John Brady - The good life

“And you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it stinks.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” said Malone.

“Liar,” she murmured. “You’re trying to screw me with something here. It won’t work, ’cause I know what I know. I remember your face, and I remember you bragging about being a hard chaw-yeah, you were into drugs-”

“That was me brother.”

Malone rubbed his nose and looked around the room. She stuck her head out.

“Your brother?”

“That’s what I said, yeah.” Malone kept biting his lip. “Me brother. We’re twins.”

She started to smile but couldn’t manage it.

“This is bleeding ridiculous! Jesus. I never heard that one before, so I didn’t.”

“I have some bad news for you, Miss Fahy,” said Minogue.

She turned back to Minogue and gave a short breathless guffaw. He stared into her eyes and watched the disdain slide off her face. Now when she blinked she seemed to have trouble raising her eyelids again.

“What are you telling me?”

A droplet fell from Minogue’s armpit. The stench of spilled and punctured cosmetic containers had made him groggy. His fingertips came away slick from his forehead.

“Mary is dead. We need your help, Miss Fahy.”

Her nostrils flared and she dropped her head. Malone stepped across to her. She jerked her head up but her eyes stayed shut. Tears ran sideways across her cheeks and her stomach began to shudder. Malone reached around her waist. Her sobs gave way to short squeals.

“You’re all right,” said Malone.

The stink of smoke and beer from the open doors of the pubs seemed to follow him down the street. The burger and chips he had downed a half an hour back had formed a greasy lump in the bottom of his stomach. The joint had worn off. He had a pain in his back. He was thirsty again. That moron Jammy didn’t know the half of what he could do. Mister Straight. Never taken a chance in his life.

The air around him seemed to be thick and smelly and he couldn’t escape it. He watched the buildings quiver above the traffic. He had one joint and a bluey left in his pocket. If he dropped the bluey now, he’d get Jammy Tierney’s face out of his brain. Junkie: he couldn’t get the word out of his head. Bastard. He should’ve given Jammy a dig for that, no matter if he got a hiding in return. Show him he still had his self-respect. He looked over the stalled traffic and spotted a bus.

Three business types with their jackets held over their shoulders came down the steps of a new office building. The office had those green windows you couldn’t see in. Laughing about something, with their ties loosened, like they were models in an ad. They stopped at the bottom of the steps and he heard their southside accents. See you in Hogans tonight maybe, Jonathan? One of them had a bag with the handle of a racquet sticking out. Some of them played squash instead of eating their dinner, he knew. Some day’s work. Work? Banging on a computer once in a while, playing with bits of paper and phones. Christ. He stopped and looked back at them. What did Mary say about them? They picked up a phone and made money, that’s how it was. Just picked up a phone. As if money were made by magic, down the end of a phone or on a bloody computer screen. Wheeler-dealers. One set of rules for them and a different set for everyone else. They had the inside track all right, just knowing where everything was going down and when.

The traffic began to move. The bus approached but passed the stop. Damn bus was going to the garage. Jesus! The people in the queue murmured and rearranged themselves. An oul one put her shopping bag down again and sighed. Her forehead was shiny and pink and her face looked all swollen, like she was going to burst. The three models were still talking on the steps behind. They didn’t wait on buses. Behind them, the office had disappeared. It had been taken over by sky. He stared at it. For several seconds his senses were decoyed. Another suit coming out of the door brought it all back. He tried to see through the reflections on the glass. He couldn’t see a thing inside. How the hell did a building stay up if it was all glass?

The traffic was stopped again and the sun glared from a windscreen into his eyes. He stood on tiptoe and looked over the cars for the next bus. Nothing. Fucking nothing. To hell with this. He stepped out of the queue. The backs of his legs were tight from all the walking he’d done this morning. His feet seemed to be swelling up even more, pushing at his shoes by his toenails. Maybe he’d nip into a pub, have a quick pint. He put his hand into his pocket, felt the coins. Down there somewhere… The one with the sports bag stepped onto the footpath ahead of him. The handle caught him in the thigh.

“Watch where you’re bleeding going!”

“Well, sorry.”

“So you should be! You fucking iijit.”

Their eyes met. The other two were looking down at him now. The racquet guy’s brows lowered. He looked him up and down again, sneered and walked on. The bastard could go off and get into his car. A BMW probably, or whatever car these wankers thought was the cool car now. Drive off to the little woman and the 2.3 brats off in Foxrock or somewhere. Sarah. Jonathan. He imagined grabbing the racquet and breaking it across the guy’s face. Let him bleed all over that white shirt and stupid tie: that’d sort the bollicks out. He looked back over his shoulder. The three were all looking at him and grinning.

“Fuck yiz!” he shouted.

One of them threw back his head and laughed. He stopped and gave them the finger.

“Wankers!”

He didn’t care who was looking at him.

“Fuck off the lot of you!”

He walked faster. Why not, he thought, when the idea hit him: Tresses was just around the corner. What was he rushing home for anyway?

God, he was tired. A twist of dust flew up from a building site into his face. He stopped and rubbed at his eyes. Still rubbing, he went into a shop and bought a Coke. He felt around at the bottom of his pocket for the pill. Nothing. His belly ran cold. He took out all the coins and tried again. This time he found the hole in his pocket. The girl behind the counter was looking at him. He had been cursing out loud, he realized. Christ, only halfway through the day: what else could happen to him?

He put his back against the wall and felt the rage melt into that sickly, mixed-up feeling he knew so well, that mess of sorrow and comfort and injustice. The first taste of the Coke reminded him of being a kid again, when Dessie and Jer and himself were out on their bikes all day, nicking stuff from Quinn’s shop, setting up wars and forts and ambushes… He filled his mouth with Coke and swallowed it in slow gulps. The fizz stung his gums but it didn’t take away the feeling that something was pulling him down. He couldn’t think straight. He stared across the traffic and caught sight of himself in a shop window opposite. Twenty-three, and he was sliding into nowhere. He thought of the guy with the bag and the racquet: a blade, slicing him right down the side of his face, the blood pouring out of him. See the look on his face then.

He shifted against the wall and swilled more Coke. The dole, the job training for no jobs, the nixers he’d done hadn’t brought him anywhere in six years. Washing windows. Working off the milk lorries at one o’clock in the morning. Delivering coal. His best chance was to go back to dealing. It’d only be for a temporary thing, of course. He didn’t actually need to. It was only junkies needed to deal so they could use their cut straightaway. He thought about Jer. He hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Maybe he’d really gone to London like he said he was going to. All those plans he had, all worked out like he was the top banana. H was thirty per cent on the streets in London, Jer had told him, twice the bang you got here. Foolproof, Jer kept telling him. He swore he could carry enough to pay everything and walk away with five hundred nicker too. As well as a couple of sessions in London, even! The memory of Jer’s laugh came to him. He’d known straightaway that Jer had been high. Jer couldn’t handle it. He, Liam Hickey, could.