Dodo Eraser

The wheels on the bus go round and round.

Round and round.

Round…

…and round…

***

O’Brien’s has a pool table.

It’s got a counter where you can rest your elbow on to take it all in while ya shout abuse at Peader the Bull sittin’ in his usual corner beside the jacks. He’s some man, is Peadar. He can touch his nose off his chin. That’s an unusual talent, I’d say. There’s not many can do it, touch their noses off their chins. Peader the Bull can.

O’Brien’s’s got the best pint a Guinness in the whole of Limerick and, like me aul’ fella used to say, before he fucked off to fuck knows where, “if it’s the best in Limerick, shur ‘tis the best in the world.”

He’s still a fucker, mind. The da I mean.

In O’Brien’s, the ashtrays come out after closing so as not to bring attention to the lock in. Not a Guard in the city will bother ya an’ ya can stay there ‘til the sun comes up for all Jackie O’Brien cares.

An’ still Moss wouldn’t budge from O’Leary’s, making a show of himself going up to every young wan in the pub hopin’ that one might feel sorry for him. The music was blarin’ and lights were flashin’ and a few people were dancin’ in a tiny square by the back wall. O’Leary’s has fifteen different brands of lager for the oh so posh clientele. Fifteen different brands an’ they all taste like warm piss.

“C’mon Moss. You’re at nathin’ here.” I grabbed him by the elbow. He pulled away.

“Just gonna ask the blondie at the bar for a dance. You stay here an’ watch the magic.”

“Which blondie?”

“The one in jeans there, white top.”

“She said no the last time you asked. Why d’ya think she’d change her mind?”

“Shit. Yer right. Good call, owe ya one. What about her friend?”

“Doubt it. What that beour puts on her face costs more’n you make in a month.”

“Fuckin’ expert on make-up now, are ya?”

“She’s out a yer league, kid. Only thin’ bigger’n her eyelashes is her lips an’ only thin’ bigger’n them is her notions. She’s got her heart set on one a them Munster rugby lads, not some shit-shoveller on minimum wage.”

“That one in the corner’s making eyes at me.”

“That one in the corner’s Sharon Lynch. She’s not lookin’ at you, ‘cept maybe yer creepin’ her out. She’s watchin’ the door, watchin’ for her boyfriend to come in. Yer standin’ by the door, ya fuckin’ eejit.”

“Maybe I could be her boyfriend.”

“Sure ya could, ‘cept her actual boyfriend’s Joey Cahill. Ya know, heavyweight champion Joey Cahill. Yer punchin’ well above yer weight now kid.”

“I done some boxin’.”

“Boxin’ eggs don’t count, Moss. This’s a whole different division. He’s the heavyweight international superstar and shits gold medals. You came fourth in Ballynanty junior B tiddly-fuckin’-winks. And that was with a walkover to the semi-final. Give it up and let’s go to O’Brien’s. Have a game a pool.”

I’d like to say it was me powers a persuasion won him over, or at least the lure a that pool table, but I suspect ‘twas the arrival of big Joey Cahill and the biceps like halved watermelons had somethin’ to do with it, specially with the dirty looks he threw at us after Sharon finished whisperin’ in his ear.

Into O’Brien’s, elbow on the counter, soaked up the atmosphere.

“Hey Jackie. Two a yer finest pints there please. Howya Bull, you aul’ bollox. What’s new with you?”

Bull didn’t even lift his head. He was deep in concentration, leanin’ forward off the high stool, chin restin’ on his hands, elbows on the counter. He’s not got a tooth in his head, god bless him, and his face looked like it folded over in two, with his nose restin’ on the white stubble of his chin. He was suckin’ an’ blowin’ like he was tryin’ to work out hard sums, all the while crouched over the bar starin’ at stacks a coins lined up. Each stack a ten and twenty cent coins measured a euro, an’ he had ‘em all arranged like his little private army on the counter.

