Sharon went over to the window. Just before she reached it there was a neat little bang.
— Oh janey! said one of the twins.
Someone had flung something at it. That frightened Sharon. She parted the curtain a little bit. The bedroom light was out but she could see nothing in the garden.
But then she saw someone, behind the hedge at the back, in the field. He — it looked like a man — was bent down. Then he stood up and came through the gap in the hedge, over the wire, and it was Mister Burgess.
Sharon nearly died.
He stood there in the middle of the garden at the place where Les was supposed to do the digging. He was looking up at her window. — How did he know? — Then she saw his hand move up from his side, the palm towards her. Then there was another bang.
She jumped. He’d just lobbed a little stone at the window. She let go of the curtain.
— Who is it, Sharon?
— Just young fellas, said Sharon. — Messin’.
— Messin’! said Tracy. — At this hour o’ night.
— I’ll get them tomorrow, said Sharon.
— Wha’ young fellas? said Linda.
Sharon parted the curtain again. Mister Burgess wasn’t there. She didn’t think he was behind the hedge or the trees in the field either.
— They’re gone now, she said.
— Let’s see, said Linda.
She looked.
— They’re gone, Tracy, she said.
— Night nigh’, said Sharon.
She was back in bed.
— Nigh’ nigh’, said Linda.
Tracy was sleeping.
Was Mister Burgess getting all romantic on her? Sharon wondered. Jesus, that was disgusting. Maybe he’d gone weird, like one of those men on the News—
She’d have to wait and see a bit more.
She lay there, wide awake.
* * *
Jimmy Sr turned the sound down a bit.
— I’ll never lay a hand on the twins again, he told Sharon.
— Wha’?
— The twins, said Jimmy Sr. — I’ll never touch them again.
— Did you hit them?
— No! — No; it’s all tha’ child abuse stuff goin’ on over in England. Were yeh not watchin’ it?
— No. I was miles away.
— On the News there, Jimmy Sr explained. — It looks like yeh can’t look at your own kids over there. They’ll take them away from yeh. An’ inspect their arses—
— Daddy!
— It’s true, Jimmy Sr insisted.
They were by themselves in the front room.
— Half the fuckin’ doctors in England are spendin’ their time lookin’ up children’s holes.
— You’re disgustin’.
— It’s not me, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh can’t turn on the fuckin’ telly or open a paper or — there’s somethin’ abou’ child abuse. The kids must be scared stiff.
— But it happens, said Sharon.
— Maybe it does, I don’t know. I suppose it does.
— I’d kill annyone tha’ did somethin’ like tha’ to a child. A little kid. They do it to snappers even. I’d chop his bollix — excuse me, Sharon — off. I would. Then hang him. Or shoot him. — At least it’s not goin’ on over here.
— You’d never know, said Sharon.
— Would yeh say so? said Jimmy Sr. — Maybe you’re righ’. Jaysis. — It’s shockin’. How could annyone—
Darren came in.
— Good man, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — Have yeh come in for your cyclin’?
— Yeah, said Darren.
He sat down on the floor.
— Channel 4, said Jimmy Sr. — Let’s see now.
He studied the remote control.
— Number one.
He pressed it.
— Ads, he said. — That’s it. How’s Kelly doin’, Darren?
— Alrigh’.
— He’s gettin’ old, said Jimmy Sr. — The oul’ legs.
Wha’ abou’ Roche?
— Fourth.
— He hasn’t a hope, said Jimmy Sr.
— He has so.
— Not at all, said Jimmy Sr. — He’s too nice, that’s his problem. He doesn’t have the killer instinct.
— He won the Giro, Darren reminded him.
— Fluke, said Jimmy Sr. — Hang on, here it is.
He turned up the sound.
— The music’s great, isn’t it?
— Yeah, said Darren and Sharon.
— Good Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — Look at those mountains. Roche is fucked. There’s no mountains like tha’ in Ireland.
— Ah shut up, Da, will yeh.
— I’m only expressin’ me opinion.
— Yeh haven’t a clue.
Jimmy Sr nudged Sharon. Then he switched channels.
— Aaah!
— Sorry. Sorry, Darren. Me finger slipped, sorry — There; that’s it back. There’s Roche now. He’s strugglin’, look it. I told yeh. He’s not smilin’ now, wha’.
— Da!
Jimmy Sr grinned and nudged Sharon again.
* * *
Sharon got home from work a bit early on Monday, five days after she’d seen Mister Burgess throwing stones at the window. She hadn’t been feeling well, like as if she’d eaten too much chocolate, and the bottom of her back was killing her.
She took a box of cod steaks from her bag.
— I got these out o’ work, she told her mother.
— You’ll get caught, said Veronica.
— No, I won’t, said Sharon.
— It’s not right. There’s a letter over there for you.
— For me?
The envelope was white and the address was in ordinary writing. Sharon had never got a real letter before.
— That’s a man’s writing, said Veronica.
Sharon looked at her.
— I didn’t open it.
— I never thought yeh did, Mammy, said Sharon.
But she went upstairs to read it. Linda and Tracy were down watching the telly or practising their dancing. Something had been written on the back of the envelope but it had been rubbed over with the same pen. She couldn’t make it out. She opened the envelope carefully, afraid she’d rip what was inside. She gasped, then groaned, — Oh my God, and sat down on her bed when she saw what the letter was about. She should have guessed it, but she hadn’t; not really.
There was no address or date.
Dear Sharon,
I hope you are well. Please meet me in the Abbey Mooney in town at 8 o’clock on Tuesday night. I want to talk to you about something very important. I am looking forward to seeing you.
Yours sincerely
George Burgess.
There was a P.S.
The paper is my sisters.
The writing paper was pink. There was a bunny rabbit in the top left corner, sitting in some light blue and yellow flowers.
Sharon sat there. She just sat there.
Then she sort of shook herself, and realized that she was angry.
The fucker.
There was no way she was going to meet him, no fuckin’ way. She lifted the flap of the envelope up to the light coming through the window. She could make out the shapes of the rubbed-out writing on the flap now. They were capital letters.
S.W.A.L.K.
— Oh, the fuckin’ eejit! said Sharon.
* * *
Bertie came in.
— There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.
— Howyeh, Bertie.
— Buenas noches, compadres, said Bertie.
— It’s your round, Paddy told him.
— Give us a chance, for the sake of fuck.
As Bertie said this he sat down and lifted his hand, showing four fingers to Leo the barman.
— How’s the Jobsearch goin’, Bertie? Jimmy Sr asked him.
— Don’t talk to me abou’ Jobsearch.
He pretended to spit on the ground.
— I speet on Jobsearch.
Bimbo and Jimmy Sr laughed and Paddy grinned.