Paddy Nemesis, page 7
Each slap was broken up by a scream and the breaths of effort coming from my Dad. I was stuck to the bed, not knowing what to do and I hold my breath and hold it and hold it… fuck it. I leaped up, stuck on a pair of jogging bottoms. I tripped up in them as I was trying to get downstairs as well as dressed. I looked over the banister and could see that my dad was trying to take off mum’s jeans and she was trying to fend him off. He kept slapping her hand away, putting his meaty hand on her neck and whispering something into her ear.
She saw me over the back of his shoulder, turned to him and said my name. Without looking at me, he told me to go back to bed. I said “No”. I defied him again and I wasn’t going to let him at my mum. So, I picked up my stomach, which was down by my ankles, and went downstairs. I could have ended up anywhere; the adrenaline had turned my legs to fleshy jelly, breaking my concentration down even more, as I now had to focus on not falling down the stairs. That would have caused such a distraction; the folks would laugh at me being silly, go to bed and we could all be happy families again. Yeah and I was Fidel Castro. I had to do this, whatever this was, and even though I know now that this had started me on the journey, I wasn’t aware of how much of the ripple would turn into a tsunami - wiping out everything its path.
I got halfway down the stairs, or - if you want to be all Dante about it - the fifth level of hell - and froze. He turned his gaze on me, and I guessed he wasn’t too impressed for many different reasons; the disobedience, the awkwardness of trying to rape my mum and give her a few slaps, with his son watching on. Kinda put the kibosh on things. Mum looked at me, looking for salvation, pleading with me not to stop, to carry on down. He turned away, losing his grip on her fragile neck, and came up the stairs towards me. She shouted out to him to leave me alone, but her voice was fucked. He towered a foot above me, and grabbed me by the shoulder, trying to force me onto the floor. I tried to grab his wrist and force it away, and he used the back of his other hand to slap me across the face. The sudden flash of pain, the humiliation, tears suddenly sprang up like newly-discovered oil.
He smiled at me, because he’d won again, over both of us. He told me to go back to my fucking room and stay there. This is where the split personality in me must have entered the room. Because I didn’t go: “yeah ok Dad, I’m bruised and beaten, and I’m actually going to allow you to go back down and continue on beating the crap out of me ma”; Through the tears and the snot and the stinging face, I gritted my teeth and said “No”. This wasn’t just defiance, this wasn’t a smart comment, this wasn’t me trying to get one over on him. This was me confronting a monster.
- You fucking waste of space shit.
I didn’t reply.
Couldn’t think of anything fast enough, too young to be able to come out with a witty retort such as coming from the same gene pool. He was now standing two stairs below me, pissed and pissed-off. So I just pushed him, didn’t think it would actually do anything. It was more a “handbags at ten paces” push than a “get your fucking hands of my mother, you cunt” push. He must have forgotten that he was on the stairs, ‘cause he stepped back into thin air, putting his weight on the back foot and tumbled backwards and crumpled into a pile with a low thud.
Panic set in. I looked at Mum, who ran past him and stood in front of me, with both hands outstretched, she whispered
- Get out of my house.
He tried to stand up, but fell again, the left side of his face grazed from rubbing it on the wall as he fell. Mum turned her voice up a wee bit and repeated the mantra.
- Get out of my house.
He stood up and looked in the mirror, checking himself out because you don’t wanna look like a fool in the station next morning, when his colleagues asked him what happened. He looked at us with such contempt I thought his eyes were going to burst into flames. My mum repeated the line, louder again.
He must have just thought: “Fuck this for a laugh”, as he walked back out the door he had only entered, like, five minutes beforehand. The engine of his car roared into life, the gravel being churned up under the wheels as he fucked off out of our lives never to return back here as a husband or a father.
Me and me Ma looked at each other with a what the fuck do we do now look on our faces. She got up and patted herself down, doing up her belt again. She came over to me and hugged me so tightly I thought my ribs would break. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and just said;
- Would you like a cup of tea?