Stale beer breath and a whiff a piss and then an arm landed on me shoulder. It could only be Mick McNamara. He used to hang around with me aul’ fella a hundred years ago, but I’d not be holdin’ that ‘gainst him. Plenty of other reasons ta dislike the fucker before worryin’ ‘bout the company he used ta keep. Ya could start with the rank stink that looks just about as bad as it smells. Backin’ away was no good. He’d got me tight.

“Rob, me aul’ pal,” he said, “listen, listen to this one. Ya know the way they keep talkin’ ‘bout cashless society. Cashless society? Like ‘tis a new thing. Shur yer father and me invented cashless society back when we was labourin’ in London.” Big pause then for the punchline. “‘Cept we called it bein’ broke.” He laughed right up against me ear an’ broke inta a fit a coughin’ ‘til he composed himself and started laughin’ again, quieter this time, makin’ a sound like the last sup a red lemonade bein’ sucked through a straw. He pulled me tighter. “Bein’ broke…” he said again and laughed again.

I managed to get free enough ta wipe his enthusiasm off me face.

“Good one, Mick. Very original.” I laughed along with him, big’n’loud, a hearty effort to make sure he fucked off and didn’t grab on to me again to explain the punchline.

I caught up with Moss an’ put a two euro coin on the cushion of the pool table. No need really, seein’ as Mick the Prick and the Bull were the only customers besides the two of us and neither one a them was likely to waste good drinkin’ money on a game a pool. Moss said as much to me.

“That’s just the way we do it, Moss. Ya lay yer claim. People respect that.”

I walked ‘round the Bull’s corner, out to the jacks.

Just the one proper jacks in O’Brien’s. It’s got Ladies written on it in flaky gold letters an’ under that a page that was torn out of a copy book years ago, stuck on the door with silver duct tape and “Out A Order” scrawled in red biro. Signs of the times, I call them. O’Brien’s, ya see, never did get much in the way of female clientele so, naturally, there was little reason to set aside precious space for a women’s toilet. Got on fine for years until the law changed. Came to licence renewal and poor aul’ Jackie was told in no uncertain terms that he had to cater for anyone, of any gender, who might want to piss on his premises. So Jackie got the builders in, stuck a mirror on the wall, a sign on the door and bought a sparklin’ new toilet that he never even plumbed, just claimed it was a temporary issue any time the inspectors came ‘round. The Gents, as it is, is more a half-covered alley to the back yard that doubles as a smokin’ area durin’ openin’ hours an’ where he keeps the empty barrels. He has a small gulley runnin’ along the wall, directin’ the flow into a drain at the end that may or may not be connected to the city sewage system. Some things, fair to say, ‘tis best not think about.

Moss came outside after me to have a smoke and I pulled a joint from my pocket.

“Where’d that come from?” he said.

“Morocco. I think.”

Moss had his sad face on. Somethin’ was botherin’ him.

“I’m troubled. I’m deeply troubled by my inability to attract a woman, someone with whom I can build a close and intimate relationship, to love and to cherish and who, in faithful reciprocation, will love and cherish me.”

He didn’t say any of that. Not one word. I just wanted to show I was listenin’ in school some a the time. Nah, Moss just let out a heavy sigh with his head on his chest and I put two and two together. Best to go easy on him.

“Listen Moss, you’re doin’ nothin’ wrong. It’s just you’re in a dead-end job that pays shag all and, ya gotta admit, that’s not much of a turn on.”

“I’m in the same job you’re in. You got me that job, ya fucker!”

“Yeah? Yeah! Well it’s not just the job. Let’s be honest, Moss, it pains me to tell ya, but you’re a borin’ old cunt as well.”

“Borin’?”

“Borin’! The borinest fucker in Limerick. An’ if yer the borinest fucker in Limerick then…”

“That’s not even a word.”

“Borinest? Yeah it is. Here, I’ll get out my phone and prove it to ya. There’ll be a picture of you beside…what the fuck’s happenin’ with yer face?”

