Roddy Doyle - The Van

— 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 UB 4o; 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.