The most surprising aspect of the night was yet to come - I actually slept. I lay in sleeping pose in case my Mum checked I was back safe - I had to avoid contact with her tonight at all costs. I don't know how long I lay there before sleep took me over. I brought a wet flannel to bed hoping to ease facial swelling. The next morning it returned me to reality.

I awake to the sun filtered through floral pattern curtains. The morning juts up from behind the MDF pelmet and down below curtain bottoms. I watch the light interacting with the radiator below the window. The valleys along the corrugated front are lost in shadow while the flat plateaus gleam. The sheets are tucked underneath mattress to keep me from floating away. I’m hugged closely to the bed, at home and secure. I’m back in a time when weekend days were slept away. I adjust my pillow seeking a cool spot to rest my face against.

Then I feel the harsh reality of a damp patch. Bed dampness of any sort is highly alarming, especially if you’re a heavy drinker. ‘Why is that wet?’ I demanded.
- It’s the Flannel…
- What flannel?
- The one you brought to bed …
- Oh?
- To reduce the swelling so that Ma wouldn’t notice your bruises…
- Oh yes - the alley, Wayne, the fight, Hincy…
- There’s also your ma, your missus and the kids…
- Oh good Chrtist.
- How the daylight trumpets your shame! You can’t explain it to them…
- Oh Christ, no.
- There’s the stairs creaking, to be safe, pretend to be asleep…

My heart experiences a serious of controlled explosions. I’m watched by a mask - a present from Venice - a scarf dripping musical notes wraps around golden face. I try to adjust to simulate sleep breathing. I can still see the room with my eyes closed. The grey cupboard, built by the brother and Pat Lally with the three handles misaligned. My chest raises and falls too fast. The Mercedes model car given by the brother to the aul lad sits on a plastic podium. The brother put it on the driveway, “your present’s parked outside da”. It was comically tiny (1:50). Mum’s on the landing now. My breath falters. She enters.

“Roddy…it’s your brother.” My head stays in pillow during the phone pass, other hand gives thumbs-up for thank you. “Hello.”
“Are you alrigh’?”
“I’m fine.”
“Before you say anythin’, I know what happened with Clark, everyone does. It’s known that you were involved.” (Emergency: all personnel report to sphincter muscles) I haven’t got the energy for denials. “One of the three lads was Noel Quinn’s nephew. This is fucking serious. Do you know who Noel Quinn is?” I shake my head for ‘no’ though I’m on the phone. “He’s senior in the I.R.A. His nephew has six broken bones.” (Emergency: All personnel report to anal sphincter. Pissing the bed is now an acceptable option). “How are the other two?”
“Clark was in intensive care last night, they moved him this morning.” He pauses. “It could have been murder Rod.”
“Christ…I…”
“I got a call from a friend this morning. He’s ‘RA as well - I know him from he days of drinking late in The Stinker. He was able to tell me that you’re visiting from England, about the Ma’s burglary, everything. He’d been ordered to ‘bring you in‘, whatever-the-fuck that means, but he called me first.”
- This is happening to someone else.
- Pay attention! At least ask a question…
- I can’t think of one.
- How about ‘what now?’

“What now?” I manage.
“He says you need to explain things, face-to-face. If you do a runner it could come back on Ma. He also said it wouldn’t be hard to locate you in London.” My heart takes the express lift through the floor. I’ve brought this to my family’s doorstep - I’ve put my wife and daughters, my baby, at risk. My brain is swelling, squeezing against skull. “Where do I meet him?”
“It’s arranged for 12.30 today in the Igo Inn. You’ll be meeting someone who’ll deal between you and Quinn.” I draw mental lines between bunches of flowers on the curtains.

“How will I know him?”
“My friend said you’d know at the time. I’m gonna be there…”
“I don’t want you involved…” He explains it’s no problem, that his friend said it would be fine. I don’t want to lean on him, to owe him. “I’m not comfortable…”
“Rod, skip this shit, we haven’t time for it. Now just tell him that…” I’ve now involved the IRA. “...and that you’d no idea he was a relation…” I’ve placed my own family in the worst kind of danger. “…no intention for it to get heavy…”
“I’ve gotta go”
“See you at 12.30, in the bar, not the lounge.”

