Despite the Angels by Madeline A Stringer

So David explained, leaving nothing out except the fact that he had apparently not actually even had proper sex with Kathleen on New Year’s Eve. Ken and Paddy fell silent and listened. David was barely aware of their mutterings of “Jasus!” and “the hooer!”
    “I feel such an idiot.”
    “Well, there’s a reason for that,” James said, punching his shoulder playfully. “You are. I told you not to have anything to do with her. She’s not your type. I told you not to bring her to that party.”
    “It was only a party. I had nothing else planned.”
    “Rubbish. Everyone always has plans. You just succeeded with them. Lucky bastard.”
    “No, it was her idea, really.”
    “Well, don’t tell too many people that part. Getting off with her is the only bit of this story that makes you look good. D’you want a beer?”
    “Thanks.”
     
    The next morning was Saturday, so David stayed in his old bed and got re-acquainted with the furry mouth and drumming head that seemed to live in it. His head, the bits of it that were still functioning, was full of conflicting ideas, plans and thoughts about the future. Mostly he felt ashamed. Ashamed that he had let himself get drunk enough and into a position (literally, ha!) where he could be duped into thinking he had fathered a child. I’m an idiot, total. I wonder do I qualify for an annulment? Or would those bishops just say ‘you had your willie where it shouldn’t, tough luck.” A long sentence for one small mistake. Eejit. Eejit. It wasn’t even that much fun. Spain now, that was good. But that was only because she wanted to get pregnant. Oh fuck. David ran his hands through his hair and pressed his head, to distract himself from the pounding. He drifted off, into a dream where Kathleen was holding him at knifepoint and saying ‘but you asked for kebabs!’ and he was backing away, away, until he lost his footing and fell, the world whirling around him and he woke just in time to hold his head over the edge of the bed as the rush of vomit arrived.
    Eventually he dragged himself out of bed and made feeble efforts to clean up after himself. He slouched blearily into the livingroom, accepted a mug of instant coffee from James, and sat on the sagging couch, holding the coffee, looking at it and every now and then steeling himself to take a sip. The steam was comforting, as was the warmth between his hands, but his stomach felt no better and his heart felt worse. There was a buzz at the door. James heaved himself out of his chair and looked out the window.
    “Yes, Mrs Hyland, he’s here. Come on up.” He threw down the key.
    “Oh, Jesus, not my mother. How does she know I’m here?” David looked wildly around for an escape route.
    “We’ll leave you to it. Come on lads.” The three boys sniggered their way into the kitchen, where they turned on the radio, very loud.
    “Hello, Mum.” David closed the door behind her and sagged back to his place on the couch.
    “So, tell me why you’re here? What’s your version of this nonsense?”
    “What did Kathleen tell you? I presume she must have phoned you?”
    “Yes. She was very upset, the poor lamb. After you telling her you didn’t like her cooking and refusing to eat a perfectly good salad.”
    “Is that why she says I left?”
    “Yes. Seems ridiculous, the poor girl is only learning to cook. And you’re not that good yourself, that you can criticise. And it looks to me like you’ve been filling yourself with beer again with those pals of yours. That’s what got you into trouble, my boy, drinking too much and losing the run of yourself.”
    “No, Mum, it was Kathleen that got me into trouble. Good and proper.” David had decided he had been in such trouble already there was no point in trying to limit the damage. So he explained, as tidily as he could, what had happened. His mother sat quiet for once and her eyes widened.
    “So she wasn’t pregnant? Why did she want to say she was? All that fuss,