Jerry laughed, and patted the back of Murph’s head. ‘Sure, you’re best pals already.’
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ said Murph, and he looked up again, but his mam was gone. ‘And thank Mammy for me.’ He paused. ‘Or could I thank her myself later?’ His eyes were shining.
Jerry squeezed Murph’s shoulder. ‘You can, of course.’
Murph beamed.
‘So,’ said Jerry, ‘what are you going to call your new pal?’
Murph thought about it. ‘Rosco.’
Jerry laughed. ‘From the television? The lads that climb in the car through the window?’
Murph nodded. ‘Rosco P. Coltrane.’
Jerry patted the dog’s head. ‘Rosco P. Murphy, it is so.’
That night, Murph woke up to a terrible choking sound, his heart pounding. He got up, and went to the door, pressing the handle down slowly, and edging the door open. He heard the sound again, and it was coming from downstairs. His chest tightened. He wanted to go into his mammy and daddy’s room, but he wasn’t allowed. This time, he knew they wouldn’t, though, because he was scared. And his mammy always told him to come to her when he was scared. He crossed the hallway, and opened their door gently. He walked in on tiptoes, and up to the bed. His mother was asleep, and even though she was asleep, she looked tired, and he didn’t want to wake her. His daddy wasn’t there, so he thought maybe that was him downstairs.
He sneaked down and stuck his head in to the dining room. He saw his father inside, sitting in the dark, his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him, his chin to his chest. His arms were loose at his side, and he was sobbing and sobbing. A rush of fear swept over Murph. He’d never seen his father cry. He went up to him, then turned his head away for a moment from the smell of whiskey. He looked down and saw an empty bottle by the leg of the table. He had only ever seen his father have one glass, and not even finish it.
‘Daddy!’ he said. ‘Daddy!’ He patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK … it’s OK. I’ll …’ He tried to think of what his mam would say to him when he was small and he was having a nightmare or he was worried about something and he couldn’t get to sleep.
‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming to get you.’
He knelt down beside him, looking at his shirt, soaked with tears. He was thinking of his mam again, and what she would say.
‘What is it, Daddy? Did someone say something to you?’
His father raised his head, confused. After a moment, he focused. ‘Liam.’ He tried to sit up. ‘Liam …’
‘Yes! Daddy – are you all right?’
Jerry shook his head slowly. ‘No, no … no, no.’ He started to sob again. Murph started crying too, because he didn’t know what was wrong, and that was even scarier. He thought again of what his mam would say. He knelt in close, and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
‘If I find out,’ said Murph, ‘that anyone was being mean to my …’ And his mam would say ‘to my little man’, so Murph said, ‘If I find out that anyone was being mean to my … little dad …’
And his dad, all six foot four of him, with his big head, and his huge hands, and his broad shoulders, started to shake, and then Murph realized it was because he was laughing at the same time as he was crying, and Murph didn’t care what he was laughing at, because he was laughing, and his dad reached out and grabbed his face like it was a football, and he looked at Murph with such love in his eyes that Murph thought his heart would burst.
The next morning, nothing was mentioned at breakfast about what had happened. When Murph came home after school, he went out to play with Rosco in the garden. When his dad came home from work, he ran to him, and gave him the tightest hug.
‘Come on a way over with me,’ said Jerry, ‘and we’ll sit on the wall.’
His father turned to him when they sat down. ‘Liam,’ he said, ‘you know, now, the way Mammy’s not well …’
Murph nodded.
‘Not well at all.’
Murph nodded again.
Jerry put a hand to his chin. ‘Do you know something?’ he said. ‘I think that woman would hug you every minute of the day if she could.’
Murph smiled, and his shoulders went up to his ears.
‘But you know that’s a small bit harder for her, now she’s not well.’ He paused. ‘And that’s all that is. She’s a bit weak.’ He patted Murph on the head. ‘But you’ll always be her little man … no matter what.’
Johnny waited outside the bar until everyone had caught up. He pushed open the door and guided everyone through with a sweep of his arm. The room had a mix of mahogany panelling and slate-grey walls, thick carpet in charcoal grey, and small round tables with green leather chairs. A log fire burned and crackled drawing everyone’s attention until Murph boomed, ‘No way,’ and crossed to the opposite wall. Johnny, Edie, and Helen laughed.
Murph looked back at Johnny and Edie, his eyes gleaming. ‘Is that … is your drinks cabinet an actual confession box?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Johnny.
Murph shook his head, smiling.
‘It’s a little kitsch,’ said Edie, ‘but we couldn’t resist.’
‘I love honesty bars,’ said Murph. ‘But I prefer lying, filthy, cheating bars.’
‘It’s superb,’ said Clare. ‘Is it from the chapel?’
Johnny nodded. ‘There were four of them, which was a bit much when you think of the size of it. We kept one where it was, ripped the other three out, and had this one restored.’
‘Look,’ said Murph. ‘It actually accepts sins.’ He pointed to a slot, and pulled out the drawer underneath. There were folded-up notes inside. He picked out three. ‘“Stole a bathrobe”, “Filled my purse with croissants at breakfast”, and “Had impure thoughts. Followed through.” Fair play to them. I hope the purse one was an American or she wouldn’t have got far.’
‘Is anyone weird about it?’ said Clare. ‘The sacrilege of it all.’
‘No one’s complained yet,’ said Edie. She put her hand on the small of Johnny’s back. ‘Well done, by the way.’ She gestured around the room. ‘He set this all up.’
‘He’s got the fire on, the candles, everything,’ said Laura. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’
‘I do this all the time,’ said Johnny, frowning. ‘Why is everyone so surprised?’
‘Jesus – I don’t know,’ said Murph. ‘Maybe because of this.’ He pointed to the wall beside the confession box. ‘Johnny’s glory wall under a picture light, in case we might miss it.’ There were framed newspaper cuttings, Munster team photos, shots of Johnny on the pitch, at award ceremonies, with celebrities. Murph pointed to one: ‘New Zealand, 1989. You played some game.’
‘How you didn’t end up playing for Ireland is beyond me,’ said Clare.
‘I agree,’ said Edie.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ said Johnny. He walked over to the drinks. ‘Right – what are you having?’
‘The time of our lives,’ said Murph.
Everyone put in their orders, and Johnny started to make the drinks.