Roddy Doyle: The Van

The windows were steaming up. Darren rubbed his and watched the people walking along the sea front, looking out for young ones.

— D’yeh see her? said Kenny. — Jaysis.

He turned to look out the back window and kicked Anto in the mouth.

— You’re dead, said Anto.

He checked for blood. There wasn’t any.

— That’s pitiful behaviour, said Nappies. — Isn’t it, Darren?

Darren gave Nappies the finger.

— Swivet, he said.

Nappies was sitting on Anto’s lap. His right ear was nearly pressed to the roof.

— Hurry up, Mr Reeves, will yeh. Me neck’s nearly broke.

— Wet! men, said Anto. — Where’re we goin’ tonigh’?

— The Nep, said Nappies.

— No way. Yeh fuckin’ hippy.

— There’s nothin’ wrong with the Nep, said Anto. — It’s better than the field youse drink in.

— Yeah, man.

— Right on, Anto.

— Will yeh be wearin’ your flares, Nappies?

— He’s pitiful.

— Yis haven’t a clue, Nappies told them.

— Where’s the Nep? said Bimbo.

— Town, said Nappies.

— My God, said Bimbo. — Would yis go tha’ far for a drink?

— Fuckin’ eejits, said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s cos the y’re afraid their oul’ ones’ll catch them if they drink in the Hikers, Anto told Bimbo and Jimmy Sr.

— Don’t start, you, said Nappies. — My ma knows I drink.

— Yeah; milk.

— Fuck off.

— Does she know yeh smoke hash as well, Nappies? Kenny got a couple of digs from Darren, to shut him up.

— Where do the rest of yis go? Bimbo asked them.

He wasn’t being nosy.

— The Beachcomber, said Anto.

— Yeh do not, said Nappies. — Don’t start. They wouldn’t let yeh in.

— Would they not now? said Anto. — D’yis hear him?

— What’s it like inside then? said Nappies, — if yeh’ve been in there. Tell us; go on.

— Better than the fuckin’ Nep anyway.

— You were never in there; I knew it.

— Fuck off, you.

— Fuck off, yourself. The state o’ yeh. You’d get drunk on a barman’s fart.

— Fuck off.

— Language, lads. — Do none of yis go up to the Hikers at all?

— I do, said Kenny.

— Yeh do in your brown, said Anto. — He asked yeh do yeh drink in the Hikers, not do yeh sit on the wall outside.

— Don’t start, said Kenny. — I do drink there.

— When?

— Yeah; go on.

— With me da.

— Yeah; the day yeh made your Confirmation.

— Fuck off.

— Yeah, Kenny; your oul’ lad drank your money on yeh. Darren enjoyed this, even with his da there; the lads slagging each other. He rubbed the window. He couldn’t open it because Kenny’s feet were in the way. They were turning off the sea front. It was a bit fuckin’ childish though; not the slagging, the subject matter. The theme.

— Anyway, said Kenny, — knacker drinkin’s better than drinkin’ in a pub. Specially if you’ve a free house.

— That’s not knacker drinkin’! said Anto.

They didn’t even shave, most of them in the car. Darren did, and he was younger than some of them. And he’d been in the Beachcomber. And the Hikers. It was no big deal. He was working tonight in the Hikers — but he’d drunk in there as well when he wasn’t working — and then he was going on to the Grove. The Grove was a dump. It usen’t to be that bad but there were just kids there now and the music was pitiful; it used to be great. But he was meeting Miranda there after work, so it was okay.

— Hey, Darren. Where’re you goin’ tonigh’?

— Workin’, said Darren.

She was fifteen but she looked much older; she wasn’t skinny at all. She’d done her Inter; six honours; two less than Darren. She’d great hair, black that went up and out and down, and huge eyes and no spots, not in the light in the Grove anyway. He’d only seen her in the Grove so far. He wasn’t really going with her.

— Here we are, lads.

They were outside the community centre.

— Thanks, Mr Reeves. You’re a poxy driver.

Darren opened the door and Kenny fell out onto the road, on purpose; he always did it. Darren climbed out.

— Jesus; me legs.

— Yeah. We should have a bus.

— Will you get us one for Christmas? said Bimbo.

— Here, Mr Reeves, said Pat. — We’ll rob the 17A for yeh.

The two other carloads had arrived. Their manager, Billy O’Leary, got out of his car.

— Righ‘, he said. — Yis listenin’?

He zipped up his bomber jacket and rubbed his hands. Bimbo and Jimmy Sr went over and stood beside him.

— Yis listenin’?—Righ’; good win there but, let’s face it, lads. They were spas.

He let them laugh, then frowned.

— Next week’ll be a different kettle o’ fish. Cromcastle are always a useful side so we can’t afford to be complacent.

— Wha’? said Kenny.

— We’re not to act the prick, Muggah told him. Miranda was a bit of a Curehead—

— Darren, said Billy. — Terrific game, son.

— I thought he was pitiful, Pat whispered.

They sniggered.

— Fuck off, you, said Darren.

— Listen now, lads, said Bimbo.

— Terrific, said Billy. — One-touch stuff, he told the team. — Get the ball and give it to someone who can do more with it.

— That’s the Liverpool way, Muggah whispered.

— I heard tha‘, said Billy. — And you’re righ’; it is.

— Wha’ abou’ me, Billy? said Nappies. — Didn’t I have a terrific game as well.

— Yeah, said Kenny. — Pullin’ your wire.

— Yis listenin‘!? said Billy. — Now listen, I want yis all at trainin’ on Tuesday, righ’. No excuses. Annyone not goin’ to be there?

No one’s hand went up.

— Good, said Billy. — On time as well, righ’. I want to work on some set pieces for Saturday.

— Yeow, Billy!

— Fuck up a minute. Even if it’s rainin’ there’s still trainin’, righ’.

— Fair enough.

— Okay.

— Okay, boss.

— Righ’; off yis go home, an’ fair play; yis were very good there today. I was proud o’ yis.

— We’re proud o’ you as well, Billy, said Pat.

— Come here you, Bollockchops, said Billy.

They roared.

— What’s happened your long throw, pal? Billy wanted to know. — My mother’s cat could throw the fuckin’ ball further than you did today.

They roared.

— Too much wankin’; son, said Billy. — That’s your problem.

He ran at Pat.

— Show us your palms there. Come on; hands ou’.

Darren watched Pat jumping over the low wall into the shopping centre carpark. Billy couldn’t follow him over.

— See yis, said Darren, quietly.

He headed for home, still wearing his boots and gear. He hoped there’d be hot water. There often wasn’t these days.

She was a bit of a Curehead but not that bad: she had a mind of her own. It was just the look, the image she followed, the hair and the Docs. She was into the Cure as well but not only the Cure.

He was walking on the Green, to keep his boots off the concrete.

She was into—

— There’s Darren Rabbitte an’ his legs.

It was Anita Healy from Darren’s class, and her friend, Mandy Lawless.

— Howyis, said Darren.

He grinned and pretended to pull his jersey down over his legs.

— They’re nicer than yours, Mandy, said Anita.

— That’s true, said Darren. — Yours are hairier though, Mandy.

Anita screamed.

— Fuck off, you, Rabbitte, said Mandy.

She pretended to kick him and Darren grabbed her. She screamed Let go as if she didn’t really mean it, and he did. They stood there for a bit.

He saw his da coming.

— Seeyis, he said.