Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(126)
Da’s eyebrows shot up sardonically. “Listen to him. Are we not good enough for you these days, no? We were good enough to put a roof over your head for twenty years.”
“What can I say? Gratuitous sadism doesn’t pop my cork.”
That made him laugh again, a deep harsh bark. “Does it not? At least I know I’m a bastard. You think you’re not? Go on: look me in the eye and tell me you don’t enjoy seeing me in this state.”
“This is something special. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“See? I’m in bits, and you’re loving it. Blood tells, sonny boy. Blood tells.”
I said, “I’ve never in my life hit a woman. I’ve never in my life hit a child. And my kid has never in her life seen me drunk. I understand that only a seriously sick sonofabitch would be proud of any of those, but I can’t help it. Every single one of them is proof that I have sweet f*ck-all in common with you.”
Da watched me. He said, “So you think you’re a better da than I ever was.”
“That’s not exactly bigging myself up. I’ve seen stray dogs who were better das than you.”
“Then tell me this and tell me no more: if you’re such a saint and we’re such a shower of shites, why are you using that child for an excuse to come around here?”
I was headed for the door when I heard, behind me, “Sit down.”
It sounded like Da’s own voice again, full and strong and young. It grabbed my inner five-year-old around the throat and shoved me back into my chair before I knew what had happened. Once I was there, I had to pretend it was by choice. I said, “I think we’re more or less done here.”
Giving the order had taken it out of him: he was leaning forward, breathing hard and clutching at the duvet. He said, on short gasps, “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
“You do that. Just as long as it’s soon.”
Da shoved his pillows farther up behind his back—I didn’t offer to help: the thought of our faces getting that close made my skin crawl—and got his breath back, slowly. The ceiling-crack shaped like a race car was still there above his head, the one I used to stare at when I woke up early in the mornings and lay in bed daydreaming and listening to Kevin and Shay breathe and turn and murmur. The gold light had faded away; outside the window, the sky over the back gardens was turning a cold deep-sea blue.
Da said, “You listen to me. I haven’t got long left.”
“Leave that line to Ma. She does it better.” Ma has been at death’s door ever since I can remember, mostly due to mysterious ailments involving her undercarriage.
“She’ll outlive us all, just out of spite. I wouldn’t say I’ll see next Christmas.”
He was milking it, lying back and pressing a hand to his chest, but there was an undercurrent to his voice that said he meant it at least partway. I said, “What are you planning on dying of?”
“What do you care? I could burn to death in front of you before you’d piss on me to put me out.”
“True enough, but I’m curious. I didn’t think being an arsehole was fatal.”
Da said, “My back’s getting worse. Half the time I can’t feel my legs. Fell over twice, the other day, just trying to put on my kacks in the morning; the legs went out from under me. The doctor says I’ll be in a wheelchair before summer.”
I said, “Let me take a wild guess here. Did the doctor also say your ‘back’ would get better, or at least stop getting worse, if you went off the booze?”
His face curled up with disgust. “That little nancy-boy’d give you the sick. He needs to get off his ma’s tit and have a real drink. A few pints never did a man any harm.”
“That’s a few pints of beer, not vodka. If the booze is so good for you, what are you dying of?”
Da said, “Being a cripple’s no way for a man to live. Locked up in a home, someone wiping your arse for you, lifting you in and out of the bath; I’ve no time for that shite. If I end up like that, I’m gone.”
Again, something under the self-pity said he was serious. Probably this was because the nursing home wouldn’t have a minibar, but I was with him on the wider issue: death before diapers. “How?”
“I’ve got plans.”
I said, “I’m after missing something, along the way. What are you looking for off me? Because if it’s sympathy, I’m fresh out. And if you want a helping hand, I think there’s a queue.”
“I’m asking you for nothing, you stupid little prick. I’m trying to tell you something important, if you’d only shut your gob long enough to listen. Or are you loving your own voice too much for that, are you?”
This may be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever admitted: deep down, a speck of me clung on to the chance that he might actually have something worthwhile to say. He was my da. When I was a kid, before I copped that he was a world-class f*cknugget, he was the smartest man in the world; he knew everything about everything, he could beat up the Hulk with one hand while he bicep-curled grand pianos with the other, a grin from him lit up your whole day. And if ever I had needed a few precious pearls of fatherly wisdom, it was that night. I said, “I’m listening.”
Da pulled himself up, painfully, in the bed. He said, “A man needs to know when to let things lie.”