Freckles(34)

So you heard the news, he says, and I know he means Marion and Jamie. Dirty rats, he says. Fancy meeting up, drowning our sorrows, or celebrating, whichever you want.

Both, I say and that’s cool with him, he’ll be over within the hour, he has a set tonight, he’ll drive us there.

He shows up all proud of himself in a van, with speakers on the top. DJ Chewy decorates the side panels with an image of decks, music notes and a Chewbacca that looks more like a rabid monkey, with a line about bringing the wild to the Wild Atlantic Way. Some smart arse had messed with the word wild.

Bringing the dildo to the Wild Atlantic Way, I read.

Ignore that bit. It’s a Sharpie, taking me ages to get it off. Is the Pops in there, I’ll go say hi, he’s a laugh. Heard about what happened with the church administrator, she can go fuck herself. He shouldn’t let them get to him.

No need, he’s asleep, I say, circling the van. I thought that the Chewy thing was more for tourists. Why not DJ Cyclops, I ask. Doesn’t that carry a better reputation.

The big bro wouldn’t let me. His eldest boy’s name is DJ.

Oh. I get inside the van. So where are we going.

The syndicate rooms.

It’s in Tralee, an hour and a half away but I don’t care, I’m glad to get out and away, take my mind off things. Cyclops lights a smoke, starts up the engine and gets straight to the point. So what do you think of Jamie and Marion, he asks.

I don’t know if he knows about the baby yet, probably not, I’m sure neither Jamie or Marion would want him to know that. Who knows what he’d do. I don’t know, I tell him honestly, it feels weird but I suppose they can do what they like.

It was going on behind my back, he says. When I was gigging around the place, they were at it. Manky rancid bastards.

I study his profile. He looks skinnier than ever. He was always thin but this is unhealthy. His face is skeletal. Pale. A blue white.

You look like shit, I say.

Not you too. Mam keeps throwing Kimberley Mikados at me whenever I’m at the house. And I hate Mikados. Maybe a cherry Bakewell or something but who ever said marshmallow and jam was a good idea.

I like Mikados.

You would. You eat like a five-year-old at a birthday party.

Maybe stop eating cherry Bakewells and start eating iron, I suggest.

What’s that in.

Meat, veg.

He makes a face.

You look anaemic, I say, studying him.

I don’t puke my food out.

Not what it means. So you moved out of home, I say.

Got a sweet retro caravan in Portmagee with a lad named Tinny. Just not really eating.

Because of Marion, I ask.

Fuck no. I couldn’t give a shit what she does. I’m so busy, business is out the door. I have a boat tour business now, you hear about that, he asks. I nod. Yeah out on the sea by day, doing music by night, it’s nonstop. Anyway, I hope they’re stuck together forever, those two. No vision, not like you and me. You and me always had dreams.

Did I, I ask.

I never thought of myself as a dreamer. I’m pragmatic. Practical.

You always wanted to be a garda, he says. Always. From the second I met you.

I never considered it a dream. I never thought of stuff in wispy ways like that. It was a job I really wanted. And Marion always wanted to have a hair salon, why is her dream any less than mine.

Instead I just say, I didn’t get in.

You moved to Dublin, didn’t you, he says. You’re doing stuff. Not driving your da’s taxi or playing hair salon in your ma and da’s house. You and I are doing our own thing, paving our own way. Next generation of this island, making a name for ourselves.

I don’t know. I look out the window and watch the mountains racing by. He drives even faster than Pops. It’s making me feel sick.

Who’s Tinny, I ask.

A lad from Cahirciveen. Broke up with his wife, has tinnitus in his ear. He’s grand, we’re never home at the same time. Just as well, there’s only the one bed. So did you do what you went to Dublin to do, he asks, passing the smoke to me.

No. Not yet.

The syndicate rooms are heaving on the bank holiday Sunday. Cyclops’ set begins at 11 p.m. and I watch him set up, avail himself of the free drinks he’s given by the staff that he doesn’t drink and instead passes to me. He impresses me with his sobriety, he really is taking this seriously, but then I figure out he’s on other stuff. He starts off with fun Nineties dance music, then it gets hardcore. Strobe lights and smoke, sweat and drunken girls in short skirts and enormous heels falling all over the equipment to get to him and request Beyoncé, which he doesn’t play. It’s fun to watch. My head is spinning, I get up to dance a few times, feeling happy and free, dancing with total strangers, girls who become my best buds for the length of a song. Cyclops passes me a pill at one stage and I don’t know what the hell it is but I take it. I suddenly go from my happy alcoholic high to feeling woozy and lethargic. The ground moves beneath me and I need to get out of there. I tear myself away from the DJ box, down a pint of water then go outside and stand by the bouncers.

Okay love, one asks and I nod, feeling safe beside him, while breathing in fresh cold air along with his overbearing aftershave. I feel like I could sleep right here, right now.

Last orders at 2 a.m. Music stops at 2.30 and I rest my head against the DJ box while Cyclops packs up his gear. I can feel people laughing at me as they tidy up around me, but I don’t care, I can’t keep my eyes open.