Not am I ok or am I hurt. A fucking cup of tea. All I could say was;
- Yeah ok
And then there was two.
Chapter 7
The train announcer let us know we are about to arrive at Carrick on Shannon. My stomach was trying to force its way out through my feet, a combination of drink, drugs and nerves.
The next stop was Boyle. The next stop was only 10 minutes away.
It wasn’t like being nervous was a new concept to me. It wasn’t like I enjoyed repeating myself at all. But what could you do?
The rain bled across the outside of the glass. Some old couple got off, a few school age kids mitching got on. The doors were about to close, last chance to make a run for the hills. The doors closed. I was trapped. I was definitely going to Boyle now.
I looked into my bag, just to check everything was there. Felt more comfortable knowing that I had the gun. My hand went into one of the pockets to see if there was anything to eat, and instead found a little clear bag with a couple of ounces of nose powder. My day had just got a little bit better. It was similar to that feeling when you found a fiver in a jacket you haven’t worn in a while, with the added benefit of being able to get completely off your tits. I licked the top of my little finger, dip it into the powder and took a taste. Did coke have a best before date?
It tasted like coke, so I grabbed my bag and headed to the jacks between the carriages, keeping my head down, not wanting to attract and unnecessary attention. I got into the cubicle, locked the door, put the seat down on the loo and chopped up a fat line by the sink, roll up a 20 and away we go.
Those first few seconds of fireworks dispersed and I was thinking: get another one of them down me, fuck man it’s Boyle. Rubbed my nose, opened and closed my eyes and checked the husk in the mirror. I’d seen better days but I’d seen worse. Flushed the toilet to make it look as if I actually went. Rubbed the remaining powder off the sink and licked my gums. That was much, much better. Slapped my face a couple of times, got back out, stood by the door and closed my eyes. Patience, wait.
I saw the
Carrick Road, I saw St Joseph’s Church. I was about 30 seconds from the train pulling in, It went under the bridge, slow, slow, wheezing brakes, imitating my breathing. Then it stopped. The green light by the side of the door turns on and there were a few people behind me itching to get off. I just stood there. A hand came over my shoulder to press the button, cheeky cunt, and I grabbed his hand and squeezed the fuck out of it. He squealed and stood back.
- I can do that my man, I said.
I press the button, the door opened and the cold blast of air mixed with diesel fumes engulfs me as I stood down onto the platform. I don’t really like the Pope, but you know when the last fella went back to Poland and got down on his knees and kissed the floor when he got off the plane? I kinda liked the whole idea of that, so I got down on my knees, knelt forward and kissed the gravel.
Your man with the Jeremy Beadle hand called me a wanker, but you know, maybe I was. I was off my face on coke and didn’t really wanna get into a fight only five seconds off the train. He looked at me as he walked over the footbridge to the exit on the opposite platform. I got up off my knees, brushed the dust off, didn’t wanna be too conventional and use the footbridge myself. The train was making its way down the track to Sligo; the tracks weren’t electric, so I jumped off the platform, crossed the rails and climbed up the other side. Didn’t care who was looking, cause I knew they were, just walked out of the station and up the approach into town.
Fuck, town had changed. It wasn’t like you wouldn’t have a clue where you were, but there was a big fuck-off Super Valu between the station and Plunkett Home which wasn’t there last time I was here. Shops had “closing down” signs on them. There was a new mobile phone shop here, a new clothing shop there, with no fucker in there apart from the zombies staffing them. I lit up a smoke and noticed that the pubs I walked past, that were here 30 years ago, were still open for business today. The place to drown your sorrows when you foreclosed on business loans wasn’t the river, but in the pub, cause there was always tick if you were a bit short and why go home to the wife who’d bust your balls when you could just set up camp in one of the 35 or so bars in town. I still to this day could not work out how all the pubs had survived while Rome burned.
