The Van

— Two pound, he managed to say, and held the bag out for the young fella.

— Jaysis!! Did yeh see wha’ he done!

Bimbo grabbed the bag from him.

— It’s all yours, said Jimmy Sr.

They went mad outside.

Jimmy Sr chewed the burger into manageable bits. It wasn’t that bad. He went back to his post and turned his burger. Darren was dipping the bits of cod into the fryer, to set the batter. He was laughing as well.

— That’s revoltin’, he told his da.

— They don’t taste tha’ bad, said Jimmy Sr, — if yeh don’t look at them first. Oh, I forgot but, you’re a vegetarian; that’s righ’. I suppose yeh think I’m a cannibal, Darren, do yeh?

— No, said Darren. — I just think you’re a fuckin’ eejit.

They laughed. Jimmy Sr spat the rest of the meat out the back door. His real burger was ready. He didn’t bother with sauce.

God, he felt good now.

— Large, smoked! said Bimbo.

— That’s your department, Darren, said Jimmy Sr.

The meat was a good safe brown colour.

— Tha’ looks better now, doesn’t it? he said before he put the top half of the bun on it.

— Small! Bimbo shouted.

— D’yeh not like the smell? he asked him.

— No! said Darren. — Jaysis.

— Yeh must, said Jimmy Sr.

— I don’t.

— I don’t know—, said Jimmy Sr.

He’d leave Darren alone. He passed a bag back to Bimbo.

— Large, smoked.

— One eighty-five, said Darren.

It was getting dark now. Darren turned on the lamps.

Jimmy Sr handed another bag back to Bimbo.

— Small.

— Fifty-five, said Darren.

— I know tha’! said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr nudged Darren.

— I’m not tha’ thick, said Bimbo.

— Yeh fuckin’ are! said someone outside.

Darren knew the voice.

— Nappies Harrison, he told Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr went to the hatch.

— Nappies Harrison! he shouted. — You’re barred.

They cheered.

— Yeow, Nappies!

— Which one o’ yis is Nappies? said Jimmy Sr when they’d settled down a bit.

— Here he is, Mister Rabbitte.

They picked him up, his pals, the lads that played with Darren for Barrytown United.

— Fuck off messin’! Nappies shouted.

They hoisted him up over their heads and shoved him through the hatch. He held onto the sides like Sylvester the Cat but one of the lads took his shoe off and hit Nappies’ knuckles with it.

— Aaah!! Fuck yeh! — That’s me guitar hand!

— It’s your wankin’ hand!

Bimbo saved the salt and vinegar and got out of the way. He wasn’t impressed.

— For God’s sake!

Nappies tumbled over the counter, over the spilt salt and the grease. His foot sent the menu board flying. He’d have landed inside on his head if Jimmy Sr hadn’t caught him under his shoulders and held him up till he got his feet off the counter.

Nappies shoved his shirt back into his trousers.

— Look at Nappies’ sunburn!

— Give him a job, Mister Rabbitte.

Nappies turned to face the lads outside. He took the red sauce bottle from Bimbo.

— Yaah! Yis cunts, yis!

He squeezed the bottle with both hands before Bimbo could get it back off him; gobs of ketchup rained down on the lads. The van shook. A half-empty can came in through the hatch. It hit no one but it made an almighty bang when it hit the wall and scared the shite out of Bimbo. It dropped onto a shelf and into the fryer and sent a wave of oil onto the floor.

— Oh good Jaysis—!

— Here! Jimmy Sr roared, keeping his head well down in case of more cans. — None o’ tha’!

— Come on, Bimbo said to Nappies. — Out. It’s gone too far. Ou’; come on.

Nappies didn’t need to be pushed.

— I didn’t ask to come in here, he said. — I was thrun in.

He slid on the oil.

— Jaysis!

He grabbed at the hotplate to hold himself up, but Darren knocked his hand away and he went on his arse, right into the oil.

— Get up, said Bimbo.

Nappies ignored him. He thought he was being cooked. He spoke to Darren.

— What’ll I do?

Darren held his hands out for Nappies. He kept his feet out of the oil. Nappies’ hands slid out of Darren’s. Nappies looked terrified when that happened. He tried to sit up. Darren grabbed his sleeves and dragged him off the oil, to the door.

— Thanks, Darrah.

Nappies was now standing up and looking healthier, ready to start giving out about the state of his clothes. Bimbo was trying to fish the Coke can out of the fryer.

— Everythin’s ruined, he said.

He could feel the oil under his runners. He gave up on the can and looked at the floor.

— Bloody bowsies, he said, and he threw a J-cloth onto the floor. — Yeh shouldn’t encourage them.

— We want Nappies! We want Nappies!

The lads outside had gathered again.

Jimmy Sr stood at the hatch again.

— What’s he worth to yis? he asked.

— Twopence!

Nappies didn’t go out the way he’d come in. He was going to, but Jimmy Sr sent him back to the door.

— Oh yeah—

— Mind the oil there, said Bimbo. — Look it.

Nappies climbed down the steps backwards and slowly, because the oil had made his trousers soggy and it was horrible and warm.

— Seeyeh, Darren, he said.

— Good luck, Nappies, said Darren.

He was down on his hunkers squeezing the J-cloth over the chip bin.

There was no one left outside. Jimmy Sr let down the hatch door till they fixed up the mess.

They’d only the one J-cloth, and it was lifting very little of the oil.

— This is crazy, said Darren.

— It’s disgraceful, said Bimbo.

— D’yeh think so—? said Jimmy Sr—

The next thing either of them said could have started a fight, so they said nothing.

It was terrible; the only noise was the shoes on the oil, and the breathing. Then Jimmy Sr remembered something.

— Did yeh ever see Cocktail, Darren? he asked.

— Are yeh jokin’ me? said Darren.

— I watched it with Linda an’ Tracy there earlier, said Jimmy Sr. — They’ve seen it thirteen times.

— That’s just because Tom Cruise flashes his arse in it, Darren told him.

— Does he? I don’t think he does, does he? I must’ve gone to the jacks—. I thought it was quite good, meself.

He saw Darren’s face.

— It was shite, he explained. — But good shite, yeh know. — The routines. Behind the bar. Between Tom Cruise an’ your man from Thornbirds. They were fuckin’ gas. — Did yeh see any o’ them, Bimbo?

The first stone hit the van before Bimbo could answer. It smacked the side over the hotplate, full on. The next one skimmed off the roof.

— Jesus—!!

Jimmy got the door shut.

The next one shook the hatch door.

The Living Dead were outside. They hadn’t done this for a good while, more than three weeks. Jimmy Sr had forgotten that they did it.

— The cunts.

Darren knew them. Lar O’Rourke had been in his class in primary school. They knew he was in the van.

The next one hit the side again. Flakes of paint fell on top of the oil.

There was nothing they could do. They’d just have to wait till they stopped. They never did much real damage; they’d never broken the windscreen or the side windows.

The next one was lobbed onto the roof. It made the loudest bang, and the rock stayed on the roof. Sometimes it wasn’t rocks they threw; it was used-up batteries from their ghettoblaster. All they ever played was UB₄o; nothing else, ever.

Jimmy Sr sang.

— NEARER MY GOD TO THEE—

He didn’t lose his temper any more; there was no point.

Another one rolled across the roof.

They’d just have to sit it out. Only they couldn’t sit on the floor because of the mess. They had to stand, away from the walls.

— Some nigh‘, wha’, Jimmy Sr said to Bimbo.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — I hope-

The stone nearly came through the wall.

— Good fuck! said Jimmy Sr.

He touched the dent beside the hatch.

— Someone ou’ there’s eatin’ his greens, wha’.

That was the last one, but it was hard to tell.

They were in the front room.

— FOR GOODNESS SAKE—

I GOT THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

— Fuck; sorry, Darren.

He’d dropped the Kandee Sauce bottle again.

Darren pushed the Pause button.

Jimmy Sr couldn’t get the hang of the sauce bottle. The vinegar was grand; his hand fitted around it properly. It was easy enough to catch. The sauce, though, was a fucker.

Jimmy Sr got the dollop of sauce up off the carpet, most of it. He licked his finger.

— Ready? said Darren.

— Hang on, said Jimmy Sr.

He rubbed the carpet and the stain faded and went. It was grand.

— Righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

He’d the vinegar in his left hand and the sauce bottle in his right. He stood beside Darren, a few feet away, to be on the safe side.

— Fire away, Darren.

Darren lifted the Pause button.

— YEAH—

I GOT THE SHAKE—

I GOT THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

— Vinegar!

They threw up their vinegar bottles

— I GOT THE HIPPY—

And caught them, together.

— Yeow!

They laughed.

— WUUU—

I CAN’T SIT STILL—

— Sauce!

They did it; the bottles landed back down flat in their right hands.

— YEAH—

I GET MY FILL—

— The both of them!

— NOW WITH THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

And Veronica came in and caught them.

Darren managed to catch his two bottles but Jimmy Sr lost his concentration completely; he seized up and the bottles went down past his hands and onto the floor. The vinegar stayed there but the sauce bounced and rolled over and some of the goo on the nozzle came off on the carpet. Darren smacked the Pause button.

It took Veronica a while to say anything. She was more surprised than they were. The two of them were in shorts and T-shirts, holding vinegar and ketchup bottles. Maybe they’d been juggling.

That would have explained the ketchup she now saw on the ceiling.

— Ah no, look—!

— Wha’?—Where? — Jaysis, how did tha’ get up there?

— I don’t know what you two messers are up to—

— We’re not messin’, Veronica, Jimmy Sr assured her. — It’s business.

— Well, you can do it somewhere else, said Veronica.

She saw the carpet now.

— I don’t believe it—

And now the smell of the vinegar hit her as well.

— It’s a routine for the van, Jimmy Sr explained. — We were workin’ on it.

He followed Veronica’s eyes.

— Don’t worry abou’ them, he told her. — They’!! wash ou’.

Veronica was looking at the marks on the curtains.

— Get out, said Veronica. — Get out; go on. You bloody big eejit, yeh, she said to Jimmy Sr.

She just looked at Darren.

— Come on, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — We’ll go ou’ the back, an’ leave Veronica alone.

Darren wanted to say something to his mother; not Sorry — he didn’t know what.

— Bring the yoke, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — We’ll be ou’ the back, Veronica, if anyone calls. — Will I open the windows for yeh there? It might get rid o’ the smell—

— No, said Veronica. — Go on.

Darren unplugged the twins’ ghettoblaster. He turned it on quickly to check if the batteries were working.

— SHAKE IT TO THE—

Yeah; they were grand.

There was only his mother in the room now, but he still couldn’t say anything. He got out the door and followed his da through the kitchen.

He’d left the cassette cover behind him, on the couch. Veronica picked it up.

Cocktail, she read. Original Motion Picture Soundtrack. There was a picture of a nice-looking lad on the front. His mouth was shut but she was sure he had lovely teeth. She read inside to see who he was. Tom Cruise. So that was what he looked like; the twins were always going on about him.

She studied the damage again. It wasn’t too bad. The curtains needed a wash anyway. A damp cloth would get rid of the ketchup on the ceiling. Darren could do that.

She went back to the kitchen; she wanted to see what they were at.

— FOR GOODNESS SAKE —

I GOT THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

YEAH — I GOT THE SHAKE—

She turned on the cold tap and filled the sink although she wasn’t going to do anything with the water. She just wanted an excuse to be at the kitchen window.

— WUUU—

I CAN’T SIT STILL—

— Vinegar!

She looked.

They were standing out there, side by side, legs apart.

— WITH THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

They caught the bottles.

— Yahaa! said Jimmy Sr.

Darren looked around to see if anyone was looking over the hedge at them, and behind him into the field. There wasn’t anyone, as far as Veronica could see. There was bound to be someone looking out a window though; there always was. Poor Darren.

— WELL I CAN SHAKE IT TO THE LEFT—

— Concentrate now, Darren.

— I CAN SHAKE IT TO THE RIGHT—

— Sauce!

— I CAN DO THE HIPPY SHAKE-SHAKE—

The sauce bottle hopped off Jimmy Sr’s palm but he managed to catch it before it hit the ground, then got back into place.

— WITH ALL OF MY MIGHT—

OOOOOHH -

Darren was quite good at it, streets ahead of the other fool. They threw up both bottles and Darren did a complete spin, in time to catch them. His shorts fitted him as well. Jimmy Sr’s were up at the back and down at the front, holding his belly up like a sling.

She turned off the tap.

— FOR GOODNESS SAKE—

She lowered her arms into the water — it was nice — and looked out. She wished Sharon was here, or even the twins; they’d have loved it. Darren flipped the vinegar over his shoulder, and caught it.

