“What is that?” one man says.
“Two pound eighty,” you say. “It’s how much it costs.”
“Two pounds eighty? Two pounds eighty?” He screamed in a fit of laughter; the rest followed. One of the girls pushed at his shoulder affectionately. “Oh, don’t be so mean,” she says, and as she pulled his arm and they walked on, she says it again. “That’s probably the same little wanker that stole your coat,” he says.
It was a long spell, with only a few passing. When they did, they were all wrong or you were afraid of them. You began to dread standing there to watch the shutters roll down, and then you’d have to walk home, too afraid to go into town without the wine for comfort.
A woman walked toward you wearing a tan rain mac with a thick belt pulled across her waist. You could tell she was posh by her tall walk. Her boots made a pop-pop sound. You looked away. You didn’t want her to feel you waiting for her. Pop-pop-pop. When it felt right, you turned.
“Excuse me, miss?” you say, but recognized it was her. Froze then and surrendered everything except her.
“Hello,” she says, as simple as that, and then she waited for you to tell her why you’d stopped her, but you couldn’t. She was smiling at you. She looked over her shoulder and could see the brightly lit off-licence.
“Oh, dear.” She put her hand to her face, and her index finger brushed just above her upper lip. “Where are your friends?” she says, and looked across the empty streets. “When I was your age, I always was the one picked to ask someone too.”
“Hiding,” you say, and you no longer felt as shy now that you weren’t alone.
“Go on, let’s have it then,” she says.
You took the warm coins from your pocket and felt your face break into a smile, until you saw how you had been gripping the coins so tight that they’d left an ugly imprint. You saw the dirt on your nails and felt so grubby that you pitied her having to touch them.
“No, no,” she says. “I want the pitch, the full pitch, and it’d better be good.”
“The pitch?” You lowered your head so she didn’t see how you thought of her.
“Come on.”
“Excuse me, miss?” you say.
“Yes, young man.”
“I’m sorry to bother you . . .”
“The apology is a nice touch, but look up—you’re looking shifty.”
“Sorry to bother you, miss, but I’ve been invited to a party, and I wanted to bring a bottle of wine, you know, as a thank-you.” You held out your hand as you had before. “They won’t serve me inside, and I wondered if you’d mind . . . Thank you, thank you so much.” You were a little pleased with yourself; you couldn’t help it because she seemed a little pleased.
She stood still, watching you a moment. “Good,” she says, and turned and walked directly to the shop, not taking the money, but calling over her shoulder, “Red or white?”
“Red.”
“Good choice,” she says before disappearing behind the door.
You were no longer cold but stamped your feet anyway. An old woman passed, heavy with bags, and you thought maybe you would have helped her if you weren’t waiting. As you looked around, you felt warm to it all. The worried faces that drifted endlessly by in cars, hands cuffed to the wheel. The Monkstown church, lit up in the distance, suddenly seemed a kind building even though they were Protestant and just showing off having floodlights.
When she came back, her rain mac was open, and you could picture her inside the shop, carelessly opening the button between her thumb and forefinger. She held the bottle, wrapped in a dark plastic bag, against the same red jumper she had on earlier.
“You know one of us should be ashamed of ourselves,” she says. She was wearing the same skirt, but you had gotten that wrong, it was darker than you remembered, the wool heavier. “Here, and hide the bloody thing or we’ll both be done.” She was a little out of breath.
“Thank you,” you say.
“You’re welcome. I hope she is very lovely, your friend waiting up the street.” She began to button her coat. “Red wine is romantic.”
“Romantic?”
“Well, are you and the boys going to split a bottle of wine?”
“No,” you say, and smiled because that was true.
“Well, have a good night,” she says, and she seemed for a second almost shy. She smiled a little and touched your arm before she walked away.
“Thank you,” you say, and held the bottle like a trophy and watched until she disappeared.
7
It had started to rain, but it was the gentle kind. There were
fewer cars along the Strand Road, fewer streetlights too. You could hear a train bound for Bray; its engine sounded like it could smash right through you. All the while, you watched the road ahead for packs of boys who would beat you up just for meeting them. They’d push you first for fun, as if they hadn’t decided they’d hurt you. “Giz a smoke,” they’d say, or “What are you looking at?” They’d call you a queer and then you’d feel a kick from behind. Once they
had you on the ground, they would exhaust themselves with kicks and punches. It was really the anger that made you cry, not the pain, but it all looked the same to them, it helped them go on.
You walked fast then, left off the Strand Road and away from the Martello Tower, away from the starless sky that hung over the Irish Sea.
You stood at the dark end of the church car park and stared across the scrub of wasteland to the lights of your housing estate. It was hard to hold your breath, hard to listen. You waited for your eyes to adjust, and when you felt brave for a moment, you ran. Through the darkness, to the other side of the high rocks, to Cats’ Den, where a huge rock jutted out to form a natural canopy. Hardly a few hundred feet from the housing estate, completely hidden. You arrived at Cats’ Den and searched around in the dark for a rock to sit on. The wet from the rock kissed at you through your jeans, and all the while you kept your hand clenched tight around your pocketknife. You waited to catch your breath.
You took out the bottle of wine and studied its label. It was a simple green bottle. Instead of a golden swallow were French words or maybe Italian words. There was no price, just a white paper scab where she had quickly pulled the tag with her nail. The kindness of that.
It was not a screw top, so you used your pocketknife to force the cork into the bottle. Its sour tang made your lips tight. You tipped your head back and took huge glugs that left you breathless. You closed your eyes and felt the liquid burn through you, past your throat to your belly and farther, warmth spreading across your groin. You opened your eyes, wiped your mouth. Warm, all warm.
Time passed, and a great silence descended, and you were no longer scared. It was as if the whole city had held its breath and tiptoed away.
You thought about having the cigarette, you even patted your hand across your chest pocket where you felt it, unbroken, but you decided to wait until you were in the dark of the cinema. Then you realized that you had an extra two pounds eighty. You could buy a whole pack of ten smokes. Carrolls were the best, the packets red, like American cigarettes.
You thought about her, how decent she’d been. You barely noticed yourself as you took another swig from the bottle. It never burned as much the second time. “Apples in an orchard,” you heard yourself say aloud, followed by your own slight laugh. You reminded yourself to keep quiet and then wondered why. After all, you weren’t afraid. Not until you heard that scraping sound in the distance, like boots over stone.