Roddy Doyle - The Snapper

— How’s Mister Burgess?

She didn’t turn or stop.

— Yeh ride yeh.

She kept walking.

They were only kids.

Still, she was shaking and kind of upset when she got home and upstairs. She didn’t know why really. Men and boys had been shouting things after her since she was thirteen and fourteen. She’d never liked it much, especially when she was very young, but she’d looked on it as a sort of a stupid compliment.

Tonight was different though. Being called a ride wasn’t any sort of a compliment anymore.

* * *

— What’re YOU fuckin’ lookin’ at? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.

He was serious.

— Nothin’.

— D’yeh think I have fuckin’ cancer or somethin’?

— No!

— Ah lads, now, said Bimbo. — There’s no need for tha’ sort o’ shite.

— I didn’t do annythin’, Paddy insisted.

— You were starin’ at me, said Jimmy Sr. — Annyway, he said out of nowhere. (They’d been talking about Stephen Roche.) — It wasn’t Burgess. It was a Spanish sailor.

* * *

— She thinks he was Spanish annyway, Jackie told Mary. — Where? said Mary. — The Harp.

— Oh, yeah. — D’you believe her?

— Yeah. It couldn’t have been—

— No.

— Will Yvonne believe it, d’yeh think? Jackie asked.

— Emm — she might.

— She won’t, sure she won’t?

— No. — She might though.

* * *

Two nights after Sharon told Jackie about the Spanish sailor George Burgess was waiting for her outside work.

— God! said Sharon. — How did you know where I worked?

— Did yeh not see me at the vegetables?

He was having problems holding up his smile.

— What d’you want, Mister Burgess?

— George.

— Mister Burgess.

— Yeh didn’t turn up on Tuesday.

— I know I didn’t. Wha’ d’yeh want?

— I want to talk to yeh, Sharon.

— That’s a pity now, Mister Burgess, cos I don’t want to talk to you.

— Ah Sharon, please. I have to talk.

The smile was gone.

— I’m tormented.

— You’re tormented! Yeh prick yeh. Who’s been flingin’ rocks at my window? An’ how did yeh know it was my window annyway? An’ sendin’ me stupid fuckin’ letters. Well? — You’ve made me the laughin’ stock o’ Barrytown, that I can’t even go ou’ without bein’ jeered. You’re tormented! Fuck off, Mister Burgess.

She started to walk around him. He was going to stop her, but then he didn’t. He walked with her.

— Look, Sharon, I swear I’ll leave you alone. On the Bible; forever. If yeh just listen to me for a minute. I swear.

— Fuck off.

— Please, Sharon. Please.

— Get your fuckin’ hands off me!

But she stopped.

— Wha’? she said.

— Here?

— Yeah.

— Can we not go into a pub or — or a coffee place or somethin’?

No, we can’t. Come on, I’m in a hurry.

— Okay.

She was watching Mister Burgess blushing.

— Sharon, he said. — Sharon — I love you, Sharon. Don’t laugh; I do! I swear. On the — I love you. I’m very embarrassed, Sharon. I’ve been thinkin’ about it. — I think I–I want to take care of you—

— You took care of me five months ago. Goodbye, Mister Burgess.

She walked on.

— It’s my son too, remember, said George.

— Son!?

— Baby, I meant baby.

— Your baby?

She couldn’t stop the laugh coming out.

— You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, Mister Burgess?

— I have, Sharon; yeah.

He sighed. He looked at the ground. Then he looked at her for a second.

— I’ve always liked yeh, Sharon; you know tha’. I — Sharon, I’ve been livin’ a lie for the last fifteen years. Twenty years. The happily married man. Huh. It’s taken you to make me cop on. You, Sharon.

— Did you rehearse this, Mister Burgess?

— No. — Yeah, I did. I’ve thought o’ nothin’ else, to be honest with yeh. I’ve been eatin an’ drinkin’ an’ sleepin’—sleepin’ it, Sharon.

— Bye bye, Mister Burgess.

— Come to London with me, Sharon.

— Wha’!?

— I’ve a sister, another one, lives there an’—

— Would you ever—

— Please, Sharon; let me finish. — Thanks. Avril. Me sister. She lives very near QPR’s place, yeh know. Loftus Road. She’d put us up no problem, till we get a place of our own. I’ll get a—

— Stop.

Sharon looked straight at him. It wasn’t easy.

— I’m not goin’ annywhere with yeh, Mister Burgess. I’m stayin’ here. An’ it’s not YOUR baby either. It’s not yours or annyone else’s. Will yeh leave me alone now?

— Is it because I’m older than yeh?

— It’s because I hate the fuckin’ sight of yeh.

— Oh. — You’re not just sayin’ tha’?

— No. I hate yeh. Will I sing it for yeh?

— What abou’ the little baby?

— Look; forget about the little baby, righ’. If yeh must know, you were off-target tha’ time annyway.

— I was not!

That was going too far.

— Yeh were. So now.

Then she remembered.

— An’ anyway, it was a Spanish sailor, if yeh must know.

— Spanish?

— Yeah. I sleep around, Mister Burgess. D’yeh know what I mean?

— I find tha’ hard to believe, Sharon.

Sharon laughed.

— Go home, Mister Burgess. George. Go home.

— But—

— If yeh really want to do me a favour—

— Annythin’, Sharon. You know I’d—

— Shut up before yeh make an even bigger sap of yourself.

Sorry. — Don’t ever talk abou’ wha’ we did to annyone again; okay?

— Righ’, Sharon; okay. It’ll be our—

— Bye bye.

She went.

He didn’t follow.

— I’ll always remember you, Sharon.

Sharon laughed again, quietly. That was that out of the way. She hoped. She felt better now. That poor man was some eejit.

* * *

Sharon grabbed the boy. She held him by the hood of his sweatshirt.

— Let go o’ me!

She was twice as big as him. He wriggled and elbowed and tried to pull away from her but he wasn’t getting anywhere. They heard cloth ripping.

— You’re after ripping me hoodie, said the boy.

He stopped squirming. He was stunned. His ma had only bought it for him last week. When she saw it she’d—

Sharon slapped him across the head.

— Wha’!

— Wha’ did yeh call me? said Sharon, and she slapped him again.

— I didn’t call yeh ann’thin’!

Sharon held onto the hood and swung him into the wall. There was another rip, a long one.

— If you ever call me annythin’ again I’ll fuckin’ kill yeh, d’yeh hear me?

The boy stood there against the wall, afraid to move in case there was another tear.

— D’yeh hear me?

He said nothing. His mates were at the corner, watching. Sharon looked down quickly to see if there was room. Then she lifted her leg and kneed him.

— There, she said.

She’d never done it before. It was easy. She’d do it again.

For a while the boy forgot about his ripped hoodie and his ma.

Sharon looked back, to make sure that he was still alive. He was. His mates were around him, in stitches.

* * *

— She’s a fuckin’ lyin’ bitch, said Yvonne. — I don’t care wha’ yeh say.

* * *

Jimmy Sr was in the kitchen. So were Sharon and Veronica. Veronica wished she wasn’t.

So did Sharon.

— D’yeh expect us to believe tha’? Jimmy Sr asked her, again. — Yeh met this young fella. Yeh — yeh clicked with him. An’ yeh went to a hotel with him an’—an’ yeh can’t even remember his fuckin’ name.