I run for the bathroom but only dry wretch. My legs are granite-heavy, throat and face throb. Images of my wife and daughters flash across my consciousness. The show crushes me. What have I brought on them? I slide the brass lock across and the space is secured. I turn my back to the pink dress doll and sit on the turquoise toilet. Liquid squirts from my cramps into the bowl. My attempts to think clearly, to explore and generate options, are fruitless. My concentration’s shattered. I can focus for a few frames before flicking to another reel.

The left side of my field of vision is becoming obscured. Whichever eye I close, the left part of the sad clown towel is going fuzzy. I’m loosing reception. “No way, fuck you. You’ve made this situation and you gonna fucking deal with it!” I stand, arse yet to be wiped, ankles bound by boxer shirts and waddle to the sink. I submerge my face in cold water and resurface. “Okay, deep breaths,” I look at my reflection. Maybe it will help to bring the tears out? Despite my efforts, they don’t come. My mother will notice the red swelling under both eyes and the scratch on my forehead. I can hide the knife mark on my neck under collar. My hand will also require explaining. “Get yourself together… think now…fuck ya, think.”

*

I walk around the railings by the dual carriageway. I would normally jump them (as I have since childhood) but today there’s too much pain. I remember struggling over them on the way back from the doctors having been diagnosed with pneumonia. I was sixteen and only concerned with missing out on my perfect attendance award. Two years earlier, I’d nearly been expelled.
- It’s always feast or famine with you.

I’d dealt with Mum by avoiding her. I’d run into the kitchen, my coat and shoes on (while still in the house!). She wore a dressing gown over pajamas. “I’m off Ma. I’ve gotta meet the tenant over in the house ten minutes ago.” I hugged her, allowing no time for inspection. “Oh…I’ve the breakfast made.” I pulled away, did a rapid turn and legged out of the kitchen. “Sorry love, no time.”
“Hang on Roddy…I’ll pull on a tracksuit and drive you over.”
“I’m outta here, I’ll call ya when I’m finished.”
“Acch… will ya not just…” I was out the door and jogging down the drive, waving as I ran along the redbrick wall. I’d continued to run, despite the roaring pain in my ribs, past the end of the road in case she came after me in the car.

Now I take some consolation. My behaviour with Ma was juvenile - I’d faced up to nothing and actively withheld the truth. I hadn’t even had the balls to lie to her. But I had made it out of there and that was something. I cross the dual carriageway. The clock on my mobile tells me it’s 10.47. I decide to walk up to the beach to kill time. I’d sat there for hours as a teenager, the relentless waves giving me perspective. I take the decision to abandon all thoughts until I get there. I will pick up a tea in the village on the way, I will sit down and I will think it through. Until then, no thinking, just walking.
- What did I tell you? I said no thinking…
- I was just checking if I was thinking.
- Not even that…

At the end of Military Road I turn left and walk parallel with the beach. Peaks can be sneaked between grassy hills that hide the sea. Killiney Hill rears up ahead and Dalkey Island lies out there - all fit for fairy tales and poetry. I bunked off school with Lisa Donaldson in those grass hills, veined with sandy paths. I licked her nipples (despite the three pale hairs on each). She gave me a blowjob, actually blowing on the head for the finale. I never came from our fumbling - I lacked the imagination even to wank. I doubt she took pleasure from me plunging fingers into the front of her pelvis. I'd expected her pussy to be perpendicular to her body, to form an ‘L’ with her spine. I pass the train station with waves licking my ear. The reassuring stink of piss in the underpass prepares the juxtaposition. I emerge from the darkness, expel held breath and there it is. My time (forty one minutes) with the sea, and the nature of it, shall remain my own.

The clock on my mobile tells me it’s 12.23. I sit in the Igo Inn, Ballybrack, Co. Dublin. I was early, but then so was the brother. He’s at the bar ordering two pints of the necessary. Folded beer mats under the table leg prevent wobbling. The spring sunshine creates a rectangle of light in the open doorway. The smell of piss wafts towards me as the gents’ door sings open. There’s no ladies toilet in the bar. Framed sepia photos depict Brey and Dun Laoghaire, long before the days of joyriding and heroine. The seating fabric is dotted with tar and paint. The cheap bar prices attract men straight from manual work without concern for their appearance or language. In the lounge next door they charge more for the comfortable surroundings. There, miserable men sit with their wives listening to bands, comedians and karaoke at the weekends.

