo of the beaut you’re molesting.’

‘How did you know?’

Jay raised his phone in the air. ‘It’s called an iPhone,’ he wiggled his fingers, ‘and these are called fingers, Columbo.’

The lads chatted for another hour in the pub and then they stopped for chips, just like the old days. In the queue Francie’s in-depth description of his vasectomy brought tears to Davey’s eyes.

‘Me plums actually looked like plums.’

‘Fucked-up plums,’ Jay chimed in.

‘Talk about
The Color Purple
! Where’s my bleedin’ Oscar?’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Jay said. ‘Put me right off.’

‘You saw them?’ Davey asked.

‘He kept shoving them in me face.’ Jay was clearly still disturbed by the vivid memory.

‘You know what they say – it helps to share,’ Francie quipped.

Davey could listen to the boys banter for hours. It was good fun but, then again, being with the boys was among the best fun Davey Hayes had ever had. For a few short years, when they were a band full of hope and promise, he had laughed and loved more than he had in the many that had followed. He had a good life. He had fulfilled his dreams. He’d made a lot of money. He had great friends. On paper he was a success, but coming home never failed to remind him of the life he had given up.
Would I be happier here? Would I be married to a woman I loved and who loved me? Would I be a father? Or am I destined to live life with a hole in me?
He looked at his two old friends, sitting side by side, eating chips, all elbows and hand gestures, at a table a little too small for them. Despite the inconceivably tragic circumstances of his trip, his current state of shock and the heart-breaking pain that every minute delivered him closer to, for a short time that evening Davey Hayes was reminded of what it felt like to be happy.

Jack had been there when his youngest daughter was born. Hers was the only birth he’d ever witnessed and it wasn’t by choice. In seventies Ireland it was unusual for a man to be present in the room. It just wasn’t done. Women had babies and men waited in the pub with friends, a pint or two and cigars at the ready. During Grace’s birth Jack had attended a local football match, enjoyed a slap-up meal with the lads and then two scoops in the local. At ten minutes past ten, the barman had answered the phone and announced to the entire pub that Jack Hayes was the proud father of a little girl, seven pounds seven ounces. The whole place had celebrated, and he was bought so many drinks that Nicky Morrissey, the local barber, had had to carry him home.

Grace’s birth had been a good one for Jack. Davey’s hadn’t been so good: he’d given them a little scare right at the end of Molly’s pregnancy so she had spent the last two weeks in the hospital leaving Grace to run circles around Jack.

By then his own parents were dead; Molly’s father had died when she was still a child, and her mother was bananas so could not be trusted with a two-year-old. Jack was all Grace had in her mother’s absence and he couldn’t cope with that wilful child. He spent the day Molly went into labour running the legs off the child so she’d pass out after her dinner. They fought over fish fingers: Grace threw a tantrum and fell asleep five minutes after he’d locked her in her room, threatening through the closed door to run away and leave her there. The midwife rang the house with the news of his son, six pounds four ounces. He thanked her, collapsed in front of
The Saint
and was asleep before the first ad break.

But Rabbit was different. She was in such a rush to come into the world that Molly insisted Jack drive through red lights. ‘If it’s safe to do it, do it!’ she screamed.

‘Are you mad, woman?’

‘The baby is coming, Jack.’

‘Ah, now, hold on a minute, Molly, would ya? I’m not having that.’