— Stop showin’ off.

He saw her looking at him; Jimmy Sr did. She looked into the water. She lifted a hand and dropped it, as if she was doing something at the sink.

— YEAH — I GOT THE SHAKE—

I GOT THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

It got darker. She looked up. She jumped back: Jimmy Sr had his face squashed up to the window. Cold water got through her blouse. She screamed, and laughed. His nose was crooked and white against the glass. He was miming to the Georgia Satellites.

— OOOH I CAN’T SIT STILL—

He kissed the glass. She saw Darren behind him, looking around to see if anyone was looking. Veronica rapped the glass.

— Go away. You’re smudging the glass.

— Ah, fuck it, said Jimmy Sr.

But he lowered himself from the ledge and backed into the garden still miming, with his hand clutching his crotch.

SHAKE IT TO THE LEFT—

SHAKE IT TO THE RIGHT—

DO THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

He turned, and dropped his shorts and wriggled. God, he was terrible. Poor Darren was bright red.

— WITH ALL OF YOUR MIGHT—

— Pull up your trousers! Veronica shouted.

Darren pointed something out to her. She leaned over the sink and saw Mary Caprani, two gardens down, hanging off her clothes-line and gawking in at Jimmy Sr’s war dance. Veronica thought she’d fall, the laughing took all her strength. She was bent completely over the sink, her face was against the tap, but she couldn’t get up. The face on Mary Caprani; she’d been waiting years to see scandal like this.

Darren tapped Jimmy Sr’s shoulder and showed him Mrs Caprani.

Jimmy Sr ran for the back door and tried to rescue his shorts at the same time. He fell into the kitchen.

— Jaysis, Veronica! Did yeh see Radar Caprani lookin’ at me?

— Never mind her, said Veronica. — She’s probably just jealous.

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.

He was sitting on the floor. He lifted his T-shirt, pulled in his stomach and looked down at his marriage tackle.

— Maybe you’re right, he said.

Veronica’s blouse was drenched. She’d have to get out of it.

The Satellites were still blemming away outside.

Jimmy Sr grabbed the hem of her skirt when she was getting past him. He joined in with the band.

— I CAN’T SIT STILL—

WITH THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE—

He put his head in under her skirt.

— Mammy, Darren’s playin’ our ghetto—

Linda ran into the kitchen.

— Jesus!

Jimmy Sr came out from under the skirt.

— Get ou’!

Linda ran, and so did Veronica.

— They didn’t understand, Jimmy Sr told Veronica.

They were in bed. The light was out. Jimmy Sr had been telling Veronica about the Cocktail routine.

— They thought we were messin‘, doin’ it for a laugh.

Veronica sighed. She’d thought that as well. She had to say something.

— I’m sure they didn’t, she said.

— They did, said Jimmy Sr. — Maggie did annyway. She wouldn’t’ve just gone back into the house if she hadn’t of.

— Well, explain it to her.

— I will not. Why should I?

Veronica sighed again, harder this time; a different sort of sigh.

— It’s not my fault if she doesn’t recognise a good fuckin’ marketin’ strategy when she sees it, said Jimmy Sr.

— You’re working yourself up again, Veronica told him. — You won’t be able to sleep again.

— Ah layoff, will yeh. — You’re as bad as she is. — Veronica—.—Don’t start pretendin’ you’re asleep; come on Veronica?—

— Get out o’ me fuckin’ light, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

Then he sort of saw himself, a narky little bollix, the type of little bollix he’d always hated. But at nearly the same time he felt better, and clearer: he’d had an idea.

— D‘yeh know wha’ we need, Bimbo? he said.

It was half-ten about, outside the Hikers.

He waited for Bimbo to stop what he was doing, opening bags and setting them up in little rows on the counter.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— A night on the batter, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked over at the pile of fish.

— Not tha’ sort o’ fuckin’ batter, said Jimmy Sr. — Tha’ just shows yeh we’ve been workin’ too hard if yeh can’t remember wha’ a night on the batter is.

Bimbo didn’t laugh.

— Are yeh on? said Jimmy Sr. — It’ll do us good. Wha’ d’yeh say?

— Righ’, Jim. Okay.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

He clapped his hands.

— We’ll have a fuckin’ ball.

— That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

They both laughed now.

Jimmy Sr wanted to check that Bimbo had picked him up right.

— Just the two of us, wha’.

— That’s righ’.

— Into town, said Jimmy Sr. — Will we go into town?

— Jaysis—

— We may as well, wha’.

— Okay. — Where in town?

— Everyfuckin’where.

They laughed again.

They wore their suits in; Jimmy Sr insisted. They were in the Barrytown DART station now. It was a horrible damp grey shell of a place with plastic wobbly glass in the doors, and a smell. He got the tickets and his change from the young fella behind the glass, a big thick-looking gobshite, and when he turned back he saw Bimbo trying to figure out the timetable on the wall.

— There’s one in a minute, Jimmy Sr told him.

— No, said Bimbo. — It’s the last one I’m lookin’ for, to see wha’ time it is.

— Never mind the last one, said Jimmy Sr.

He got Bimbo and shoved him through the door out onto the platform.

There was a fair gang on the southbound platform; a bunch of young fellas near the end probably dodging their fare, a few couples, a family that looked like they were going to visit someone in hospital.

— There’s a fine thing over there, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

There was a young one by herself on the northbound with a red mini-skirt and a tan and hair that made her head look three times bigger than it should have been.

— Oh yeah, said Bimbo.

— She must be goin’ ou’ to Howth, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’ for? said Bimbo.

— The fish, said Jimmy Sr.

There were some things that Bimbo hadn’t a clue about. Jimmy Sr could see him deciding if she was really going out to Howth to buy fish.

— I’d say she’s meetin’ her boyfriend or somethin’, said Bimbo.

— Maybe he’s a fisherman, said Jimmy Sr.

The DART was coming.

— Here we go, said Jimmy Sr. — Is there a duty-free shop in the last carriage?

Bimbo laughed.

Thank fuck, Jimmy Sr said to himself. He’d been starting to think that Bimbo had lost his sense of humour from leaning over the deep fat fryer for too long.

The trip into town was grand. A scuttered knacker and a couple having a row kept them entertained as far as Connolly. Their carriage was full of dolled-up young ones. And Bimbo began to get more relaxed looking. Things were looking up.

— What’s keepin’ the cunt? said Jimmy Sr when the train stopped for a minute at the depot behind Fairview Park. — Me mouth’s beginnin’ to water.

— So’s mine, said Bimbo. — There’s a few people are goin’ to have to go without their chips tonigh’, wha’.

— No harm, said Jimmy Sr.

The train staggered, and got going again.

— We’re off again, said Jimmy Sr. — ‘Bout fuckin’ time.

It was going to be a great night; he could feel it now. He was liking Bimbo again, and Bimbo liked him. He was leaning in closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, the two of them together. Away from the van, and Maggie, and the pressure and the rows and all the rest of the shite, they’d have their couple of pints and a good laugh, get locked, and they’d be back to normal, the way they used to be; the way they’d stay.

Bimbo started to get up when the train crept into Connolly.

— Sit down there, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’?

— We’re gettin’ off at Tara.

— Oh.

— We’ll have a few in Mulligans first, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Oh, very good.

— The best pint in Dublin.

— So I’ve heard.

Jimmy Sr knew where he was bringing them; he had a kind of a plan.

By the time they got past the ticket collector they were really excited and they ran around the corner to Mulligans, pushing each other for the mess, and they nearly got knocked down by a fire engine when they were legging it across Tara Street.

— Ring your fuckin’ bell! Jimmy Sr yelled after it, and he ran after Bimbo, into Mulligans.

There were two women climbing off their stools when Jimmy Sr found Bimbo at the bar.

— Were yeh keepin’ them warm for us, girls? said Jimmy Sr.

One of them stared at him.

— We’re not girls, she said.

— That’s true, said Jimmy Sr when she’d gone past him.

They got up on the stools. Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands.

— Hah hah!

— Here we are, said Bimbo.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ here’s the barman. Two pints, please.

It was a bit awkward sitting in the suits. You had to sit up straight; the jackets made you. And you couldn’t just park your elbows and your arms on the counter when you were wearing your good suits; they made you kind of nervous. Still though, they’d need them for later.

— Wha’ did you think of your women? said Jimmy Sr.

— Eh—

— Lesbians, I’d say.

— Ah, no.

— I’d say so. Did yeh hear her? We’re not girls.

— Tha’ doesn’t mean—

— Not just tha’. Drinkin’ in here, by themselves yeh know. Like men. Here’s the pints, look it.

The pints arrived, and Jimmy Sr had an idea. He stood up and got his jacket off and folded it, put it on the stool and carefully sat on it.

— That’s better. My God, that’s a great fuckin’ pint. — Isn’t it?

Most of Bimbo’s was gone.

— Lovely.

— A great fuckin’ pint.

— Lovely.

They had two more great fuckin’ pints, then Jimmy Sr got them up and out before they got too comfortable in there. They put their jackets back on, went for a slash (—The first one’s always the best) and headed off for somewhere new.

— Where? said Bimbo.

Doyle’s, Bowe’s, the Palace; two pints in each of them. They were new places to Bimbo, and to Jimmy Sr although he’d walked past them and had a look in. He’d promised himself that if he ever had any money again he’d inspect them properly. And here he was.

— Good consistent pints, he said. — So far anyway.

— Very good, yeah.

They were in the Palace, standing up against the wall, near the door cos there was no room further in. The women were a disappointment, not what he’d imagined. They were hippyish, scrawny women. He’d expected a bit of glitter; not in Mulligans — they’d gone in there strictly for the pints — but in the other ones. That was why they were in the Palace now, in town, in their suits. Jimmy Sr wanted something to happen. Maybe they should have gone to Howth. Still though, it was good to be just out, with Bimbo, away from everything.

— Yeh finished? he said to Bimbo.

— Are we goin’ already?

— This place isn’t up to much. Yeh righ’?

— Okay, said Bimbo. — You’re the boss.

That’s right, Jimmy Sr thought while he waited for Bimbo to get the last of his pint into his mouth; I am the boss.

It had always been that way.

They went outside and it was nice and cool.

— This way, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr had always been the one who’d made the decisions, who’d mapped out their weekends for them. Jimmy Sr would say, See yeh in the Hikers after half-twelve mass, and Bimbo would be there. Jimmy Sr would put down Bimbo’s name to play pitch and putt and Bimbo would go off and play. Jimmy Sr had rented the pair of caravans in Courtown a couple of years back and the two families had gone down in a convoy and stayed there for the fortnight.

— Where’re we goin’ now? said Bimbo.

— Somewhere different, said Jimmy Sr. — Wait an’ see.

— I’m dyin’ for a piddle.

— Fuck off complainin’.

There were huge crowds out, lots of kids — they were on Grafton Street now — big gangs of girls outside McDonalds. Not like the young ones in Barrytown; these young ones were used to money. They were confident, more grown up; they shouted and they didn’t mind being heard — they wanted to be heard. They had accents like newsreaders. They’d legs up to their shoulders. Jimmy Sr did a rough count; there were only about three of them that weren’t absolutely gorgeous.

This was more like it.

— There aren’t any pubs up here, are there?

— Shut up.

Bimbo wanted to get out; Jimmy Sr could tell. He was murdering the Budweiser, guzzling and belching at the same time to get rid of it so they could go. Jimmy Sr wasn’t going anywhere yet though. He hated this place, and liked it. It was crazy; himself and Bimbo were the only two men in here who needed braces to hold up their trousers and they were the only two not wearing them. They were also the only two that weren’t complete and utter fuckin’ eejits, as far as he could see. There was lots of loud laughing, at fuck all. The women though — not all of them that young either.

The crowd kind of shuffled and there was a pair of women beside Bimbo and Jimmy Sr, by themselves. Jimmy Sr nudged Bimbo.

— I don’t like your one, he told Bimbo, although he did like her.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— Your women there, said Jimmy Sr.

— What abou’ them?

— Back me up, said Jimmy Sr. — Howyeh, he said to the one nearest him.

— Oh, she said. — Hi, and they climbed back into the crowd, the two of them, the wagons.

— Stuck-up brassers, said Jimmy Sr. — One o’ them was as bandy as fuck, did yeh notice?

But it was a start; he felt great.

He grinned at Bimbo.

— Wha’ did yeh think of your women? he said.

— Wha’d’yeh mean?

— Don’t start. Did yeh like them?

Bimbo was squirming.

— Did yeh?

— Eh — they were nice enough—

— Nice enough? If — if Sophia Loren came up to yeh an’ stuck her diddies in your face would you say tha’ she was nice enough?