Moss had started twitchin’, his mouth pullin’ to the left, the eye winkin’, his head jerkin’ up and down. The whole lot twistin’ this way an’ that.

“I’ve got a watchacallit, a tic. ‘Tis a quirk a me personality. Personality, Rob! Makes me look interestin’, no?”

“Makes you look interestin’ absofuckinlutely no. Stop that. Ya look like a handicap. Take a toke a this. Go on. Won’t make you more interestin’ but it might make ya more like ya couldn’t give a shit.”

Moss finished the joint and we headed back inside.

Most things were right where they belonged inside the bar. The Bull had knocked over all his soldiers, and was carefully puttin’ ‘em back inta parade formation. The pints had settled and waited patiently for us at the bar, change from my twenty note layin’ beside ‘em. Mick Fuckface had Jackie locked in conversation tryin’ to wrangle a tab outa him. “We called it just bein’ broke,” he said and laughed like he was suckin’ the last a the broken bits of ice through his straw. Jackie continued dryin’ a glass behind the bar, lookin’ like he was all alone. But here was two lads at the pool table, stacking up the balls inside the frame.

My two euros was gone from the cushion.

“’Sup?”

A nod in reply. The lad who nodded was short and skinny, young by the look a him, with dark hair peepin’ out from under his hoodie, dark eyes and skin so pale it looked like he wasn’t even there. Him I didn’t know. The other fella was hard to miss, like a hippo learned to walk on two legs, gut fallin’ down to his knees. Richie Doyle, as bad a fucker as you’ll meet in this city. Thinks he’s a hard man drug dealer but would probably have filled a shallow grave years ago if it weren’t for his brother Frank and their cousins doin’ most a the heavy liftin’ on their patch over the Northside.

Who’m I kiddin’? No shallow grave could do this bollox, need it six feet deep just to cover his flabby belly. That might all sound a bit harsh an’ I don’t mean ta be but, in fairness, he just waltzed in an’ took over the pool table that was clearly booked with no regard for the rules a fair procedure an’ then used the two euros that established said bookin’ to pay for his own game that he shouldn’t be playin’ anyway. Whatever about supplyin’ drugs to the junkies ‘round the city or arrangin’ violence for them when they forgot they’d to pay for it, that’s his business, but there’s no excuse for pissin’ over the few sacred traditions between men of honour.

That’s not on, so it’s not. Someone needs ta stand up to the fuckers.

Moss raised his pint and leant in close to my ear.

“Not likin’ the looks a this.”

I threw him a dirty look.

Richie lifted a varnished wooden box onto the table, opened the brass clasp and took out the two parts of his pool cue, screwed them together. He glanced over at us. This was a moment.

At least it might’ve been, if anyone was payin’ attention. The Bull was still hunched over his pile a coins on the counter, suckin’ his lips over his gummy gob, Mick Shithead was tradin’ his dignity for a free pint from Jackie and Jackie was lookin’ like he wanted us all to fuck off somewhere else and leave himself an’ the Bull alone to continue that conversation they’d never started.

Only Moss paid any heed.

“Really not likin’ the looks a this. That’s Richie Doyle, ya know.”

I threw him another look, one sayin’ that one of us was a fuckin’ dimwit and it weren’t me. He didn’t cop.

“Night won’t end well with Richie Doyle on board. Gotta bail, man.”

I turned ‘round to the bar, pullin’ Moss along with me.

“I know who it is but will ya shut the fuck up. He can hear ya an’ yer makin’ a show of us.”

“Really not likin’ the looks a this.”

“Hey,” Richie called across. “What say winner stays on an’ we make it interestin’?”

Moss nudged his elbow into my ribs and hissed, barely movin’ his lips.

“Aw for fucks sakes, Rob. Yer not thinkin’ a takin’ him on, are ya? Believe me, ya can’t afford ta lose an’ ya definitely can’t afford ta win.”