I crossed over by the clock tower and saw Dave Finnegan and his cronies standing on the corner of the old Super Valu. They were dressed like they had time on their hands, I didn’t recognise any of the other bucks he was with, but they all had the same deranged look of boredom as they looked into the every car that drove past to see who the driver was. They didn’t notice me.
A few days after the incident with my folks, I had concluded that I could no longer go back to being the person I was. I had to protect Mam and myself from all the evil beyond our house, because evil had found a way of just walking in the front door. So every morning before school, I did five lots of 20 press ups, 10 lots of 20 press ups every evening and on the weekends an additional five lots of 20. I used the history of numerous slaps from Dave Finnegan as encouragement. A couple of months later, I snapped. I really did, it was like someone had just cracked a massive branch in my head. I was coming out of a science lesson and he was outside the class waiting to go in. The room was at the top of the stairs, going down towards the playground. He blocked my path and said:
- Money.
I said nothing, just practised my seven mile stare. He pushed my shoulder and grabbed the collar of my shirt.
- I said fucking money
A circle of classmates and hangers on for Finnegan all stared at me. Fact of the matter was they and Finnegan didn’t know what to do, because I just stared and said nothing. He let his left hand down off my collar and I knew he was going to punch me, I brought up my left hand, which was open, and caught him in the middle of the throat. I wanted my hand to travel through his neck, grab his spine and rip it out of him. I wanted him dead. The circle had fractured and I pushed a very surprised Finnegan back. I had the momentum.
I’m sure I said something along the lines of,
- Don’t ever talk to me again, you cunt.
Or I could have said nothing, the adrenaline preventing any words from coming out. But I had him round the throat and was pushing him back. I didn’t know where we were going to end up, but I found out soon enough. The lads who were behind him moved out of the way, as we were near the top of the stairs, only a metre or so away away. and he looked at me. I carried on moving, pushing him backwards, the weight I'd gained and the momentum kept chugging us both along. At the top of the stairs, I stopped for a fraction of a googleplex of a second. The old me in its dying breath trying to get me to see reason, but there was nothing but reason.
I shoved Dave Finnegan down the stairs.
No remorse; no guilt. I took away from that, once I was told I was suspended and informed that Finnegan had broken his arm, that I didn't have to just sit there and take it anymore. I could fight back and these bullies, these moronic idiots, who fed off fear, would simply be my targets, and I would break more than their arm.
- Dave? I shouted across the road.
One of his friends looks up but I had the stare all fixed on Finnegan.
- Dave?
His mate said something to him and he turned to see who was shouting out his name. Few seconds, wait for it, he’d get there soon enough. His eyes widened, the penny dropping.
- Hey Finnegan, how’s your bowling arm?
I smiled and carried on walking, not once looking back, I was sure I would see them again.
It was a sad thing to see, as I meandered through town like the river, past the same landmarks, which never changed over thousands of years, the town and the people in it never changed.
But the smell, oh the smell of burning pete from the numerous chimneys, the triggers of memories of warmth and raeburns and throwing old milk cartons onto the fire. The smell of being out on the land, out on the bog cutting up sods of turf, long summer nights, flicking away midges and drinking from a two litre bottle of cider. Shifting women and confused hands searching for areas you only heard about from other lads. Ah the mamories.
Johnny Forty Coats, fuck me he was still alive and hadn't changed in the slightest. He was one of very few homeless in town. The name was reflective of the large collection of winter jackets he amassed and wore them all at the same time. Nobody ever counted 40 off him, who would want to. The town quietly nicknamed him that and nobody ever knew who created the name, it was now folklore and the accepted name. There were rumours he used to hang out with some auld hoor who would do anything to ya for a quid or a can of moonshine. Fuck knows where they came from or where they spent their nights but I was told under no circumstances to go near them or walk along the banks of the river behind Tarmin at night because rumour had it that's where they slept, counting their change and adding to the littered river. Like fuck did I listen to that bit of advice and I never saw them when I walked late at night along the river, counting my change and throwing rubbish into the river.