But he was happy enough.

A woman about his own age bumped into him.

— Mind yourself, love, he said.

— Sorry.

— No problem.

And she was gone but no matter. All he needed was a bit of practice. If she came back in an hour or so he’d get off with her no problem. Not that he’d want to get off with her. Or anyone really. He was just messing; seeing if he could click with a woman if he wanted to. He looked around.

— Over here, he said to Bimbo.

— Why? said Bimbo, but he followed Jimmy Sr. He didn’t want to be left alone.

If all Jimmy Sr’d wanted to do was get a woman behind a wall and feel her up or even ride her he wouldn’t have come all the way into town; there were plenty of women in Barrytowm who’d have come behind the clinic with him; all he’d have to have done was buy them a few bottles of Stag and listen to their problems for a while and tell them that they were still good-looking women when they started crying. He knew them all, and some of them were still good-looking women. But he’d never even been tempted, and not because he’d have been afraid of being caught.

They were in the middle of the crowd now, not at the edge.

What he wanted was to see if he could manage a young one or one of these glamorous, rich-looking, not-so-young ones. He’d back off once he knew it was on the cards; actually getting his hole wasn’t what he was after at all — he just wanted to know if he could get his hole.

— D’yeh want another drink, here, Jimmy? Bimbo asked him.

Maybe just the once he’d like to get the leg over one of these kind of women, only the once, in a hotel room or in her apartment, and then he’d be satisfied. Jimmy Sr had never been in a hotel room.

—’Course I do, Jimmy Sr said to Bimbo.

— Here though?

— Yeah, here. — Only one more, righ’?

Bimbo nodded and slipped through to the bar.

Jimmy Sr smiled at a woman, over a little fella’s shoulder. She smiled back quickly, just in case she knew him. Jimmy Sr waited for her to look over his way again, but she didn’t. She was about forty but she was wearing a mini-skirt. The little fella must have been worth a fortune.

Bimbo was back.

— It’s robbery in here, he said.

— You pay for the style, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Not after I’ve finished this I don’t.

— Okay, okay. — Watch it; brassers at six o’ clock!

— Wha’?

— Howyeh, girls. D’yis need a drink?

They walked straight past him. They mustn’t have known he was talking to them. They must have though; he spoke straight at them.

— Fuckin’ bitches, he said. — Look at her. Her; your woman. With your man over there.

— Oh yeah.

— She’s fuckin’ gorgeous, isn’t she?

— Yeah.

— She’s got real bedroom eyes, said Jimmy Sr.

She was lovely looking alright.

— Yeah, said Bimbo.

— Bedroom eyes, said Jimmy Sr again. — An’ a jacks mouth.

They laughed.

Bimbo’s Budweiser was nearly gone.

— Are we goin’? he said.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Okay.

Bimbo looked at his watch. It was after eleven.

— I could do with a proper pint, he said.

— Good thinkin’ Batman, said Jimmy Sr. — Come on.

— D‘yeh know how yeh click with women like tha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— How?

— Money.

— Ah yeah.

It was good to be back in a real pub.

Bimbo got two very healthy-looking pints and Jimmy Sr got two more immediately because it was coming up to closing time and Jimmy Jr had warned him that the city centre pubs were fuckers for shutting down on the dot of half-eleven.

They took over two low stools at a table.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Nine ou’ o’ ten women, if they had the choice between money an’ looks, they’d go for the money.

— What abou’ Maggie an’ Veronica?

— Not women like Maggie an’ Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m not talkin’ abou’ women like tha’. Ordinary women, if yeh know what I mean.

He waited for Bimbo to nod.

— I mean the kind o’ women we saw in tha’ place back there. Stylish an’ glamorous—

— I think Maggie an’—

Jimmy Sr stopped him.

— know wha’ you’re going to say, Bimbo. And I agree with yeh. They are as good lookin’. But they’re not like those brassers back there, sure they’re not?

— No, said Bimbo. — Not really.

— Thank God, wha‘, said Jimmy Sr. — Can yeh imagine lettin’ any o’ them floozies rear your kids?

— God, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr sat up straight.

— But, let’s face it, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re rides, aren’t they?

— Ah, I don’t—

— Go on, yeh cunt. Admit it.

They laughed. That was good, Jimmy Sr thought. They weren’t on their way home yet.

— That’s the thing though, said Jimmy Sr, back serious. — Veronica an’ Maggie. We’re lucky fuckin’ men. But they’re wives. Am I makin’ sense?

— Yeah.

— Those ones back there aren’t. They might be married an’ tha’ but — they’re more women than wives, eh — Fuck it, that’s the only way I can say it.

— I know wha’ yeh mean, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr felt so good, like he’d got something huge off his chest.

— Will I see if they’ll give us another? he said.

— What abou’—?

— We’ll get a taxi. Will I have a bash?

— Okay, said Bimbo. — Yeh’d better make it a short though, Jim. I’m full o’ drink.

Jimmy Sr picked on the younger barman and managed to get two Jamesons out of him, and that made him feel even better.

— How’s tha’?

— Fair play to yeh, said Bimbo. — Good man.

It was hard getting back down onto the stool, there were so many people around them, but Jimmy Sr did it without pushing anyone too hard. He was dying to get going again with Bimbo.

— Women like tha’—

He waited to see if Bimbo was following him.

— Women like your women go for money, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — They’ll wet themselves abou’ any ugly fucker or spastic just as long as they’re rich.

— I don’t know, said Bimbo.

— It’s true, said Jimmy Sr. — Look at your woman, Jackie Onassis. You’re not goin’ to tell me tha’ she loved your man, Aristotle, are yeh?

— She might’ve.

— Me arse. Sure, she had a contract an’ all drawn up before they got married, guaranteeing her millions o’ dollars; millions.

— Tha’ doesn’t mean tha’—

— An’ Grace Kelly.

— Princess Grace?

— She only married Prince what’s his fuckin’ name cos he was a prince. An’ Princess Diana as well.

— Wha’—

— She only married fuckin’ Big Ears for the same reason.

— I always thought there was somethin’ a bit odd about that’ match alrigh’.

— I’m tellin’ yeh, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — There are some women would do annythin’ for money. The women back there in tha’ place would annyway.

— You could never respect a woman like tha’, said Bimbo.

— No, Jimmy Sr agreed. — But yeh could ride the arse off her.

They roared.

— It’s grand, said Jimmy Sr before they’d really finished laughing. — When yeh think abou’it. If you’ve money, that is.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — I suppose. If you’re interested in tha’ sort o’ thing.

— Who wouldn’t be? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t say anything, and that was good enough for Jimmy Sr. He had Bimbo thinking with his bollix.

The pub was beginning to empty. Jimmy Sr looked at his watch; it wasn’t near midnight yet. It was good in a way, because now he could ask Bimbo the question.

— What’ll we do now?

Bimbo looked around, like he was waking up.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Where’!! we go? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked at his watch.

— I suppose we’d better head—

— We can’t go fuckin’ home, said Jimmy Sr. — Not yet. Jaysis; it’s our fuckin’ big night ou’.

Bimbo was game, Jimmy Sr could tell, but lost. He let him speak first.

— Where can we go? said Bimbo.

— Somewhere where we can get a drink, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah yeah, said Bimbo. — ’Course.

Jimmy Sr spoke through a yawn.

— We — we could try Leeson Street, I suppose; I don’t know. — Wha’ d’yeh think? It might be a laugh, wha’.

Jimmy Sr’s heart was loafing his breast plate.

So was Bimbo’s.

— Would yeh get a pint there? he said.

— Yeh would, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — No problem.

They were on their way.

— Hang on though, said Jimmy Sr out of nowhere. — Wha’ colour socks are yeh wearin’?

They stopped. Bimbo looked down. He hoisted up a trouser leg.

— Eh — blue, it looks like—

— Thank God for tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Why?

— They don’t let yeh in if you’re wearin’ white socks, he told Bimbo. — The bouncers don’t. They’ve been told not to.

— Why’s tha’?

— Don’t know. Young Jimmy warned me about it. Wankers an’ trouble-makers wear white socks.

— Wouldn’t yeh think they’d cop on an’ wear another colour? said Bimbo.

— Who?

— The wankers.

— True, said Jimmy Sr. — Stilt, that’s wha’ makes them wankers, I suppose.

— Yeah. Wha’ colour are yeh wearin’ yourself?

Jimmy didn’t have to look.

— Not white anyway, he said.

They dashed to get into the gang of men going down the basement stairs. They were all pissed and loud, a few drinks away from being sick; business men, they looked like, about the same age as Jimmy Sr and Bimbo. The door opened; the ones in front said something to the bouncer; they all laughed, including Jimmy Sr, and they sailed in, no problem. It cost nothing, just like young Jimmy’d said.

— Thanks very much, Bimbo said when he was going past the bouncer.

— Shut up, for fuck sake! Jimmy Sr whispered. — Good bouncers can smell fear, he told Bimbo. — They’re like dogs.

— I only said Thanks to him, said Bimbo.

— Ah, forget it, said Jimmy Sr. — Forget it.

They were in now anyway.

— Will we hand in our jackets? said Bimbo.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. ’

A suit without a jacket was just a pair of trousers; his jacket was staying on.

The wallpaper was that hairy, velvety stuff. This was a good sign, Jimmy Sr decided. There was something about it, something a bit dirty. He could feel the music in the floorboards even before he turned into the dance and bar place. This was the business. He looked to see if Bimbo thought that as well, and caught him gawking into the women’s jacks. Two women were standing at the door, one of them holding it open.

— Jesus Christ, Bimbo, d‘yeh want to get us fucked ou’ before we’re even in?

— Wha’?

— Come on.

They were a right pair of bints, your women at the jacks door. Women like that didn’t need to piss; they just went in to do their make-up.

The bar was three-sided; the barmen were done up in red waistcoats and dickie-bows, the poor fuckin’ saps. It was hot. The dance-floor was over beyond the bar, not nearly as big as Jimmy Sr had imagined. The stools at the bar were all taken. Jimmy Sr led the way around the other side, nearer the dance-floor. There were tables further in, past the dance-floor; the mirrors made it hard to say how far the room went back. The only one dancing was a little daisy jumping around like her fanny was itchy. Every couple of seconds, when you thought you were going to get a goo at her knickers, she pulled down her skirt at the sides. She was very young.

— Are yeh havin’ a pint or wha’? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

Bimbo was looking at the young one dancing.

— Is there somethin’ wrong with her? said Bimbo.

Good Jesus, there was the poor young one trying to make every man watching her come in their kaks and Bimbo wanted to know if there was something wrong with her!

— A pint? said Jimmy Sr.

— Not here, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr agreed with him; a pint of stout in this place would leave them pebble-dashing the jacks for the rest of the weekend.

— Budweiser, said Jimmy Sr.

— Grand.

He had to shout over the music.

There were two women at the bar, not too young and just good looking enough. Jimmy Sr got in between their stools.

— Sorry, girls.

He lassoed a barman on his way past.

— Two pints o’ Budweiser, when you’re ready!

— Wine bar only.

The barman looked like he’d said this before.

— Wha’?

— No beer or spirits. We’ve a wine licence only.

— Are yeh serious?

The barman didn’t say anything; he just nodded, and went further down the bar.

— Good shite, said Jimmy Sr.

For a second he was lost. Bimbo was at his shoulder.

— Will he not serve yeh? he asked.

— He’ll serve me alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. — Only he’s fuck all that I want.

One of the women laughed. Jimmy Sr turned to her and grinned; it was that kind of laugh.

He was away here.

— Try the wine, said the woman.

Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit to let Bimbo stand beside him.

— Wha’ would yeh recommend? he asked her.

— What’s wrong? Bimbo asked him, right into his ear.

— Nothinv, said Jimmy Sr.

He tried to use his eyes to point out the women to him but it wasn’t easy.

— The house red’s very nice, the woman told Jimmy Sr.

— Is tha’ righ’? said Jimmy Sr. — Are yis drinkin’ it yourselves?

— We are, yes, she said. — Aren’t we, Anne Marie?

— Yeah, said her friend.

— That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr. — We’ll have a drop o’ tha’.

Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit more to include the friend, the one called Anne Marie, and he had a quick look at Bimbo to see if he’d copped on, and he had. He was gawking at Anne Marie.

— I’m Jimmy, by the way, he told the girls. — An’ this is Bim—

He couldn’t remember Bimbo’s real name.

— Brendan, said Bimbo.

That was it.

— Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

— Hello, Brendan, said the woman. — Well, my name’s Dawn. And this is Anne Marie.

— Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.

He spoke to Anne Marie.