“Sounds good,” I said out loud to Richie.

I leant back against the counter while Moss slumped into a high stool. He stood up all of a sudden, downed his pint and leant in.

“If you’ve any fuckin’ sense you’ll come along with me. I’ve a naggin back home an’ we can finish it off.”

“Fuck off,” I said. And he did.

Richie looked my way an’ I just shrugged me shoulders.

Richie wasn’t at all good at pool, hoistin’ his gut over the edge of the table to reach the cue ball, steppin’ back and rubbin’ chalk over the end, then grabbin’ his flab to start all over again. Fella beside him was worse, wobblin’ ‘round the table and, Jesus, he fell asleep at one stage, leanin’ over for a tight shot an’ head restin’ on the cue, eyes closed until Richie called him.

Watchin’ Richie was the first time I ever saw someone strugglin’ with the effort a playin’ pool; the sweat darkenin’ his t-shirt, drippin’ from his forehead and out from between his fingers, makin’ the cue catch when he stretched for an awkward shot. I sat quiet an’ watched the game, not sayin’ much an’ then mostly just sayin’ “shot” like they were great when they really only managed low ta middlin’ mediocre. Just once I said to Richie “ah yer fucked now” when he was snookered on the black, then “shot” as he bent the white ‘round his pal’s stripe to pocket the ball and win the game. It might a been what he intended but that’s only if he intended ta slip when he was linin’ up the shot and hadn’t shouted “ah, fuck ya” before he realised what a good shot it was.

Richie looked sideways at me with a big grin slapped on his face.

“Yer up. Let’s put down a fifty.”

“Slash first, then I’m up for it,” I said and walked out to the alleyway piss gutter.

Think.

Only twenty five euros in me wallet? No need ta be revealin’ that minor detail seein’ as Richie was ‘bout the worstest pool player ever leaned over Jackie O’Brien’s table. But he might want ta see it all the same? Nah, greedy bollocks knowed no-one ever try ta put one over on him, not with the gang he got ‘hind him. Two a them an’ just one a me? Not a problem. Everyone knows not ta fuck ‘round in O’Brien’s’s, the boss’s connections ta the provo’s an’ all. Only ones getting’ done in O’Brien’s’s under orders from Jackie himself.

I packed meself back inside me pants, stretched me shoulders and strutted inta the bar, arms swingin’ like I’m some kinda cool. Richie’s pal had the balls stacked up.

Jackie had locked the door and put the glass ashtrays on the counter. I sparked up a smoke, took a deep breath and laid the rollie onta the groove in the ashtray. Right! Ready to go.

Richie broke, smashed the white through the triangle a balls and potted a stripe that hit near every cushion before ploppin’ inta one a the side pockets. Big grin on his face. Pure fluke. He potted the white on his next shot. I put down three spots before missin’ a sitter. Richie got up tut tuttin’, took his turn an’ he blasted hard. Cue ball spun off the cushion, went flyin’ an’ missed me head by an inch.

“Cunt!” Richie shouted, lookin’ fit ta explode ‘til he saw how close I was to havin’ me head taken off. His face sunk inta a sly smirk, nasty lookin’.

The young fella fetched the ball an’ I lined up my shot, all the while feelin’ Richie’s evil eyes lookin’ me over. Time to test the waters, so I mis-hit my shot, skewed the white sideways to knock in the stripe Richie had been aimin’ for.

“Shur might as well help you out while I’m at it,” I said, all jokey like.

“Don’t need yer fuckin’ help,” he said back. Nothin’ jovial in the way he said it.

Time to reconsider.

Jesus, we played the longest game a pool I ever witnessed, me doin’ as bad as I could without makin’ it too obvious, linin’ him up for easy shots an’ still he missed. After an age, I got him on the black, me with two spots left on the table, nicely placed to make it easy to put him in on the win. With the drink wearin’ off an’ me getting’ tired, I was just wantin’ this game ta end. Then it came back ta me.