Johnny was also a fucking knacker and as I walk passed him, he was pitched up against the side wall of McCarthys bar, pissing on his worn shoes. Once he did himself up, he then opened up one of his many jackets and hacked up some phlegm into it.
I guess some things would never change. In a sad, pathetic, even morose way, I liked the man, he had shtyle. He was anarchism personified; he didn’t conform to such things as hygiene or fashion. He didn’t vote, he drank turps, he’d walk down the middle of
Bridge Street and claim it was as much his right to travel on the road as the cars and lorries honked and shouted abuse at him. It was claimed years ago that as well as by the river, he also lived in the sewers, with the shit and the rats as his only company. I dismissed these tabloid claims as nonsensical, utter “wank” and said he probably just enjoyed shitting himself. Two fingers up to the man, the woman and the child. The nut house up above in Sligo wouldn’t take him, so he was just left to fester, the only true vein of anarchism in a conformist cave. I admired him, but from about fifty metres away and with a down wind.
I turned right onto the
Carrick Road instead of going over the bridge. I followed the traffic round the mental one way system, just to see if I could get my chemically-enhanced brain around the fucked up and pointless concept. In an effort to take lorries out of the town centre, prevent the bridge from weakening more, and ease access to the By-Pass, Roscommon County Council had put the one way system through a residential area, with the pleasure grounds and schools giving over-tired truck drivers a bountiful supply of target practice.
I leaned on the low wall opposite the Shell Garage, pulled out another smoke, lit up, breathed deep and looked up at the metallic sky, breathed out like a punctured squeeze-box and had a nose in at who was in the garage.
I didn’t recognise anyone on the forecourt. Not the buck filling up the engine, not the drivers, impatient to get the fuck out of Dodge. There were a group of three lads stand outside the shop. One had his hand squeezed round a bottle of something carried in a brown paper bag. They were dressed like knacker clones: zip up track suit tops, ripped jeans or joggers and runners out of Dunnes. They were the walking dead, all addicted to whatever was in that bag - and from the look of things, that wasn’t the only drug of choice. They didn’t even try to conceal what they were doing, the dirty, brazen cunts.
Two girls, about the same age as the lads, jump over the wall from the Pleasure Ground, a small park and playground next to the garage that appears to have recently had a refurb, and into the forecourt. Another one walked around the front into the forecourt as she couldn't jump over the wall cause was about six months gone. She spat out into the road. The same corporation cloning was being used, apart from white crop tops and greasy hair. They were all under 15 and their childhoods were already washed down the drain. The groups began shouting at each other, not aggressive but it was conditional learning from the parents, and it appeared to be the only way they know how to communicate - apart from fucking without contraception.
When the two groups met, they were all over each other. The haze of hormones off them made me nauseous. When the pregnant girl yanked the brown paper bag out of the hand of the fella who had his empty hand on her bump, and inhales, the nausea turned to bile rising. I stepped off the wall, took a quick couple of drags, threw the smoke into the gutter, looked to my left to check that the road was clear and jog over. The lads were as high as kites; the muscles that kept their eyes in place were loose and spongy. I drew my fist back, then thought, hang on, they’re kids. So I carried on jogging and I feigned a trip. As I put my hand out to save me landing face first on the tarmac, I knocked the bag out of the pregnant girl’s hand, and it smashed on the floor, soaking the paper. As I landed, I got a whiff off the fumes. They smelt like paint stripper, a quick easy fix.
- Ya stupid cunt.
This was how the pregnant girl said hello. I got up onto my knees and look at the palms of my hands, dimpled with gravel. Waves of relief washed over me, I was glad I hadn’t hit any of the lads and had avoided knocking into the pregnant girl. Apart from the young fella who had been holding the bag, the other two bucks had made a run for it, back towards town, back to their mammies. The girls stayed.