— Two names, wha’. Is one not good enough for yeh?

She didn’t get it. He smiled to let her know he was only messing and turned back to Dawn.

— Better order the oul’ vino, he said. — The house somethin’, didn’t yeh say?

He got in closer to Dawn — great fuckin’ name, that — and gave Bimbo loads of room to manoeuvre for himself.

— The house red, said Dawn.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ it’s the business, is it?

— It’s quite nice, said Dawn. — I think myself anyway. And it’s quite reasonably priced.

— Never mind the price, said Jimmy Sr. — Let me an’ Bim — Brendan worry abou’ the price. Here!

He’d captured a barman.

— A bottle o’ house red wine, like a good man.

This was great. There weren’t bad-looking birds at all. Nicely done up; just the right side of brassy. Somewhere in their thirties. Dawn had the fine set of lungs on her, and her arse fitted nicely on the stool; there was nothing flowing over the sides. Her eyelashes were huge, but they looked real enough. He could see the dark roots in her hair; another couple of months and she’d look like a skunk. But she’d get her hair done again long before that happened. She took care of herself. She’d do grand.

There was something about Anne Marie as well though.

Bimbo edged in closer, but he wouldn’t look at her for too long. He leaned on the bar.

The barman had come back with the wine.

— Just park it there, son, Jimmy Sr told the barman.

Anne Marie was fatter than Dawn; not fat though, no way. If he’d been standing right at the bar he’d have been able to see right up to her arse the way her legs were crossed. She was smoking one of those thin cigars. Her expression; it was like she didn’t give a shite about anything. He was sure she went like a fuckin’ sewing machine, certain of it.

— He wants to know do you want to taste it first, Dawn told Jimmy Sr.

— Fuckin’ sure I do, said Jimmy Sr. — Pardon the French, Dawn.

He leaned past her, brushed against her — she didn’t move back — and picked up the glass. There was only half a mouthful in it. He put his nose to the glass, and sniffed.

— Ah, yes, he said.

Dawn laughed.

— Very ginnick, said Jimmy Sr.

He took a sip, leaned back and gargled. Even Anne Marie laughed. He swallowed.

— A-one, he said.

He gave the barman the thumbs up.

— Pour away, compadre, he said. — How much is tha’?

— Twenty-three pounds, sir.

— Wha’?

He hadn’t heard him.

— Twenty-three pounds.

— Grand—

My fuckin’ Jesus—!

He handed over a twenty and a fiver. Thank Christ, his hand wasn’t shaking.

— There yeh go, he said. — Keep the change.

— Thank you very much, sir.

— No problem.

If he didn’t get his hole after forking out twenty-five snots for a poxy bottle of wine he’d He looked at Bimbo; he looked like he’d got a wallop off a stun-gun. Jimmy Sr grinned and smiled at him, and winked. Bimbo smiled back. Dawn was pouring the drink. Jimmy Sr would have to go to the jacks in a bit to see how much money he’d left. It was a long walk home to Barrytown.

— Cheers, Jimmy.

Dawn was holding her glass up, waiting for the others to join in.

— Yes, indeed, said Jimmy Sr.

He picked up his glass. He had to shout over the music.

— Cheers, eh — Dawn.

He laughed, and so did she.

They all clinked their glasses.

— Cheers, Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked to see who he was talking to, then remembered.

— Oh, thanks very much.

Twenty-five fuckin’ quid. He could probably have got a wank in a massage parlour for that, and the fuckin’ bottle was nearly empty already. He’d have to buy another one in a minute. He put his hand against the bar, across Dawn’s back, just barely touching it. She stayed put. Anne Marie helped herself to another glass. She had the look of a dipso about her alright; another year and she’d be in rag order. The music was shite.

— Great sounds, said Dawn.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Brilliant.

He nodded his head as he spoke cos it was very loud; the thump-thump-thump crap that young Jimmy used to play when he lived at home. She had to put her mouth up near his ear.

— Wha’? he said.

It was fuckin’ ridiculous.

— Are the two of you out on the town for the night? she asked.

She was asking him were they married, Jimmy Sr reckoned.

— Ah no, he said. — No.—Not really. This is nothin’ special.

She nodded.

Maybe she didn’t care. He put his hand in his pocket to adjust his gooter — the way she kept putting her mouth up to his ear — . Bimbo was chatting away to Anne Marie. Fair play to him. He’d thought that Bimbo might be a liability. But no, they were nodding and yapping away; he was doing his bit. Anne Marie had her glass leaning on her bottom lip. When Dawn turned to get her glass off the bar Jimmy Sr got his hand in under his gooter and yanked it into an upright position — and Anne Marie was looking at him. He pretended he’d spilt some wine on his trousers and he was inspecting them to see if there was a stain.

— What’s wrong?

Dawn was looking at him now.

— Ah, nothin’.

He looked: Anne Marie was back looking at Bimbo, and the bulge was going. No harm. — He hoped it wasn’t the drink. He was feeling a bit pissed now alright; that wine on top of all the pints.

Dawn got to his ear.

— What do you do, Jimmy?

— When I’m not here, d’yeh mean?

She laughed, and leaned back against his arm and stayed there.

— Self-employed, he told her. — Me an’ Bren.

— Ver-y good.

— Caterin’.

— Good.

He could feel the heat coming off Dawn, he was right up against her. And there wasn’t a bit of sweat on her. He wondered how she did it.

— It’s great bein’ your own boss, said Jimmy Sr.

— I’d say you’re a tough boss to work for, Jimmy.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — Not really now. I’m reasonable enough.

Dawn nodded.

— I don’t take shite from annyone, Jimmy Sr told her — But once that’s established — yeh know.

The DJ was taking a breather, thank fuck. He’d put on a tape, but the noise wasn’t half as bad. They could have a chat altogether now, and Jimmy Sr could keep an eye on Bimbo.

— Here!

— Yes, sir? said the barman.

— Another bottle o’ house red wine, said Jimmy Sr. — How’s it goin’? he asked Bimbo and Anne Marie.

— There y’are, said Bimbo.

Anne Marie was staring at Jimmy Sr, right into his face. He pretended she wasn’t. Bimbo was grinning, like he always did when he’d more than ten pints inside in him, and swaying a bit, but not dangerously. The suit made him look less pissed than he was.

Jimmy Sr looked again. Your woman, Anne Marie, was still looking at him.

Then she spoke.

— Your complexions are very good, she said. — Considering.

— Considering what, Anne Marie? said Dawn.

— Where they work.

Bimbo! The fuckin’ eejit!

— Where do they work? said Dawn.

— In a van, said Anne Marie.

He’d fuckin’ kill him. Grinning away there!

He stayed close up to Dawn — just to remember how it felt.

— Here’s the wine, said Bimbo. — My twist. Twenty-three quid, isn’t that it?

— They have a chipper van, said Anne Marie.

— That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

— Brendan’s Burgers, said Anne Marie.

Bimbo and Anne Marie were holding hands.

— We’re buildin’ up a fleet o’ them, Jimmy Sr told Dawn. — Wha’ d’yeh do yourself, Dawn?

— Do you bring it to football matches and that sort of thing?

She sat up, but she didn’t seem to be trying to get away from him. Maybe it would be alright. He was still going to kill Bimbo though, the stupid cunt.

— Sometimes, said Jimmy Sr. — We stay local most o’ the time. Our market research has shown tha’ reliability is important.

He pushed Dawn’s back with his arm, trying to get her to settle into him.

— The punters like to know tha’ if they want a single o’ chips all they have to do is go out their doors an’ we’ll be there outside to give them their chips.

— And do you actually make the chips and the burgers yourself?

— Sometimes, said Jimmy Sr, — yeah.

If he pushed against her back any more he’d shove her off the stool.

— Strange thing to do for a living really, isn’t it?

— Not really, said Jimmy Sr. -1 suppose it might — eh—

This was fuckin’ desperate; he was getting nowhere. He’d lose the rag in a minute.

Oh good shite! Bimbo was kissing Anne Marie! It wasn’t fuckin’ fair. Right up against her, her arms around him, moving up and down his back, then her hands into his hair.

He put his mouth up to Dawn’s. She drew back.

— Now now, she said.

Like she had to cope with this all the time.

— Sorry—

Fuck it, he was a fool.

Bimbo and Anne Marie were chewing the faces off each other.

He wanted to cry, and go home. He pointed to Bimbo.

— His nickname’s Bimbo, he told Dawn.

He felt really rat-arsed now. He nearly fell over. The arm behind Dawn was killing him but if he took it away that was it, over. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t think. Something funny, anything. The taste of the Guinness was coming up his throat. Anne Marie bit Bimbo’s ear.

Jimmy Sr went in on Dawn’s mouth again.

— Stop that!

— Come on, said Jimmy Sr.

She pushed him away, well able for him; he was fuckin’ hopeless.

Bimbo was going to the jacks. Anne Marie held him back and straightened his tie. Then he was gone, past Jimmy Sr.

Dawn didn’t look angry or indignant, or anything. Like nothing had happened. She even smiled at him, the bitch.

He moved in again, and she pushed him away again. She pushed him back and picked up her glass at the same time.

— Fuck yeh! said Jimmy Sr, and he went after Bimbo.

The jacks was out the way they’d come in. Jimmy Sr shoved someone out of his way at the door and went in. He fell against the wall inside the door. There was another door. He got that open and there were four sinks and a big mirror in front of him. There was no one at the urinal. Bimbo must have been in one of the cubicles, getting sick with any luck. There were three of them, two of them shut. He got over there and walloped both doors.

— Come ou’, yeh cunt yeh!

One of them opened a bit when he thumped it. It wasn’t shut at all; there was no one in there. Bimbo was in the middle one so.

— Come on; I know you’re in there—

He gave the door a kick. Wood cracked.

— What’s wrong with yeh? Bimbo said.

Jimmy Sr heard a zip going up and then the flush. He pushed against the door before Bimbo had it properly open. Bimbo didn’t fall back, like Jimmy Sr’d wanted; he could do nothing right tonight. He kicked the door again.

— Get ou’!

— I’m tryin’ to—

He saw half of Bimbo’s face behind the door. He threw everything against it and it smacked Bimbo’s face, and all of the violence went out of him.

He’d hurt Bimbo.

He wanted to lie down on the floor.

Bimbo came out and went over to the mirror. He had his hands over his forehead. Jimmy Sr followed him.

— Are yeh alrigh’?

Bimbo didn’t answer.

He studied his forehead. There was a graze, and there’d be a lump. But there was no real damage.

— Sorry, Bimbo — righ’?

Bimbo still didn’t say anything.

— Are yeh alrigh’?—Are yeh?

It’s no thanks to you if I am.

— Ah look it; sorry, righ’.—I just lost the head—

Just now, that second, he couldn’t even remember why. Then it came back.

— Wha’did yeh go an’ tell them abou’ the van for?

— Why shouldn’t I have? She asked me what I did for a livin’, so I told her.

— Well, yeh messed it up for me with your woman—

— How did I? said Bimbo. — You messed it up yourself. It’s not my fault if — if she didn’t like yeh, is it?

— I was away on a hack until you opened your fuckin’ mouth—

— How did I?

— You told her abou’ the fuckin’ van, that’s how.

— What’s wrong with tha’?

— Ah—

Jimmy Sr didn’t know how to answer.

Bimbo was looking at his forehead again.

— Is it not good enough for you now? Bimbo asked him.

— It’s not tha’—

— It pays your wages, Bimbo told him.

Jimmy Sr was lost.

— If you don’t want to work in it, said Bimbo, — you can leave any time yeh want to. — An’ good riddance.

— Ah look it — for fuck sake—

— I’m sick o’ you an’ your bullyin’—, sick of it—

They were sober and drunk, sober and drunk.

— You got off with your woman an’—Sorry.

Bimbo slumped, like he’d nothing left to hold him up. Jimmy Sr went over and put his hand on his back.

— That’s the stupidest row we’ve ever had, said Bimbo.

— Thick, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuckin’ ridiculous.

— We’ll go home, will we?

— Wha’ abou’ Anne Marie? said Jimmy Sr.

— I don’t want — Let’s go home.

— Okay.

That was the best.

— Fair play to yeh though, said Jimmy Sr. — Anne Marie an’ tha’.

Bimbo said nothing. Lucky they’d their jackets on them; they didn’t have to go back.

The air was nice, nice and cold. It was heavy going getting up the steps. There was a chap passed out against the railings.

— Will yeh look at him, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo said nothing.

They walked down towards Stephen’s Green.

— It was a terrible kip, said Jimmy Sr. — Wasn’t it?

— They were teachers, said Bimbo. — The two o’ them.

— Who? Dawn an’ your woman—?