On a stool beside my brother sits a bald man, his remaining red hair on the back and sides swept into a ponytail. He wears glasses, a handle bar mustache and an impish grin. At the table opposite ours his two companions await their drinks. The one nearest me wears a florescent green shirt and a Cliffs-of-Dover-White smile. His false teeth are betrayed by their perfection. The other man is old. He doesn’t respond to his friends’ banter. His jaw moves as if he’s chewing. The range of motion is too great for teeth to be present. They refer to him as Boss Man.

“The service in here is dire,” the red ponytailed man says to his compadres at the table.
“Feel free to fuck off around the corner Frankie,” retorts the barman. He’s young and stocky. His hair forms a confident quiff. “He’s barred from around the corner,” says the man in florescent green. “He’s barred from everywhere” chips in my brother. Frankie addresses him in response, “You’re lookin’ well, are ya sick?” I eye each punter, wondering if they’re my contact. The barman accepts payment, “Here, you’ve given me 15 cents too much.”
“Keep it.” The barman looks at the money in his hand, slack jawed. He searches around for witnesses. I deduce that Frankie isn’t a big tipper. “Do you want to ride me or somethin’?”
“No, but I’ll hold your ears while the lads do.” Frankie the redhead dismounts his stool, losing most of his height in the process. His seated friends are up to his shoulder as he stands. He returns to the table with a triumphant grin and the three pints.

The rectangle of light in the doorway darkens. I turn to see a man entering, his stride too quick and purposeful. His eyes open too wide. I turn my attention to the darts board and league table beside it. Looking briefly at such eyes could invoke a ‘what-are-you-lookin’-at?’ Or the simple, ‘problem poncho?’
“Hey Joe, where ya goin’ with that dog in yer hand,” says Frankie the redhead as he mimes playing lead guitar. The man’s carrying a King Charles puppy - its paws and runny eyes enormous. “Me bitch has had five of them. Do ya want one?” A black panther tattoo clings to his forearm. It has left red claw marks on tanned skin. He has a mustache too sparse for a grown man and teeth that stick out over his bottom lip. He moves in jerks. “Sean, do you want one, dey don’t have fleas or anythin’.” His wide shoulders are rounded, head inclines forward.
“I haven’t got the energy to be walking that yoke Bud,” says my brother. Joe scratches the crown of his head where a clearing in dark hair is developing.
“They don’t fuckin’ need walkin’, dey stay small.“
“Then my kids would eat him in a week.” The boys at the table shake their heads when he looks to them. The barman focuses on the pint he’s pulling. “Fuck yas then. I’m gonna check the lounge.”

He leaves with rapid strides. “Could he be our man?” I ask.
“Possibly. Do ya remember Joe? He lived up the road from us and went to our school.” I shrug disinterest. The florescent shirt man drinks half his pint in two gulps. “Joe Mulligan, I think he was in the class ahead of yours." I realise that Joe was Joseph. It all floods back, mixing with the alcohol and my current drama to make me mawkish:

Joseph Mulligan was not a fortunate child. He had buckteeth. There was no concealing them. His eyes were wide-open, almost out-popping. He seemed to need the maximum aperture to take in reality. His speech was slow, his awareness elsewhere. He appreciated games that were considered babyish by us, his nine-year-old classmates. I don’t remember him having a single friend. He sat in class with his mouth open. His hair was a quiff when rat’s tails and skinheads were the thing. They said Joseph had a disease. If you touched him, you caught it. He got touched in school only by fists and boots.