Twenty five short, shit, I couldn’t afford ta lose an’, with Richie not in great form, by Jesus I couldn’t afford ta win. What to do?

“You gonna take that shot or sit ‘round all night?” Richie growled.

Fuck it, IOU would have to do. I landed the black at the rim of the bottom pocket, the white just about a foot away, my two spots settled against the near cushion. I looked up at Richie, shrugged me shoulders as if to say “good game, old chap”. He all but floated over to the table to pot the winnin’ shot.

Even he couldn’t miss an’ hit it hard for emphasis. The black sunk, the white careered ‘round the table like a lap of honour, hit offa one a my spots but didn’t budge it. Instead, the cue ball dribbled towards the side cushion, slow-motion spinnin’ a bendy track right over ta the middle pocket, stopped like it was checkin’ if anyone was watchin’, then plopped in, givin’ the game ta me.

I won!

Fuck!

For all that’s good an’ holy.

Fuck!

Richie’s head turned a deep shade a purple, like a beetroot pumped full a air, an’ started walkin’ towards me. I just wanted outa there. He’d got menace writ right ‘cross his face and nasty intentions in the hard waddle over ta my side a the table. I started stutterin’ and backin’ off, stumbled an’ tripped over the edge of a table, me shoulders goin’ back ‘bout the same rate as the end a me cue stick swung forward, the grip end followin’ a perfect sweep like the yoke on a grandfather clock, an inch above the ground and then up, swingin’ quick ‘n’ smooth. The end a my cue went right between Richie’s legs, under the hangin’ gut, and with a crisp smack straight into…

Sometimes ya just know. There’s a sweet spot, just where the nut hangs lowest, when accuracy’s more tellin’ than force. Where the clip of a well-placed shot will double a man over. Where he’ll break out a song like some nutless opera singer. Where the end a my cue hit Richie and folded him, retchin’ ‘n’ gaspin’ ‘n’ singin’ like some nutless opera singer.

Woke his pal up, got him to walkin’ alongside, cuttin’ off that escape route. Richie on other side. Cornered. Wall behind me. Pool table in front. Richie one side and the walkin’ dead man the other.

“Shit…ah…listen…Rich…I mean…ah…look…”

“Gasp,” he said, then said, “retch.” He started pullin’ himself closer to my corner, one hand pushin’ ‘gainst the green baize a the pool table, the other leanin’ ‘gainst the wall, his face still like a beetroot, ‘cept the air’s been left out. I didn’t like the way his pal was carryin’ himself neither, all snarly an’ the complexion of a week-old corpse.

From inside me corner, outa the corner of me eye, I see the Bull countin’ up his stash a coins, didn’t even look up. Same with Jackie, leanin’ on the counter readin’ the racin’ form with a fag in his gob. I’m fucked an’ these two won’t even be able to tell the guards ‘bout the lunatic zombie attack that done me in when they come to clean up the mess.

Then the sweet whiff a piss.

Mick Dickless came outa the jacks, up ta Richie swingin’ his arm ‘round his shoulders.

“Ya know the way they go on ‘bout cashless society…”

Richie fell over, Mick Asswipe on top a him, making a gap. Not much but maybe enough an’ I went for it, hoppin’ a bit over the corner a the pool table an’ a bit over Richie’s legs an’ kept goin’, no look back, fumble with the lock and then out the door, onta William Street, runnin’ like me life depended on it.

Funny that.

I got to the end a the street, ‘bout twenty yards from O’Brien’s front door an’ had ta stop. Cool fresh night, sudden and unusual exertions, I couldn’t breathe, had a stitch, an’ gulpin’ for air. Now ‘twas me that was retchin’, sprayed pebble-dash on the footpath an’ wiped me mouth with me sleeve. There was none followin’ so I started walkin’, more than a bit unsteady, an’ off home with me.

Alarm on me phone woke me early next mornin’, feelin’ like someone moved heavy furniture inside me head. One a them mornin’s ya wake up not thinkin’ “I want ta die” but “I want ta live!”