— Yeah. Teachers. — Primary.

— That’s desperate—

— They were married as well.

— No.

— Yeah.

Jimmy Sr slipped off the path, and got back on again.

— The filthy bitches, wha’.

They walked on. Jimmy Sr started to sing, to save the night.

— OHHH—

THERE’S HAIRS ON THIS—

AN’ THERE’S HAIRS ON THA’—

Bimbo stopped to let Jimmy Sr come up beside him.

— AN’ THERE’S HAIRS ON MY DOG TINE-EEE—

Bimbo joined in.

— AH — BUT I KNOW WHERE—

THE HAIRS GROW BEST—

Jimmy Sr put his arm over Bimbo’s shoulders.

— ON THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

They were at the corner. There was a taxi coming round with its light on. They stood, leaning into each other, till it came up to them.

It hadn’t been a good night at all. It had been a fuckin’ disaster. Jimmy Sr’s head was starting to ache on and off.

They got into the back of the taxi.

— Barrytown, Jimmy Sr told the driver. — Soon home, he said to Bimbo.

— Yeah—, said Bimbo.

He slouched down into the corner and looked out the window. Jimmy Sr did the same thing, on his side.

There was some sort of a riot going on downstairs. He was awake now. His head was killing him. His guts were groaning; he’d be farting all day. The light behind the curtains wasn’t too strong. That was good; they probably wouldn’t be going to Dollymount in the afternoon. He needed a rest. He didn’t want to see Bimbo. He shifted over to a cool bit of the bed. That was nice.

The racket downstairs though; they were all shouting and the dog was yipping away out of him. It didn’t sound like a fight though. Maybe there’d been an accident. No; there was laughing as well.

He’d go down and investigate. He needed food inside him anyway if he was going to get back to sleep.

— Oh my fuck—

He’d never make it down to the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bed. — Last fuckin’ night—; God, he was a fuckin’ clown. He slipped down till his head was back on the pillow and lay like that. For ages. And that was how Veronica found him.

— Look at you, she said.

She didn’t sound annoyed, the way she usually did when she walked into the mix of drink and farts.

— Darren got his results, she told him.

— What’s tha’?

— His Leaving results, said Veronica. — He got them.

Jimmy Sr tried to sit up.

— Well? he said.

— Seven honours, said Veronica. — Isn’t that marvellous?

— Seven!?

— Yes!

— How many subjects was he doin’, again?

— Guess, said Veronica.

— Seven, said Jimmy Sr. — Jesus, that’s brilliant. — Seven. He must’ve been the best in the school, was he?

He wished he felt better. Darren deserved better; the first Rabbitte to do his Leaving and his father couldn’t even get up out of bed properly.

— Is he downstairs, is he?

— Yes. He’s down there making coffee like nothing had happened, special.

— That’s Darren. Cool as a—

He couldn’t think—

— I’d better go down an’ congratulate him—

He stood up and held onto the dressing table.

— I got mine as well, Veronica told him.

That took a while to get through.

— Your results, said Jimmy Sr. — You did the Leavin’ as well.

— I know, said Veronica.

— Yeh passed?

— Of course, said Veronica. — C in Maths and a B in English. Honours English, that is.

— Ah Veronica, he said. — That’s brilliant.

— I’m thrilled.

— So am I, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m very fuckin’ hungover as well.

— You should be ashamed of yourself, said Veronica, but she didn’t mean it — and that made it worse.

— We’ll have to go ou’ tonigh’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Will you live that long? said Veronica; then — That’d be nice. What about your work?

— Fuck my work. I couldn’t look at a chip. Sharon can fill in for me.

He got back to the bed.

— I’ll have to congratulate Darren later, he said. — Sorry.

Veronica even made sure that the door didn’t slam when she was leaving. He wouldn’t sleep. There was too much — Darren would be going to university now. He’d applied for Trinity, Jimmy Sr thought it was, to do something or other. University. For fuck sake. And Veronica — And he couldn’t even get up to congratulate them. And last night He was a useless cunt. He groaned — A complete and utter cunt—

He’d bring Veronica out for a nice meal somewhere, the works; a bottle of house red wine and all.

He was still a cunt.

— It’s for the best, Bimbo explained. — It’s too messy the other way, so — em; okay?

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr.

He shrugged. He was afraid to say anything else. He didn’t think he’d get through it.

— Okay.

Bimbo had just told him that from now on he’d be paying Jimmy Sr a wage. On Thursdays. Instead of the old way, the fifty-fifty arrangement.

— Will yeh have another pint? said Bimbo.

— No. — No, thanks.

— Come on, yeh will. We’re in no hurry. We’ve time for one more.

— Okay.

— Good man.

He should have told him to stick his wages up his hole, that was what he should have done.

Veronica was fast asleep beside him, the selfish bitch.

No, that wasn’t fair. She’d listened to him. She’d even told him to give up the van if he wanted to, she wouldn’t mind.

He wouldn’t do that though. He couldn’t go back to what it had been like before they’d bought the van — before Bimbo had bought the fuckin’ van. He couldn’t do that; get rid of the video again, stop giving the twins proper pocket money and a few quid to Sharon, and everything else as well — food, clothes, good jacks paper, the few pints, even the dog’s fuckin’ dinner; everything. There was Darren as well now. How many kids went to university with fathers on the labour? No, he’d stick at it.

That was probably what Bimbo wanted him to do; give up. He probably had a cousin of Maggie’s or somebody lined up to take over from him. Well, he’d be fuckin’ waiting. He’d have to sack him first.

He wasn’t going to call him Bimbo any more. Veronica was right; it sounded too cosy.

It was his own fault in a way; some of it. He should have bought the half of the van when he’d thought about it. Months ago. He’d thought he was cute, deciding not to bother; there was no need. He’d just been greedy. And now he was working in someone else’s chipper van, like working in McDonalds or Burger King. Maggie was probably up at her sewing machine making one of those poxy uniforms for him.

He tried to laugh, quietly.

— Yes, sir, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah stop tha’, said Bimbo, — will yeh.

— Stop wha’, sir? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t answer. He lifted the chip basket out of the fat, shook it and dropped it back in.

Thursdays, he got paid. Like everyone else.

The second Thursday his pay was in one of the little brown envelopes wages always came in. He looked at it. His name was written on it.

— Where did yeh get the envelope? he asked.

— Easons, said Bimbo.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

But Bimbo was busy in his corner mixing the batter.

Jimmy Sr stuck the envelope into his back pocket.

Bimbo was manning the hatch, and sweating.

— Two cod, two large! he shouted again.

He turned and saw Jimmy Sr, leaning against the shelf, pouring himself a cup of tea from his new flask. He was holding a sandwich between his teeth.

— Jimmy! said Bimbo. — For God sake—

Jimmy Sr put down the flask and screwed the top back on it. Then he took the sandwich out of his mouth.

— I’m on me break, he told Bimbo.

Bimbo looked the way he did when he didn’t know what was going on.

— I’m entitled to ten minutes’ rest for every two hours that I work, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo still looked lost.

— I looked it up, said Jimmy Sr.

He saw that Bimbo’s face was catching up with his brain.

Bimbo stood back from the hatch. Jimmy Sr took a slug of the tea.

— I needed tha’, he said.

— Stop messin’, will yeh, said Bimbo.

— I’m not messin’, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m entitled to me break.

— Sure Jaysis, said Bimbo, — we did nothin’ all nigh’ except for a few minutes ago.

— Not the point, said Jimmy Sr. — Not the point at all. I was here. I was available to work.

— Hurry up, will yis!

That came from outside.

— I’ve five minutes left, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — Then I’ll sweat for yeh.

— Just get us me fuckin’ cod an’ chips, will yeh!

Bimbo glared at Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr looked back at him, through the steam coming up off his tea.

Bimbo went over and filled two bags with chips and got two cod out of the fryer. Jimmy Sr raised his arm to the small crowd outside and clenched his fist. But no one cheered or clapped or said anything. It was too cold and wet.

Jimmy Sr and Veronica had the front room to themselves. Jimmy Sr’d just been watching the News. Saddam Hussein was still acting the prick over in Iraq. Veronica had her coat on. She’d just come in; she’d been up at the school registering for more night classes — Leaving Cert History and Geography this time.

— Geography? Jimmy Sr’d said when she’d come in. — That’s great. You’ll be able to find the kettle when you go into the kitchen.

— Humour, said Veronica, imitating Darren.

— Fair play to yeh though, he’d said. — I should do somethin’ as well.

They were talking about something different now though. Jimmy Sr was going out to work in a few minutes.

— It’s not too bad now, Jimmy Sr told Veronica.

— Good, said Veronica.

— I’m callin’ him Bimbo again, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica smiled.

— I still take me breaks though, said Jimmy Sr. — If I’m goin’ to be just a wage earner—

— You’ll never be Just anything, Jimmy, don’t worry.

— Ah Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. — You say lovely things sometimes.

— Ah—

— Twice a year, abou’.

Veronica slapped him. Jimmy Sr leaned over and kissed her cheek. It was still cold, from outside.

— I’m glad it’s better, said Veronica. — It’d be a shame.

Jimmy Sr nodded and sighed.

— I can’t get over it though, he said. — I wouldn’t mind—

He’d been telling her this for weeks now. She didn’t mind though; he was entitled to feel sorry for himself.

— but it was his idea in the first fuckin’ place. To be his partner — But there’s no point in-It’s done, wha’.

Veronica could still get upset thinking about him roaming around the house, stooped and miserable, with nothing to do; trying to smile at her; sitting on the front step watching the girls go by and not even bothering to straighten up for them. Only a few months ago. Waiting for him to creep over to her side of the bed.

— I’ll go, said Jimmy Sr.

— Right, said Veronica. — Come into the kitchen and I’ll do your flask for you.

— Grand. Will I run up an’ put the blanket on for yeh?

— Yes. Thanks.

They sat on the couch together for a little bit longer.

He dreaded climbing into the van. The worst part though was stocking it up, having to go through Bimbo’s house, out to the back to the shed; that was fuckin’ terrible. She was always there.

— How’s Jimmy?

— Grand, Maggie. An’ yourself?

The cunt, he hated her. It was easier than hating Bimbo.

She was the one.

He paid for everything he took.

— I’m puttin’ the twenty-seven pence in, okay?

He held the money over the box.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— I took a Twix, said Jimmy Sr.

He showed it to Bimbo.

— There’s the money for it, okay?

He dropped it in.

— Ah, there’s no need—

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s yours.

Bimbo fished the twenty-seven out and handed it back to Jimmy Sr.

— There’s no need, he said.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s yours.

And he left Bimbo standing there with his hand stretched out, and wiped the hatch counter. He heard Bimbo throwing the coins into the box.

He did the same thing with Maggie. He was going through the kitchen with a tray of cod. She was at the table cutting pastry into roundy shapes.

— There y’are, Maggie, he said, and he put the twenty-seven pence down on the table in front of her.

She looked up.

— I took a Twix, he told her, and he was out before she’d time to figure it out.

He hadn’t taken a Twix at all.

It was enjoyable enough in a sad sort of way, acting the prick.

— Will I turn on the gas?

— Wha’ d’yeh mean? said Bimbo.

— Will I turn on the gas? said Jimmy Sr.

They’d just parked outside the Hikers and climbed into the back. It was a very stupid question.

— I don’t get yeh, said Bimbo, although Jimmy Sr saw that he was starting to smell a bit of a rat.

— D’yeh want me to turn on the gas? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Wha’ d’yeh need to ask me for? said Bimbo.

— Well, — you’re the boss—

— I’ll turn it on meself!

He went too far sometimes, like asking Bimbo would he take the chips out of the fryer, would he put the chips into the fryer; he just fell into the habit of asking Bimbo’s permission to do everything.

— You’ll ask me can yeh wipe your arse next, said Bimbo once.

— No, I won’t, said Jimmy Sr. — Me arse is me own.

It was at that moment — the way Bimbo had said it; the pretend annoyance in his voice — that Jimmy Sr realised that Bimbo was enjoying it, being the boss; like he was giving out to a thick lad, a thick kid he liked: he wasn’t embarrassed any more.

He’d seen a photograph in the Herald of a field, like a football pitch with an embankment around it, with a sign at the side — Danger No Swimming. It wasn’t a field. It was the Vartry reservoir, dried out. And the chap from the Corporation, the spokesman — the fella that used to be a runner for Ireland but never won anything — he said that there was a crisis because it was the mildest September on record. But Jimmy Sr was fuckin’ freezing, and so was everyone else. He complained about it but he didn’t mind it at all. The Dollymount business was over, so he’d most of the day to himself. He took Gina for walks. They brought the dog with them. He was still trying to teach Larrygogan to fetch a. ball, after three years, but Larrygogan was either too thick or too intelligent to do it. Gina fetched the ball instead and Larrygogan went with her.