I stood up for him once. They’d surrounded him in the playground and were kicking his arse as he whirled to chase them. They shouted “diseased, diseased.” The girls joined in. He whined like an Animal as they tormented him. “Leave him alone,” I said as I entered the ring and stood beside him. The cool boys rounded. They could make you an outcaste with a single sentence. I stepped back towards the circle, but remained inside it. “Is he your new friend, Lyonser?” Asked Stuart Gaoghain, the blonde football striker and number one in the class. I didn’t answer. They resumed their chanting. “Diseased, diseased!”
“He’s not diseased, ya ejits,” I managed. I touched Joseph. Their eyes bulged. They laughed like hyenas, circling the weak, ready to pounce. The pressure was too great.

I pretended to faint, like the disease had taken affect. They laughed at my little joke. The circle broke and the mob dispersed. Joseph went off crying. I’d stopped them kicking him, but it felt bad in my stomach. Like when Ma would go quiet after I’d been really bad - and I’d wish she’d shout or hit me.

I’m humming along with the radio. Bing Crosby’s crooning:

‘You've got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between’

“Get me an Irish coffee, there Bud.” Joe has returned, minus the puppy. He sits at our table. He told, rather than asked, my brother for the drink. “Follow me Roderick,” he whispers. His use of the long form of my name throws me. I remain sitting. My brother touches my arm briefly before heading back to the bar. “Are ya right?” Joe asks. I nod. He leaves and I follow him.

We turn up a small lane that leads to Ballybrack Church. My eldest brother was mugged here when we were kids. Joe stops and leans back against the pebble dashed wall. "Now let's keep this to the point Roderick." He pronounces his words clearly now. "You've offended a man of considerable standing in a certain organisation. You should be very clear about the gravity of your actions last night. I’m acting in an interfacing capacity to see if a mutually acceptable outcome can be found." He's silent, staring at me with ping-pong ball eyes, his arms folded. I wait several seconds for fear of interrupting him. "I'm aware of how serious things are,” I begin. “Firstly, I'd no intention to harm anyone. My mother was being terrorised in her own home. I went to speak to Wayne Clark, who’d broke into her place twice. Things got out of hand and Mr. Quinn's nephew..." he frowns at the mention of the name, "...actually attacked us."
"Us? Who else was involved?"
"I hired someone to back me up. They're not local." He scans me, then looks up and down the lane.
"A name."
"I didn't get one." I'm aware of involuntary movements that must expose me as a liar. He steps forward quickly making me jump back. His arms are still folded.
"Roderick, I'd like to help you out of this. But in order to do so I need to have complete confidence in the information you give me. I suspect that you’ve been less than honest with me heretofore. My colleague is very upset that an Englishman was involved in this heinous attack on his family member.” My downcast eyes follow a Monster Munch packet as it blows past. “He is very distressed by the injuries his relation incurred and he wishes to see justice done.”
“I’m sincerely sorry for …”
“I’m not sure that apologies are going to mend Jason’s bones and bruises or pay his bills while he’s incapacitated. I don’t know Roderick, do you feel your apology is sufficient to stave off the hand of wrath?”
“I could compensate financially…if that could help.” He shrugs and I take his silence as encouragement. He leans back against the wall. “I’m not sure what’s appropriate. I would be happy to offer, maybe, 500 Euros?”
“An unsavory outcome would be guaranteed if I went back with an offer below 2000 Euros.”
“I don’t think I can get…” Joe pushes off the wall again, grabs me around the shoulder and guides me back down the lane. “The question isn’t what you can afford, but rather what you can’t afford to happen. You’re being given an opportunity here, Roderick. I know you’re going to avail of it. I have to report back this evening, so this transaction needs to be completed by close of business.”
- Who is this guy? Where’s the puppy salesman?
“I’ll call you at 4.00 to arrange a meeting. Have the compensation ready by then.” We reach the end of the lane. “Make no further mention of this until our meeting. Jaysus,” the pace of his speech increases, his accent becomes thick as the words merge, “I’m gonna murder that Irish coffee.” We re-enter the bar.

Joe takes two sips of his coffee before leaving with a cream mustache. Frankie the read-head looks at me intently. He whispers to the man in florescent green. What was said made the pearly smile disappear and a knowing nod occur. Do they know the nature of Joe’s business? Perhaps they think he was selling me puppies or dodgy DVD’s. “Alright?” The brother asks.
“Pretty much, I’ll explain later.”