Inta the bathroom, splashed a bit a water on my face. The mirror told no lies. Downstairs, the ma was just sittin’ down to breakfast with a rasher sandwich and a cuppa. I took a bite outa the sandwich, slurped a shot a hot tea an’ ran out the door with her shoutin’ “ya little fucker, make yer own feckin’ breakfast” fadin’ behind me. “See ya later mam,” I called back over me shoulder.

At the bus stop, there was two women talkin’, Breda Jones an’ her cousin Rita O’Connell. Me head was creakin’ but I started to overlisten when I heard Richie Doyle’s name mentioned. Breda was tellin’ Rita ‘bout what she heard happened in O’Brien’s the night before, somethin’ ‘bout Richie getting’ a bad beatin’, taken off by ambulance to the Regional. Touch an’ go.

“Go way,” Rita said. “He’s had it comin’ all the same.”

“Ah, yeah, yer right,” Breda said back, “but Jayse the poor fella only went in for an aul’ game a pool. Didn’t deserve that, now, just goin’ in for an aul’ game a pool.”

“Did ya hear who done it?”

“Not yet. Whole place wrapped up with Garda tape. DO NOT CROSS! O’Brien’s’s a crime scene now. The Guards are lookin’ for witnesses.”

“Good luck with that.” They both laughed.

“Ya know the Doyles an’ what they get up ta. Could be they pissed off the Russian mob, ya know. Word is they’re doin’ trade with Eastern Europeans an’, ya know yerself, them lads is easy ta piss off. They couldn’t give a fuck who Richie Doyle thinks he is.”

“Yer right, them or maybe the Chinese lads. What they call them again?”

“Triads, Rita, the Triads. Go messin’ with them and bad luck’s comin’ yer way.”

“Now ya said it.”

The bus arrived and the two women sat near the front. I went right to the back, sat sideways with me feet on the empty seat, closed me eyes. I was beginnin’ to feel just a bit uneasy that was more’n last night’s porter stewin’ in me gut.

I got off the bus in town and stopped off at a deli on my way to Henry Street for the next bus out ta Castletroy where stacks a cement blocks were waitin’ for me to carry them up ladders. Me mother’s sandwich had put a longin’ for more an’ a full breakfast roll might soak up some a the poison, get me head turned right way ‘round.

“Everythin’ in it, love, and lots a red sauce.”

I ate the roll at the bus stop. The street was startin’ ta fill up with young wans heading out ta college, a few early shoppers an’ people goin’ ta work ‘longside the usual bunch a misfits congregatin’ in the city centre. Joey Mack was out early, squattin’ under the canopy outside Dunnes with his biscuit tin beggin’ box. He was doin’ alright. I gave him the end a me roll.

Dolly Flynn an’ her fella College Boy passed on her way to the chemist for her ‘script.

“Yawright, Rob,” Dolly said, scurryin’ past.

“You go on,” College Boy said to her, “I’ll catch ya up.” He leant against the wall.

“Did ya hear about O’Brien’s last night?” he said.

“Hear what ‘bout O’Brien’s?”

“I heard the Russian mafia and a Chinese gang went apeshit going after Richie Doyle. He forgot to pay up and they bust up the place, using machetes and cleavers to give Richie a right doing. They’re saying The Bull got a cleaver right through his shoulder and they have him on life support out in the Regional. Poor auld Bull. He’d do no harm to no-one. If you’re to believe it, and I have it on good authority, Jackie O’Brien’s put the word out to his old IRA pals to come in and sort it out. Richie’s in a bad way, too. Frankie Fogarty says ‘tis only a matter of time. Brain dead and they’re looking to harvest his organs.”

