before!
Some of the partygoers give a little polite laugh, to make him feel like he’s funny, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t even go red. I’ve more important business going on than to be worrying about offending O’Culigeen’s big greasy head.
I get to the top of the stairs and stop at the open linen basket that smells of crunchy underwear and mansweat. I look left and right along the landing, hoping for signs of Saidhbh’s room. A girly sticker on the door, a fancy name-tag, a hunky muscly fella poster, anything. The toilet door on my right swings wide open and some ole codger with a big belly and red eyes comes out, fiddles with his fly, mumbles as he passes me and treads gingerly back down the stairs. For a moment everything from below is quiet. O’Culigeen must be loving the attention, asking the 64,000-dollar question about the name of the tax collector who fell out of the tree or the age of the fella who Jesus brought back from the dead.
I listen carefully in the silence and can clearly hear, coming from the end of the landing, the sound of Saidhbh crying her poor heart out. I follow the noise past the bathroom to the nearest bedroom door, where a postcard of a monkey asleep in the zoo says, My Get Up and Go Just Got Up and Went. I take a deep breath and tap the door gently with my fingertip, just below the postcard. I don’t want to storm in, but I want to let her know that I’m here for her. I give it another tap. Nothing. Just more whining. I give the door a light push and stick half my head, fromthe top of my gelled hair right down to the middle of my nose, into the open crack.
The room is dark enough, with a tiny bit of light coming from a small bedside lamp. Even so, I can make out the bed, a chair, a desk, a mirror and a giant
Chicago
poster right next to one of Jesus lying dead in his mother Mary’s arms. But when my eyes get used to it, and when I look, really look, instead of seeing Saidhbh lying on the bed in tears, I see that she’s lying beside the bed and on the floor. And she’s sprawled out underneath Mozzo. He’s all over her, in black, like a vampire, and he’s got his hands rushing around her miniskirt and he’s rubbing her everywhere he can. And her, she’s whining away with her head tilted back like they do in the foreign films when they’re having intercourse.
Straight away, dead quiet, but like a robot, not thinking, I reverse the top half of my head gently out of the open door-crack and tiptoe downstairs again. Still not thinking, not feeling, barely breathing, I sit quietly back on the couch, re-taking my place on Taighdhg’s team. I stare ahead of me into space and try to stop my bottom lip from wobbling and my throat from going tight. O’Culigeen, who’s counting the scores in silence, gives me a dirty look, as if to say, You’re in big trouble, boyo!
I look right back at him, right into the eyes, real cheeky like, nothing to lose, nothing left for me, as if to say, Go on, try it, you bucko priest gobshite!
Mozzo and Saidhbh, smiley and spring-fresh, come prancing into the sitting room, casual as anything, just in time for the sing-song. Sinead Donohue sees them and tries to get a teasing chorus of ‘We know what you’re up to!’ going, but most of the partygoers are only interested in hoovering back John Players and guzzling down Harp with whiskey chasers in order to pluck up enough courage to sing a song in public. O’Culigeen, however,sober as a judge, gives Saidhbh a real evil eye, as if to say that she’ll be telling him all about it the next time he sees her pretty face in confession. Saidhbh, not bothered, sits down beside me and ruffles my hair like I’m a shaggy dog, while Mozzo leans around her shoulders and gives me an evil wink.
The room has got dead hot since the excitement of the quiz, and all the windows are open to try and stop the sweating. Barry O’Driscoll, down to his shirtsleeves, has taken O’Culigeen’s place in the quizmaster
Some of the partygoers give a little polite laugh, to make him feel like he’s funny, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t even go red. I’ve more important business going on than to be worrying about offending O’Culigeen’s big greasy head.
I get to the top of the stairs and stop at the open linen basket that smells of crunchy underwear and mansweat. I look left and right along the landing, hoping for signs of Saidhbh’s room. A girly sticker on the door, a fancy name-tag, a hunky muscly fella poster, anything. The toilet door on my right swings wide open and some ole codger with a big belly and red eyes comes out, fiddles with his fly, mumbles as he passes me and treads gingerly back down the stairs. For a moment everything from below is quiet. O’Culigeen must be loving the attention, asking the 64,000-dollar question about the name of the tax collector who fell out of the tree or the age of the fella who Jesus brought back from the dead.
I listen carefully in the silence and can clearly hear, coming from the end of the landing, the sound of Saidhbh crying her poor heart out. I follow the noise past the bathroom to the nearest bedroom door, where a postcard of a monkey asleep in the zoo says, My Get Up and Go Just Got Up and Went. I take a deep breath and tap the door gently with my fingertip, just below the postcard. I don’t want to storm in, but I want to let her know that I’m here for her. I give it another tap. Nothing. Just more whining. I give the door a light push and stick half my head, fromthe top of my gelled hair right down to the middle of my nose, into the open crack.
The room is dark enough, with a tiny bit of light coming from a small bedside lamp. Even so, I can make out the bed, a chair, a desk, a mirror and a giant
Chicago
poster right next to one of Jesus lying dead in his mother Mary’s arms. But when my eyes get used to it, and when I look, really look, instead of seeing Saidhbh lying on the bed in tears, I see that she’s lying beside the bed and on the floor. And she’s sprawled out underneath Mozzo. He’s all over her, in black, like a vampire, and he’s got his hands rushing around her miniskirt and he’s rubbing her everywhere he can. And her, she’s whining away with her head tilted back like they do in the foreign films when they’re having intercourse.
Straight away, dead quiet, but like a robot, not thinking, I reverse the top half of my head gently out of the open door-crack and tiptoe downstairs again. Still not thinking, not feeling, barely breathing, I sit quietly back on the couch, re-taking my place on Taighdhg’s team. I stare ahead of me into space and try to stop my bottom lip from wobbling and my throat from going tight. O’Culigeen, who’s counting the scores in silence, gives me a dirty look, as if to say, You’re in big trouble, boyo!
I look right back at him, right into the eyes, real cheeky like, nothing to lose, nothing left for me, as if to say, Go on, try it, you bucko priest gobshite!
Mozzo and Saidhbh, smiley and spring-fresh, come prancing into the sitting room, casual as anything, just in time for the sing-song. Sinead Donohue sees them and tries to get a teasing chorus of ‘We know what you’re up to!’ going, but most of the partygoers are only interested in hoovering back John Players and guzzling down Harp with whiskey chasers in order to pluck up enough courage to sing a song in public. O’Culigeen, however,sober as a judge, gives Saidhbh a real evil eye, as if to say that she’ll be telling him all about it the next time he sees her pretty face in confession. Saidhbh, not bothered, sits down beside me and ruffles my hair like I’m a shaggy dog, while Mozzo leans around her shoulders and gives me an evil wink.
The room has got dead hot since the excitement of the quiz, and all the windows are open to try and stop the sweating. Barry O’Driscoll, down to his shirtsleeves, has taken O’Culigeen’s place in the quizmaster
Similar Books
