There was a dog in the kitchen.
— Is that ours? said Jimmy.
— No, it isn’t, said Aoife.
It was a tiny yoke with a face on him a bit like Gaddafi’s.
— It’s Caoimhe’s, said Aoife. — We’re just looking after it.
The thing barked. At Jimmy.
— It doesn’t like me, he said.
— Don’t be silly.
He sat down at the table and the dog jumped at his legs. He couldn’t cope with this, Aoife’s sister’s dog pawing at him.
— See? said Aoife. — She does like you. She just wants to get up on a lap.
— She can fuck off, said Jimmy.
He pushed the dog’s head away; he had to reach down to get at it. The dog skidded across the floor and came straight back at Jimmy.
— It’s only for a few days, said Aoife.
The dog was scraping at Jimmy’s tracksuit bottoms. Its claws were stinging the legs off him.
— Get down, Cindy, said Mahalia.
— Cindy? said Jimmy. — Wha’ sort of a name is that?
— That’s, like, a really stupid question, said Mahalia.
She picked up the dog and put it up to Jimmy’s face.
— Say hello to Daddy, she said.
Jimmy fought the urge to grab the dog and throw it at the fridge door. He felt its tongue on his top lip. The fuckin’ thing was trying to get off with him.
He pulled his head back.
— Enough, he said.
But the dog followed his head. Jimmy’s eyes were swimming; he’d become allergic to dog hair or something.
— She really likes you, said Mahalia.
— May, please. Give us a break.
— Fine, said Mahalia. — Annyhoo. Welcome home.
— Thanks.
Her face had replaced the dog’s. He kissed her cheek.
— You smell nice, he said.
— You don’t, she said.
Brian was standing at the kitchen door, looking worried and eager.
— Alright, Smoke?
And Brian smiled. He’d put on weight. Jimmy would have sworn it.
— Yeh comin’ in? he said.
Brian stepped nearer to him.
— Here, said Jimmy. — Give us a hug.
Brian laughed and came over to Jimmy. Jimmy held him and rested his head on Brian’s shoulder. He didn’t cry. It was the same Brian. Same size, same smell.
— It’s good to be home, he said.
He thought of something. He looked at Brian and Mahalia.
— No school?
— Mam said we could stay at home till you came home, like, said Mahalia.
— Chancers, said Jimmy. — Usin’ me as an excuse.
He had Brian laughing again.
— So I’m home, he said. — So off yeh go, back to school.
— Can we have a takeaway —
— No!
Aoife and Jimmy shouted it together.
— I think that’s a No, said Mahalia.
Brian got his schoolbag out from behind the door. He stopped, went, stopped. He turned to Jimmy.
— Are you finished?
— Finished wha’? said Jimmy. — The hospital, d’yeh mean?
— Yeah.
— I think so, yeah, said Jimmy. — I’ll be in for the day just. Now and again. Once a week or somethin’. But I’ll be home every night.
He looked at Brian’s face and tried to take the worry off it.
— It’ll be grand, he said.
He was exhausted. Wiped. The dog was back on the floor, scratching at the mat at the back door. He was surrounded by noise; that was what it was like.
He was fucked, shattered.
He smiled at Brian.
— How’s school been since?
— Okay.
— Okay?
— A bit boring.
— How is it borin’?
— Just is.
— I’m flaked, he said. — I think I’ll lie down for a bit.
He looked at the faces looking at him.
— I’ll be up when you come home.
He stood up as sharply as he could manage and he made sure he didn’t grunt or moan.
— It’s great to be home.
He looked down at the dog. He smiled again. He fuckin’ hated it. The sister’s dog, a fuckin’ spy.
— How long is a few days? he asked Aoife.
— Two weeks, she said.
— Fuck sake, he said. — Where’ve they gone?
— A cruise, she said.
— A cruise? he said. — Recession me hole.
— Mediterranean. Starting in Genoa.
— Grand, he said. — And endin’ in acrimony. See yis in a bit.
He headed to the stairs.
— Will I wake you later?
No.
— Yeah, he said. — That’d be nice.
The light at the sides of the curtains wasn’t as sharp. The sun had gone over the house.
He’d slept. Brilliant. He’d shut his eyes and he’d gone to sleep. Simple as that.
He could make out music, some shite downstairs. Hall & Oates, he thought it was. ‘Maneater’. Aoife was listening to Nova on the Roberts. He’d give out to her later, wasting internet radio on shite like that. She loved what she called his musical fascism.
He could hear yapping now too. Caoimhe’s excuse for a dog. Out the back. Although he couldn’t be certain. The estate was full of yappers. If he’d ever needed to prove that this was a middle-class area it wouldn’t have been the houses he’d have pointed at. They were just ordinary, three-bedroomed, with small gardens; reasonable at the time, ludicrously expensive for a few years and probably worth fuck all now. It wasn’t the houses that marked the place, or most of the people. They were the same as everywhere. Although middle-class gobshites were a bit more complicated, harder to spot and easier to write off than the working-class ones.
— What school did you go to?
Jimmy had never been asked that question until the eejit next door, Conor, had asked him. Two or three years back, this was. Jimmy had had to think before he’d answered. He couldn’t remember the name of the fuckin’ place.
They were in Conor and Sinéad’s front room, pretending they were relaxed and having a great time.
— Blackacres, said Jimmy.
Conor looked lost.
— The community school, said Jimmy.
— Ah, said Conor.
— It wasn’t a bad oul’ school, said Jimmy. — A bit mad.
— In Barrytown, said Sinéad.
Her face would have made more sense if she’d said, in Soweto. But she was trying her best.
— Blackacres was the name of the farm the houses were built on, Jimmy told her. — The barn was there for years after. The smell of pig shite — Jesus.
Sinéad and Aoife laughed.
— I think they called it Blackacres Community School to avoid callin’ it Barrytown Community School.
— There’s nothing wrong with Barrytown, said Sinéad.
— D’you know Barrytown, do yeh, Sinéad? he asked her.
Aoife’s eyes were huge, charging across the coffee table at him.
— Yes, I do, said Sinéad.
— Do yeh?
— Yes, said Sinéad. — I’m from Barrytown.
Aoife grinned.
Jimmy looked at Sinéad and tried to recognise her.
— What part? he asked.
— Just Barrytown, said Sinéad.
— Old Barrytown? said Jimmy. — The part tha’ was there before the houses?
— I lived in a house, said Sinéad.
Jimmy tried to see her twenty years before, or twenty-four or five. That was the thing: the young ones in old Barrytown, the ones from the older houses, the snobby houses, they’d all been rides, what every young fella in new Barrytown dreamt of. But this one, Sinéad, was too young. She was about ten years younger than Jimmy.
— D’yeh have any sisters? he asked her.
Aoife’s mouth hung open, a bit.
— Yes, said Sinéad, and she left it at that.