“Fuck’s sakes College Boy, ya can’t be listenin’ ta that…”

“Pity the poor fucker gets anything out of that bollox. Maybe give some to The Bull, if there’s no other way. I’ve no pity for Doyle, though. If anyone had it coming…”

“Shush the fuck. Ya don’t know who might be listenin’. Look, I was in O’Brien’s last night. Nothin’ happened. No Russian mob or fuckin’ Chinese gangsters…”

“Must have been after ya left so. Everyone’s talking about it Rob. Swear ta Jesus. Listen, got to go and I’ll catch ya later. I better follow yer wan.”

He started to walk off just as the bus arrived. No point in arguin’ with him. Soon enough Richie’d be back on William Street floggin’ his poison and the whole a Limerick’d know that nathin’ special happened in O’Brien’s last night. I got on the bus. Kept sayin’ to meself that everythin’d turn out fine.

Moss ran over ta me when I got to the site, already wearin’ his hard hat an’ hi viz vest.

“Christ, Rob. Was wonderin’ if you was gonna show up. The fuck happened in O’Brien’s after I left? Heard there was murder an’ Richie Doyle’s rightly fucked up.”

“Not you too, Moss. For fuck’s sakes.” I told him what really happened.

“Shit, Rob. Yer in deep shit now. I was hopin’ it’d just be the Russians and the Chinese but, fuck it cuz, this is worse than I thought.”

“The fuck do ya make that out?” He was startin’ ta irk me.

“Well, ya know yerself. If ‘twas anyone from outside, whole city’d get behind ya. Lads from Moyross’d join up with lads from the Island and hatch plans over in Garryowen. Wouldn’t stand for them foreigners comin’ in actin’ like the owned the place. When the city turns on its own, though, that’s when it gets nasty. That’s when bad shit happens.”

“Fuck. Never thought of it like that.”

“I had a bad feelin’ Rob. Bad feelin’ soon as the Doyle fella came in with his pal. That’s why I went home.”

“Fuck ya, Moss, ya could a said somethin’.”

“I know, I know. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Me phone rang an’ I took it outa me pocket.

“It’s the mother,” I said and stepped away to answer.

“What the fuck have you been up ta ya dozy little bollix bringin Richie fuckin Doyle to my door do ya think Im gonna put up with that shit from a thick like you do ya do ya now…” But ma “…no no fuckin way am I goin through this shit again had enough of it with yer father an took me long enough to get rid a him an no fuckin way am I gonna go through it again cause you too fuckin thick ta know ta stay outa the fuckin way a the likes a Richie fuckin Doyle…” Mam listen “…an all I done for ya breakin me fuckin back moppin floors ta keep ya fed an this is how ya repay me yer only a selfish little fucker now what are ya go on say it yer only a selfish little fucker…” Will ya stop “… dont you be givin me any a that backchat now dont you go treatin me like some daw that dont know whats goin on bringin Richie fuckin Doyle round to my house and knockin on my fuckin door lookin for my fuckin son the snivellin little shit who couldnt stay round long enough to sort out his own fuckin debt an ya xpect me ta entertain Richie fuckin Doyle for some bag a green that you got on tick like the fuckin eejit that yer father was…”

***

It went on like that for a while.

End up has me trucked off ta Cork ta stay with me mother’s sister. That’s what has me on the bus to me auntie in Cork. Gonna stay with her a while, apparently.

Least ‘til all this blows over.

To top it all, there’s one a them yummy mummies on the bus with her toddler. The usual. Canvas jeans with torn ends, sandals an’ no socks, a soft woolly jumper, no make-up an’ hair with the start a grey comin’ through. She’s readin’ a book to the kid, like the world is full a rainbows ‘n’ unicorns. She’s readin’ it loud enough for the whole fuckin’ bus ta hear.

And yeah, the wheels on the bus, they do go round and round, round and round.

Round…

…and round.

B.E. Nugent is Irish and relatively new to creative writing, with ten stories published and another scheduled for later this year. He lives in Co Limerick with his wife and the three dogs left behind by his son to (successfully) offset any notion of an empty nest when he and his sister moved out into the world.