Himself(5)

Mahony frowned. ‘Jim, what’s in Mayo?’

Jim put down the tea towel. ‘I’m f*cked if I know. Why?’

‘I’m going to take a trip there, see how the land lies.’

‘Grand so.’

Mahony stood unsteadily and picked up his lighter. ‘I’m going. I am, Jim. Fuck it. What have I got to keep me here?’ He included the bar with a wave of his fag. ‘Nothin’ – name one thing.’

‘Parole,’ said Paddy to his navel.

Mahony takes a taste of his pint and watches as Jack Brophy rolls a cigarette, deftly, with one hand. A hand as strong as a tree root, brown and calloused with big square cracked nails and deep gouged old scars. Mahony watches Jack and feels his brain slow a little. He breathes in tobacco, good soil, driving rain, calm sun and fresh air off the broad back of the quiet man.

Still. He’ll tell Jack nothing of what happened last Thursday.

Mahony smiles. ‘The truth is I’ve come here to get away from it all.’

A collie noses out from behind the bar.

When it turns its head Mahony sees that it only has one good eye, the other rests messily on the dog’s cheek. Its ribs are caved in, leaving a dark sticky ditch. A dog that broken would have to be dead, and of course it is, f*ck it.

Mahony sucks air in through his teeth and looks away.

The dead dog turns to lick Jack’s hand, which trails down holding his cigarette, but its muzzle goes straight through and the dog, finding no response, folds itself up at the foot of his master’s bar stool and rests the good side of its face on its faint paws.

Mahony studies his pint. ‘All I really want,’ he says, ‘is a bit of peace and quiet.’

Sometimes a man is in no way honest.

‘Aye,’ says Jack. The word is little more than an exhalation of air. ‘So that’s it?’

Mahony feels no malice. He could tell them, ask them; he could start right here.

The two men look at him.

Mahony picks up his pint. ‘That’s my story. I have no other.’





Chapter 2


April 1976


By the third pint it’s decided. Tadhg will bring Mahony up to Rathmore House to see Shauna Burke about the room, for he has a box of strawberries for the Widow Farelly that will go over if left until tomorrow. He hopes to be rewarded with a little kiss on the cheek or a squeeze of the hand. But he’s by no means certain of that; so far the Widow Farelly has kept her gentler feelings well hidden. But then Tadhg knew that a decent woman would be slower to court: the higher the mind the trickier the knickers.

They walk out the back of the bar and jostle through a corridor lined with boxes of crisps, Mahony because of his rucksack and Tadhg because of his girth. At the back door Tadhg hands Mahony a half bottle of whiskey to break the ice with Mrs Cauley. For the dark-eyed fella is growing on him, despite the fact that he’s almost certainly a gobshite.

Tadhg’s car, a vehicle with its own notions of when to stop and start, is rusting out the back. Nothing grows here but empty bottles and broken crates. Tadhg tries the ignition, his top lip sweating with the effort of wedging himself in the driver’s seat. The engine turns over consumptively then dies.

‘Ah no.’

Mahony gets out of the car and aims his cigarette into the corner of the courtyard. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out his rucksack.

‘Open the bonnet a minute, Tadhg.’

Tadhg puts his hand down to feel for the lever but can’t reach it because his gut’s in the way. He gets out of the car and leaning on the open door tries to squat, minding he doesn’t shit himself or rip the arse out of his good cream trousers. By the time he’s found the lever Mahony has the bonnet propped open and is walking round the car wiping his hands on an old bit of rag.

‘Try it again now, Tadhg.’

Tadhg lowers himself back into the seat and starts the engine. Perfect. He gives it a rev to make sure.

‘She didn’t even sound like that when I bought her new. Wha’ are you, some sort of magician?’

Mahony laughs and throws his rucksack in the car; there’s a metallic clunk as it hits the backseat. He gets into the car, ignoring the expression on Tadhg’s face.

‘You’ve a bagful there.’

‘Ah, I always bring a few tools with me.’

‘Do you now?’

‘You never know when you might need them.’

‘I can see that – what did you say you do in Dublin?’

‘I didn’t.’ Mahony grins. ‘I buy old wrecks and sell them on. Cars, vans, you name it. Do them up. Respray even. That sort of thing.’

Tadhg looks almost convinced. ‘I’ve a sky-blue 1956 Eldorado there in the garage, all done up to the nines like a mistress waiting on a night out. I’ve never been without a good car in my life, but she’s one of the prettiest. Would you like to take a look at her some time?’

‘I would.’

‘I don’t drive her much, for the roads around here would bollox her entirely, but we could go for a spin around the block and watch the skirt swoon over us.’

‘Count me in.’ Mahony taps the dashboard. ‘We’ll be off now, will we? While she’s purring?’

Tadhg nods and coasts the car out towards the side road, relaxing a little as he turns the corner. ‘Now, with the radio working we’d have a bit of the old rock and roll driving about the place.’