He’d the best of both worlds now; his days to himself and a job to go to later. He got a good wage on Thursdays, and he’d none of the responsibilities. The hours weren’t bad, just a bit unsocial. He was a lucky fuckin’ man; he had no problem believing that. He believed it.

So he really couldn’t understand why he felt so bad, why at least a couple of times a day, especially when he was hungry or tired, he was close to crying.

He was lonely. That was it.

He was wide awake, lying on the bed, hands behind his head. He’d brought the little electric air heater up to the room with him — to read, he’d said — so he was grand and warm. It was about four o’clock, getting gloomy. He’d stretched back and opened the book but he’d drifted, awake but away from the book. The print was too small; it took too long to read a page. But he didn’t blame the book. Maybe it was too warm. He lay back, not thinking, let himself wander. He didn’t think about women, Dawn or—. It was like his head got heavier and duller and then it burst out—

Lonely.

It was like he’d learnt something, worked it out for himself. He even smiled.

His eyes filled, the room and the things in it divided and swam, but he kept his hands behind his head. He had to blink. Then he could feel a tear climb out of his right eye and creep along the side of his nose. He lifted his head to see if it went quicker and blinked to feed it more water, and it went off his cheek down the side onto the pillow. Now he wiped his face; it was getting too wet. He didn’t stop crying though.

He was safe enough up here.

There was a ball inside him, a ball of hard air, like a fart but too high up to get at. It nearly hurt sometimes. It made him restless, all the time. He squirmed. He sat on the jacks and nothing happened. Pressing made it worse. Hardened it more. He knew he was wasting his time but he went to the jacks anyway. And he knew there was nothing physically wrong with him, even though he could feel it. And he knew as well that he’d felt this way before; it was kind of familiar, definitely familiar. He couldn’t remember exactly — . But when he’d noticed himself feeling this way, tight and small and exhausted, he’d recognised it immediately.

He chatted away to Bimbo on the way out to Ballsbridge. Shamrock Rovers were playing in their new ground, the RDS, against St Pats. It had pissed rain the night before — the first decent rain in Dublin for weeks — and again that morning, but it was clearing up nicely for the afternoon. The game was bound to be a cracker and there’d be a huge crowd there. They got a good space to park, up on the path on the river side of the Anglesea Road, and got into the back to get everything ready.

Jimmy Sr took out the letter and left it on the shelf when Bimbo wasn’t looking. He took it back again — Bimbo still had his back turned — and opened it up a small bit so that Bimbo would be able to read the top part of the letter and see the letterhead. Then Jimmy Sr got down to work. If Bimbo picked it up or even just saw the top, grand; if he didn’t Jimmy Sr’d stick it back in his pocket and keep it for another time.

But Bimbo saw it alright.

Jimmy Sr’s face glowed, and not from the heat coming up off the fryer. He saw Bimbo twist his head a bit so he could read the letter without moving it.

He said nothing.

Jimmy Sr left the letter there. He looked at it later himself the way Bimbo had, when Bimbo was busy at the hatch — trying to add up the price of two large cod and a spice-burger, the fuckin’ eejit. He couldn’t see much of it, only the letterhead and the Dear Mr Rabbitte and half the line under that. It was enough though.

They were waiting now for when the crowd came out after the game.

— Pissed off an’ hungry, said Jimmy Sr.

— D’yeh want to go into the match? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr.

— No; fuck tha’.

— It’ll be a cracker, I’d say.

— How will it? said Jimmy Sr. — They’re only fuckers that aren’t good enough to play in England.

— Ah now—

— You’d see better in St Annes, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr had the Sunday World with him and he gave half of it to Bimbo; the inside half, the kids’ and the women’s pages and the pop stuff and the scandal from Hollywood, the stuff he never bothered reading himself.

They didn’t talk.

Jimmy Sr opened his window a bit. It was only a bit after four, more than an hour before the crowd would be coming out. He sighed.

— D‘yeh mind waitin’? Bimbo asked him.

— I don’t care, said Jimmy Sr. — It makes no difference to me. Just as long as I’m paid, I’ll sit here for the rest of the season. It’s your money.

— You’ll be paid, don’t worry, said Bimbo.

— I’d fuckin’ better be, said Jimmy Sr, but not too aggressively; messing.

Bimbo kind of laughed.

Then Jimmy Sr thought of something.

— Double time.

— Wha’?

— Double time for Sundays, said Jimmy Sr.

— Now, hang on here—

— Sundays an’ bank holidays. Time an’ a half for all other overtime.

Bimbo’s voice was very loud.

— Who says this is overtime? he said.

— There’s no need to shout, said Jimmy Sr. — I can hear yeh.

— How d’yeh mean Overtime?

— That’s better.

— Well?

— Well wha’?

— Abou’ this overtime.

— What abou’ it?

— Well—

Bimbo started again.

— Are yeh doin’ this out o’ spite; is that it?

— No!

— Well, it sounds like tha’ to me.

— I’m just lookin’ after me welfare, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s all I’m doin’.

— Welfare!? said Bimbo. — Yeh get paid, don’t yeh? Well paid.

— I earn it, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. - But why d’yeh suddenly think you’re entitled to—

— That’s it, said Jimmy Sr. — I AM entitled to it. I am entitled to it, he said again before Bimbo got the chance to say anything back. — I work seven days a week as it is.

— Not days—

— Nights then. That’s worse.

Jimmy Sr kept his eyes on the paper and pretended that he was still reading.

— Seven nights, he said. — How many does tha’ leave me? Eh, wait now till I think, eh — None.

He snapped the paper and stared down at A Little Bit Of Religion.

— An’ now I’m havin’ to give up me Sunday afternoons as well, he said.

— You’ll get paid—

— You’re the boss, said Jimmy Sr. — I’ll go where I’m told but I’m not goin’ to be exploited, d’yeh hear me? I want me overtime.

— Who’s exploitin’ yeh—?

— You are. If yeh don’t pay me properly.

— I do pay yeh—

— There’s laws, yeh know. We’re not in the Dark Ages annymore. — should be at home with Veronica. An’ the kids.

Bimbo waited a bit.

— Is tha’ wha’ tha’ letter’s abou’? he then asked.

— Wha’ letter?

— The letter inside, on the shelf.

Jimmy Sr bent forward and felt his back pocket, looking for something.

— The letter from the Allied something — the union, said Bimbo.

— Have you been readin’ my letters? said Jimmy Sr.

— No! I just saw it there.

The letter had been Bertie’s idea. He’d got the name and address for Jimmy Sr from Leo the barman and Jimmy Sr’d written off to them, the Irish National Union of Vintners, Grocers and Allied Trade Assistants, asking how he’d go about joining up. He’d got a letter back from them, inviting him in for a chat. He kept it in his back pocket. He wasn’t thinking of joining. He had no time for unions. He’d been in one for years and they’d never done a fuckin’ thing for him. They were useless.

— It’ll be ammo for yeh, compadre, Bertie’d said.

It was a smashing idea. They’d burst their shites laughing. And he was right, Bertie; the letter had been ammunition, like a gun nearly, in his back pocket.

— You’ve no righ’ to be readin’ my letters.

— It was just lyin’ there.

— Where?

— Inside on the shelf.

Jimmy Sr felt his back pocket again, and looked at Bimbo like he’d done something.

— Is tha’ what it’s abou’? said Bimbo.

— It’s none o’ your business what it’s abou’. It’s private.

— You don’t need to be in a union, said Bimbo.

— I’ll be the best judge o’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr; then quieter, — Readin’ my fuckin’ letters—!

— I didn’t read it.

— Why didn’t yeh tell me when yeh found it?

— I didn’t know you’d lost it.

Jimmy Sr leaned forward, to see out if there was more rain coming.

— Are yeh really joinin’ a union? said Bimbo, sounding a bit hurt and tired now.

Jimmy Sr said nothing.

— Are yeh?

Jimmy Sr sat back.

— I’m just lookin’ after meself, he said. — An’ me family.

Bimbo coughed, and when he spoke there was a shake in his voice.

— I’ll tell yeh, he said. — If you join any union there’ll be no job here for yeh.

— We’ll see abou’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

— I’m tellin’ yeh; that’ll be it.

— We’ll see abou’ tha’.

— If it comes to tha’—

— We’ll see.

Bimbo got out and went for a stroll up and down the road. Jimmy Sr turned the page and stared at it.

He’d gone down to the shops himself instead of sending the twins down — they wouldn’t go for him any more, the bitches — and got them sweets and ice-creams, even a small bar of Dairymilk for the dog. It had been great, marvellous, that night and watching the dog getting sick at the kitchen door had made it greater. Even Veronica had laughed at the poor fuckin’ eejit whining to get out and vomiting up his chocolate.

— Just as well it wasn’t a big bar you bought him, Darren said.

It had been a lovely moment. Then Gina waddled over to rescue the chocolate and she had her hand in it before Sharon got to her. Jimmy Sr wished he’d a camera. He’d get one.

They’d had a ride that night, him and Veronica; not just a ride either — they’d made love.

— You seem a lot better, Veronica said, before it.

— I am, he’d said.

— Good, she’d said.

— I feel fine now, he’d said. — I’m grand.

— Good, she’d said, and then she’d rolled in up to him.

But it hadn’t lasted. Even the next day his head was dark again; he couldn’t shake it off. When Darren came into the front room to have a look at Zig and Zag on the telly, Jimmy Sr’s jaw hurt. He’d been grinding his teeth. He snapped out of it, but it was like grabbing air before you sink back down into the water again.

He kept snapping out of it, again and again, for the next two days. He’d take deep breaths, force himself to grin, pull in his stomach, think of the ride with Veronica, think of Dawn. But once he stopped being determined he’d slump again. His neck was sore. He felt absolutely shagged. All the time. But he tried; he really did.

He was really nice to Bimbo, extra friendly to him.

— How’s it goin’, and he patted his back.

He whistled and sang as he worked.

— DUM DEE DEE DUM DEE DEE — DUM — DEE—

But, Christ, when he stopped trying he nearly collapsed into the fryer. You’re grand, he told himself. You’re grand, you’re alright. You’re grand. You’re a lucky fuckin’ man.

But it only happened a couple of times, the two of them feeling good working together. And it wasn’t even that good then because they were nervous and cagey, waiting for it to go wrong again.

It was like a film about a marriage breaking up.

— The cod’s slow enough tonight—

Bimbo saw Jimmy Sr’s face before he’d finished what he’d been going to say, and he stopped. Jimmy Sr tried to save the mood. He straightened up and answered him.

— Yeah, — eh—

But Bimbo was edgy now, expecting a snotty remark, and that stopped Jimmy Sr. They were both afraid to speak. So they didn’t. Jimmy Sr felt sad at first, then annoyed, and the fury built up and his neck stiffened and he wanted to let a huge long roar out of him. He wanted to get Bimbo’s head and dunk it into the bubbling fat and hold it there. And he supposed Bimbo felt the same. And that made it worse, because it was Bimbo’s fault in the first place.

Darren wouldn’t work for them any more.

— It’s terrible, he explained to Jimmy Sr. — You can’t move. Or even open your mouth. — It’s pitiful.

— Yeah, Jimmy Sr almost agreed. — Don’t tell your mother, though. Just tell her the Hikers pays better or somethin’.

— Why d‘you keep doin’ it, Da?

— Ah—

And that was as much as he could tell Darren.

— But mind yeh don’t tell your mother, okay.

— Don’t worry, said Darren.

— It’d only upset her, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ there’s no need.

There was just the two of them in the van now, except maybe once a week when Sharon was broke or doing nothing better. She wasn’t as shy as Darren.

— Wha’ are youse two bitchin’ abou’? she asked them one night after Jimmy Sr had grabbed the fish-slice off Bimbo and Bimbo’d muttered something about manners.

(It had been building up all night, since Bimbo’d looked at his watch when he answered the door to Jimmy Sr, just because Jimmy Sr was maybe ten minutes late at most.

— Take it ou’ of me wages, he’d said.

— I didn’t say annythin’, said Bimbo.

— Me bollix, said Jimmy Sr, just over his breath.

And so on.)

Neither of them answered Sharon.

— Well? she said.

— Ask him, said Bimbo.

— Ask me yourself, pal, said Jimmy Sr.

— Jesus, said Sharon. — It’s like babysittin’ in here, so it is. For two little brats.

And she slapped both their arses.

— Layoff—!

But she slapped Jimmy Sr again, messing. He had to laugh. So did Bimbo.

— How was it tonight? Veronica asked him when he got into the scratcher and his cold feet woke her up.

— Grand, he said.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bimbo sometimes, and he was still the same man; you could see it in his face. When he was busy, that was when he looked like his old self. Not when he was hassled; when he was dipping the cod into the batter, knowing that time was running out before the crowds came out of the Hikers. In the dark, with only the two lamps lighting up the van. A little bit of his tongue would stick out from between his lips and he’d make a noise that would have been a whistle if his tongue had been in the right place. He was happy, the old Bimbo.

That wagon of a wife of his had ruined him. She’d taken her time doing it, but she’d done it. That was Jimmy Sr’s theory anyway. There was no other way of explaining it.

— Look it, he told Bertie. — She was perfectly happy all these years while he was bringin’ home a wage.

— Si—, said Bertie in a way that told Jimmy Sr to keep talking.

— She was happy with tha’ cos she thought tha’ that was as much as she was gettin’. Does tha’ make sense, Bertie?

— It does, si. She knew no better.

— Exactly. — Now, but, now. Fuck me, she knows better now. There isn’t enough cod in the fuckin’ sea for her now. Or chips in the fuckin’ ground; Jaysis.

— That’s greed for yeh, compadre.

— Who’re yeh tellin’.

It was good talking to Bertie. It was great.

— It’s her, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s not really Bimbo at all.

— D’yeh think so? said Bertie.

— Ah yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Def’ny.

— I don’t know, said Bertie. — Yeh might be righ’.—Would you let your mot rule yeh like tha’?

— No way.

— Why d’yeh think he does then?

— She’s different, said Jimmy Sr after a bit. — She’s pushier. She’s — It wouldn’t happen with Veronica, or Vera. He’s soft, there’s that as well—

That was what he believed; that night. You couldn’t be one of the nicest, soundest people ever born and suddenly become a mean, conniving, tight-arsed little cunt; not overnight the way Bimbo had; not unless you were being pushed. He knew what she’d said to Bimbo; he could hear her saying it, — It’s either me or him; something like that. The van or Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was opening up chips bags, getting his fingers in, spreading them inside and flicking the opened bag off them onto the shelf above the fryer. It was tragic.

Other times, he just hated him.

He missed him.

Bertie was great company but Bertie was Bertie. Bertie didn’t need anybody. He was as hard as fuckin’ rock. Bertie could entertain you all night and listen to your troubles all night but Bertie could never have been your best friend. Bertie didn’t need a best friend.

Jimmy Sr wasn’t like that though. He wished he was, but he wasn’t. When Bertie wasn’t around — and he wasn’t around a lot — Jimmy Sr never missed him; he didn’t feel a hollow. But he missed Bimbo and the fucker was standing beside him shaking the chips.

— Yeah? said Jimmy Sr.

He put the salt and sauce to the side, out of his way.

— Eastern Health Board, said the man outside.

Jimmy Sr was bending to point him to the clinic, beyond the shopping centre, when he noticed the piece of plastic the man was holding up. It was a white identification card. Jimmy Sr didn’t take it. He stood back.

He didn’t look like an inspector. He looked ordinary.

Then Jimmy Sr remembered; he wasn’t the boss.

— There’s someone here wants yeh, he told Bimbo.

It wasn’t his problem. His heart got faster, then slowed. But his throat was very tight, like something big was coming up. It ached. His face tingled; he felt a bit guilty. That wasn’t on though; it wasn’t his problem.

Bimbo rubbed his hands on his trousers to get the flour off them as he came over to the hatch. He looked at Jimmy Sr and out at the man, then looked worried.

It was Friday evening, coming up to the Happy Hour; getting dark.

Bimbo rubbed his hands and made himself smile.

— Yes, sir? he said. — Wha’ can I do for you?

The man held up the card till Bimbo took it.

— Des O’Callaghan, he said. — I’m an environmental health officer with the Eastern Health Board.

How did you get a job like that? Jimmy Sr wondered. Again it struck him how normal Des O’Callaghan looked. Quite a young man too, for an inspector.

Bimbo’s fingers smudged the card so he rubbed it on his shirt, looked to see if it was clean and gave it back to Des O’Callaghan.

— Is somethin’ wrong? Bimbo asked him.

Bimbo looked like he needed company so Jimmy Sr moved over closer to him, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Bimbo would have to sort out this one out for himself.

— I’m going to have to inspect your premises, said Des O’Callaghan.

— D’yeh have a warrant? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked like he was going to fall, like he wanted to agree with Jimmy Sr but was afraid to.

— I don’t need one, Des O’Callaghan told Jimmy Sr, without even a trace of snottiness or sarcasm. He was good. Jimmy Sr was impressed, and scared. — I’m entitled to inspect these premises under the Food Hygiene Act.

Des disappeared and came in the back door.

— Wipe your feet, said Jimmy Sr. — Only coddin’ yeh.

Des got down on his hunkers and looked around. Jimmy Sr nudged Bimbo. He waited for Des to run a finger along the floor and then look at it, but he didn’t do that. Bimbo thought about getting down beside Des. He bent his knees a bit, then decided not to.

Des was looking under the hotplate now.

— The licence’s at home, said Bimbo. — D’you want me—?

It wasn’t easy talking to the back of the man’s head. Bimbo gave up.

Des stood up. He wasn’t taking notes or anything, or ticking things off. He looked into the chip bin. No harm there, thought Jimmy Sr; the chips were only in it a few minutes. Des looked at the milk bottles full of water. Then he touched something for the first time since getting in. He turned one of the taps at the sink and noticed that it was loose and not connected to anything.

— I’m gettin’ it fixed, said Bimbo.

Des said nothing.

What was he looking at now? Jimmy Sr wondered. He shifted a bit to see. The walls; he was staring at the walls.

— Is everythin’ alrigh’? said Bimbo.

Des still said nothing. Jimmy Sr decided to wipe the hatch counter, to give him something to do. His cloth was bone dry. He nearly had it in the chip bin to rinse it when he saw Des looking at him. He changed his direction just before his hand went into the bin and started wiping the outside of the bin. God, he was a fuckin’ eejit; he hadn’t thought — He whistled. He turned the bin a bit to see if he’d missed any of it, then stood up and went back to the hatch.

He almost didn’t recognise Bimbo, the way he was looking at him. He’d never seen Bimbo look that way before, cold and intelligent. He reddened; he didn’t know why. Then his mind caught up with him—

He thinks I ratted on him. He thinks I ratted on him!

He couldn’t say anything.

Then Des spoke.

— Can I see your hands, please? he said.

— Wha’?

— Your hands, said Des. — Can I see them, please?

— Why? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo already had his hands held out, ready to be handcuffed. Then he turned them and opened his palms. Now Jimmy Sr understood. He did the same. He tried to get Bimbo to see him, without making it obvious to the inspector. He hadn’t ratted on him. He had to let him know.

Des looked down at their palms.

— The nails, please.

They flipped their hands over. Bimbo let out a sigh. It sounded cheeky.

— Do we pass? Jimmy Sr asked Des.

If he got snotty with him Bimbo would know that he hadn’t done the dirty on him.

— I’m afraid not, said Des.

He looked around again.

Jimmy Sr had to lean back against the counter. Oh fuck — He thought he was going to shite, a cramp ran through him: Bimbo thought it was his fault.

—’Fraid not, said Des, just short of cheerfully.

Bimbo still had his hands held out. Des nodded at them.

— I’m finished, he told Bimbo.

Bimbo put his hands into his pockets. Jimmy Sr went to put his hand on Bimbo’s shoulder, then didn’t.

— I’m going to have to close you down, lads, said Des. — I have the power.

Jimmy Sr was surprised he could talk.

— Now, hang on—

— Let me finish, said Des. — Please. — Thanks. Which one of you is the proprietor?

Jimmy Sr pointed.

— He—

— I am., said Bimbo.

Bimbo half-turned, to let Jimmy Sr know that he was to stay out of it.

— I am., Bimbo said again.

— Okay. Mister—?

— Reeves.

— Right, Mister Reeves. — have to tell you that your van poses a grave and serious danger to public health.

Bimbo looked at the floor. Jimmy Sr did too.

— I’m closing you down now, said Des.

— What abou’ our fuckin’ jobs? said Jimmy Sr.

— I haven’t finished speaking yet, said Des.

Bimbo spoke to Jimmy Sr for the first time since this had started.

— Shut up, will yeh.

He didn’t bother looking at him when he said it.

— You close down now, said Des to Bimbo. — The walls are filthy, the floor is filthy, there’s no water supply—

— We’re gettin’ tha’ fixed, he told yeh—

— the foodstuffs aren’t properly covered and stored, the hotplate is dangerous, the oil in the fryer is — I don’t have to tell you. You are personally unclean, especially your colleague behind you. I’m sorry but I’m empowered to make these observations. I’ve no wish to hurt your feelings.

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

— Your clothes are unsafe and your fingernails are what my mother would call a disgrace.

No one laughed.

— Your hair, both of you, is a threat to public health. I could go on all night. — There are enough breaches of the food hygiene regulations in here to land you a hefty fine and even a custodial sentence.

My fuck—

Des let that sink in.

— Jail, d’yeh mean? said Jimmy Sr.

This was crazy.

— I’m afraid so, yes.

— You’re jestin’! Pull the other one, will yeh.

— Shut up, you, said Bimbo. — You’ve done enough already.

— You’re the one goin’ to jail, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Just shut up—!

Bimbo looked around the van.

— It’s not tha’ bad, he said.

— Yes, it is, said Des. — It’s worse.

Fair play to yeh, Jimmy Sr thought. Jimmy Sr liked Des.

— We clean it, Bimbo told him.

Des scratched his ear.

— Will I have to go to court? said Bimbo.

— A week, Mister Reeves, said Des. — What I’m going to do is—

He waited a bit.

— I’m going to give you a week to bring your premises into line with Health Board requirements. I’ll provide you with a list of what you’ll have to do. I’ll come back in a week and if I see that you’ve done your homework we’ll forget that I was here this week.

He smiled, then snapped it back.

— It’s going to be a busy week, Mister Reeves.

Des was great.

Before Bimbo could thank him he started again.

— However, Mister Reeves, I have to warn you — If you fail to carry out even one of the demands on the list I’ll have to close you down. On behalf of the Minister for Health.

Now Bimbo could talk.

— Thanks very much.

Des took a pen and some papers out of his jacket pocket. He clicked the pen and went over to the counter. Jimmy Sr got out of his way. Bimbo followed him. It was some sort of a list; Jimmy Sr couldn’t see it properly. Des put a tick beside nearly everything on it.

Would they have to shave their heads? Jimmy Sr wondered. He was feeling good now; he needed deep breaths.

— I’ll have to get you to sign this for me, Des told Bimbo. — Just there. — That’s right; thank you. — And this one—

He gave Bimbo one of the sheets of paper.

— That’s for you, Mister Reeves, he said.

He clicked his pen again and put it back into his pocket with the other papers.

— Well—, he said. — Next week so—

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — I‘H get goin’ on tha’. All the things — Thanks very much.

— Goodbye, said Des.

— Cheerio, said Jimmy Sr.

— Goodbye, he said to Bimbo.

— Bye bye now, said Bimbo.

Des hopped down the steps, not a bother on him.

— Nice fella, said Jimmy Sr.

— Well—, said Bimbo — I hope you’re happy now, that’s all I can say.

Jimmy Sr had forgotten.

— Wha’? he said.

It was too early to deny anything.

— You know, said Bimbo.

Bimbo wouldn’t look at him.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — Sorry; I don’t know.

Bimbo scoffed. He moved for the first time since Des had gone, and turned off the fryer and the hotplate. He hesitated a bit before he turned the dial under the plate, then he did it. He took the baskets out of the fryer.

— Large an’ a cod, please.

There was a young one at the hatch.

— We’re closed, said Bimbo.

— We may as well get rid o’ wha’ we have, said Jimmy Sr.

— We’re closed, said Bimbo.

— We’re shut, love, Jimmy Sr told the young one. — Come back next week, he said loud enough for Bimbo to hear.

Bimbo scoffed again, and this time Jimmy Sr wanted to give him a boot up the hole; he was arguing like a woman. He let the hatch door down and it was dark except for the light coming through the back door.

— I had nothin’ to do with this, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo said nothing.

— I didn’t, Bimbo; I swear.

— Yeah—, said Bimbo.

He went out and lifted the gas canister up into the van.

— I didn’t, Jimmy Sr told him. — Des just—

— Des—, said Bimbo.

— I never saw or heard of him before today, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo said nothing. He made noises like a strangled laugh, but Jimmy Sr couldn’t see his face properly.

— Ah, this is fuckin’ crazy, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it, for fuck sake, it had nothin’ to do with me—

— So yeh said, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr could see enough of him to grab him. He pushed him back; Bimbo fell against the chip bin and the shelf behind him stopped him from going back further. The bin went over and there was water everywhere. His legs were soaked but Jimmy Sr ignored it. He had Bimbo by the shirt, and he was up over him because Bimbo’s legs had slipped. He shook him.

— Are yeh listenin’ to me!?

He shook him again. One of the buttons went.

— Are yeh!?

Bimbo slid back more. He was kneeling in the water. Jimmy Sr could have kneed his thick face for him. He took one hand off the shirt and grabbed hair.

— Let me up—!

— I will. I will. Just listen!—

Jimmy Sr had to calm himself. He was all set to pulverise Bimbo. If Bimbo said one thing wrong he’d destroy him. Bimbo stayed still.

— Now — Your man comin’ here — it had nothin’ to do with me, righ’. I didn’t rat on yeh—

He didn’t want to kill him now. He stepped back to give Bimbo room. He held out his hand to help Bimbo up. Bimbo pushed it away.

— I can manage meself.

He could hear Bimbo grabbing air, like he’d been running. There was a growl in his breathing as well. Jimmy Sr was the same.

— D’yeh believe me? he said.

Bimbo began to lift the bin, then let it go.

— Yeah, he said. — Yeah. I believe yeh.

Sorry — for—

— Forget it, forget it. — Forget it.

Jimmy Sr was exhausted.

— We’ll fix it up, don’t wo-

Jimmy Sr was knocked back before he realised he’d been hit. It wasn’t hard enough to throw him back against the counter but he slid before he steadied himself. Bimbo had thumped him, hard on the chest; but it made more noise than pain. His knuckles would be killing him.

This was terrible. They were coming up to the end. Jimmy Sr gasped a few times and massaged his chest. He was close to crying. And wrecking the place.

— If—, Bimbo started.

He was the same as Jimmy Sr, nearly crying.

— If it hadn’t been your man, he said, — it would’ve been somethin’ else.

— What’s tha’ supposed to mean?

Bimbo didn’t say anything for a while; ages. Jimmy Sr could hear him breathing, and himself; and his heart.

A stone hit the outside of the van. They both jumped.

— Fuck—

Jimmy Sr tried to laugh but only a croak came out. Another stone walloped the wall behind Bimbo.

— Yeh were goin’ to get me anyway, said Bimbo then. — Weren’t yeh?

— Wha’ d’yeh mean—?

— One way or another.

Another stone. It rolled over the roof.

— You were goin’ to get me—

— Fuck off, will yeh.

— The union—

— Fuck off; Jaysis.

— Anythin’ to get at me—

— Shut up.

— Even spreadin’ rumours abou’ me an’ tha’ woman—

— Shut fuckin’ up!

— Make me.

He heard Bimbo move closer to him.

— I said nothin’ about yeh.

— Yeh did.

— I didn’t.

— You were the only one tha’ seen me!

— Well, it wasn’t me, righ’!

Bimbo’d stopped.

Just as well for himself.

He heard Bimbo giggle, forcing himself.

— Am I tha’ bad? he said.

The air seemed wet.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

He wiped his nose.

— I pay yeh well, don’t I? — Don’t I, Jimmy?

— Yeh do, — yeah.

— Well then?

He was pleading with him. But it was too late.

— When we started ou’—, said Jimmy Sr. — When we—

He tried to dry his face.

— When we got the van—

— When I bought the van, d‘yeh mean? said Bimbo. — When I bought the van; is tha’ what yeh mean?

He was gloating, the cunt. Trying to explain was a waste of time.

The stones had stopped.

— Forget it, said Jimmy Sr.

Gina came into the van. Sharon had lifted her in.

— Out, said Bimbo.

Sharon was in.

— Get her out, said Bimbo.

— Don’t talk—

— Out!!

Gina started bawling.

Jimmy Sr was on top of Bimbo. He had him in a headlock. He tried to get at his face, to get a clean thump in. Bimbo was thumping his sides, his arse; he got Jimmy Sr in the bollix, but not hard enough. Sharon and Gina were gone. Jimmy Sr gave up on the fist and opened his hand; he got his thumb to Bimbo’s face somewhere and pressed. Bimbo whined. He found a wad of Jimmy Sr’s fat over his trousers and he squeezed, dug his nails into it. Jesus, it was agony — Jimmy Sr let go of him and got back. He tried to kick him but he couldn’t reach. He slipped. He grazed his arm on the counter trying to stay up.

That was it; there was no mending anything now.

— I’m goin’, he said.

He climbed out of the van. It was dark now. It could have been any time of night. He wiped his face. He’d go home. No, he’d walk a bit first. His eyes would be red. He’d get his breath back to normal first.

He was glad.

He turned around and headed for the coast road. He had to go past the van. He didn’t look at it.

Bimbo caught up with him.

— Come on back.

— Fuck off.

— Come on—

— Fuck off.

— Jimmy—

— Fuck off.

Bimbo stayed with him.

He only wanted Jimmy Sr back so that he wouldn’t feel guilty; he needed him to go back to work for him. He could ask Jimmy Sr’s arse if he thought—

Bimbo grabbed at Jimmy Sr’s arm, trying to stop him. Jimmy Sr turned on him, and they were fighting again, in a clinch, gasping before they’d started. Bimbo’s head hit Jimmy Sr’s mouth.

— Sorry—

They held onto each other, heaving. There were people coming up from the bus-stop

Bimbo spoke.

— Let’s go for a pint.

— Okay.

They drank and stared at each other. Afraid to speak. They looked away. Into their pints. Everywhere. When Jimmy Sr saw Bimbo looking at him he looked back until Bimbo gave up.

A lounge boy went by.

— Two pints, said Jimmy Sr.

His voice sounded grand now. He was dry again. He leaned over to get his hand into his pocket when he saw the young fella putting the pints on his tray and coming over to them. Bimbo tried to beat him to it.

— I’ll—

— No way, said Jimmy Sr.

He took the pints from the young fella and passed one over to Bimbo.

— There.

He hoped no one came in, Bertie or Paddy. Bimbo had finished his first pint. He held up the one Jimmy Sr’d just bought.

— Cheers.

Jimmy Sr waited. He felt good now. He was almost happy, in a very unhappy kind of way. He’d made his decision, done what he should have done weeks ago. He lifted his pint.

— Cheers.

The young fella was going by again.

— Two pints, like a good man, said Bimbo. — We may as well, he said to Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

— Fair enough.

— For old time’s sake.

— Fuck off.

— Ah, Jimmy—

— Ah Jimmy nothin’.—I won’t be goin’ back, yeh know.

— Yeah.

— It’s the only way.

— But — No, you’re righ’.

The young fella unloaded the tray.

— I’ll pay yeh your redundancy money though, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr. — Alrigh’?

— Thanks very fuckin’ much, said Jimmy Sr.

He thought of something else.

— I’M buy a fuckin’ chipper van with it.

They tried not to look as if they were staring each other out of it. Jimmy Sr coughed, cleared his throat, thought about going into the jacks to spit. He examined the head of his pint.

— Wha’ happened, Jimmy? Bimbo asked.

It took Jimmy Sr a while to understand.

— Fuck off, would yeh, he said.

He didn’t care what had happened any more. It was over and done with. He’d no time any more for that What Happened shite.

— Two pints, he shouted.

Five or six pints later — Jimmy Sr’d lost count — Bimbo was looking demolished. Jimmy Sr was holding his own, he thought; knackered, yeah, but not rat-arsed. He nearly missed the door when he’d gone to the jacks the last time but he was grand. There was still no sign of Bertie or Paddy.

Bimbo was pathetic, sinking down further into his chair, like someone had let his air out. He was licking up to Jimmy Sr now because the No Hard Feelings wankology had failed.

— Come on, Jim, — come on.

Jimmy Sr let Bimbo keep his hand stretched out over the table, waiting for Jimmy Sr to shake it. Bimbo took his hand down. Jimmy Sr didn’t have any feelings at all now but he wasn’t particularly interested in making Bimbo feel any better. The cunt deserved to suffer. He should just have got up and gone home and left Bimbo on his own. But he couldn’t.

Bimbo’d told him that he didn’t know what he’d do now without him, told him that it wouldn’t be the same without him, told him that the sun, moon and fuckin’ stars shone out of his fuckin’ hole; desperate for Jimmy Sr to give him a sign that he still liked him.

Bimbo put his hand out again, then forgot what he was doing. The man was demolished.

He saw Jimmy Sr.

— The best — fuckin’ — worker in the wor — the fuckin’ world, he said.

Jimmy Sr looked around.

— Fifty-nfty, said Bimbo.

He sat up.

— Wha’ d’yeh say-y? — Fif’y-nfty.

— What’re yeh fuckin’ sayin’, man?

— Fif‘y-fif’y, said Bimbo. — Half for me an’ half for — The way it was—

— No.

Maybe though—

— No way.

— Go on. Par’ners—

— Forget it — Fuck tha’; no way.

This pint had got very warm. It wasn’t nice at all.

Bimbo slipped back down. He walloped the table with his knees when he was trying to get up again. The glasses wobbled.

— Mind!

— S-sorry ‘bou’—

He tried to put his hand on Jimmy Sr’s leg. He couldn’t reach.

— Jimmy — you’re my bes’ frien’—

— No, I amn’t, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuck tha’.

— Yeh are—

— Forget it, pal — I’ve learnt me lesson; fuck tha’.

He knocked back the pint before he remembered that it was horrible. Bimbo was muttering. Jimmy Sr kept the glass at his mouth in case he couldn’t keep it down. He badly needed a cold one; then he’d be alright.

— I’ll kill it, said Bimbo.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— Tha’ poxy van, said Bimbo.

He staggered up. He staggered, but he stayed up.

— Come on, Jim, he said. — C’me on.

Bimbo drove. He went up on the roundabout near the coast road and he fell asleep twice but he got the van to Dollymount, in between the dunes and out onto the sand; through the soft stuff (—We’re stuck. No — Go on, go on; we’re movin’) and out to the hard sand.

They got out. The wind was lovely. The tide was out, way out.

— Come on, Jim, said Bimbo, and he went to get back in.

— Hang on here, said Jimmy Sr.

He held Bimbo’s shoulder.

— What’re yeh doin’?

He knew what Bimbo was doing.

— You’ll regret it, he said.

— No, I won’t, said Bimbo. — Not me.

Jimmy Sr got in with him.

He headed for the water. It was hard to see where it started. There were no waves, no white ones. Jimmy Sr heard it. They were in it now. He saw it now, lit up in front of him and out the side window; only a few inches. Bimbo kept going. Jimmy Sr wasn’t scared. They stopped. The van coughed and died. Bimbo turned the key. Jimmy Sr looked down. There was water at his feet. Bimbo had to push to get his door open.

— Mission acc-accomplished, he said. — Come on, Jim.

He bailed out. Jimmy Sr heard the splash. Jimmy Sr did the same. He lowered himself down (—Jeeesus!!) into two feet of water, freezing fuckin’ water; it lapped up to near his bollix.

— Aaaahh! Jesus; shi’e!

He’d never felt soberer.

— Where are yeh, yeh fuckin’ eejit?

He found Bimbo behind the van, pushing it, trying to get it further into the water, getting nowhere.

— Give us a hand!

Jimmy Sr waded over and put his arms around Bimbo’s waist and lifted him away from the van.

— Come on, he said.

Bimbo didn’t fight.

Jimmy Sr let him down.

— Come on.

They waded, then walked, back to the shore. Jimmy Sr looked back. They’d only come about thirty yards. He could see the top of the van’s wheels; the water only reached the bottom of the burger sign. When the tide came in though, it would disappear then.

He took his shoes off.

— I did it, said Bimbo.

He sat down. In a half inch of water.

— I did it, Jim.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — Come on before we die.

Bimbo stood up. He caught up with Jimmy Sr. He put his arm around Jimmy Sr’s shoulders. Jimmy Sr shrugged it off. He tried again. Jimmy Sr shrugged his arm away again.

When they got to the dry sand Jimmy Sr turned to look. Bimbo was ten yards behind him; he’d turned sooner. The van seemed to be deeper in the water.

— You’ll be able to get it when the tide goes out again, Jimmy Sr told him.

Bimbo said nothing.

Jimmy Sr turned back and headed up to the dunes.

Veronica woke up while he was getting his clothes off. She smelt the sea in the room. It was getting bright outside. He sat on the bed beside her.

— Give us a hug, Veronica, will yeh. — need a hug.