They all relaxed, except Jimmy Sr. He put a painted cement gnome on the table.
— Ah, look it, said Tracy.
— He says tha’ Leslie threw tha’ thing through his window. His, eh, drawin’ room window.
They all studied the gnome. It had a red cap and trousers and a yellow beard. Jimmy Jr laughed.
— Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s not funny. — Would Leslie do tha’?
— Did he see him?
— No.
— Well then.
— Did he dust it for fingerprints? said Jimmy Jr.
— Wha’?—Oh yeah. No. He says he’ll let me deal with it this time but if it happens again he’ll have to get the guards. He said Leslie’s always hangin’ around outside his house. Loiterin’, he said.
— Did you not say annythin’ back? said Sharon.
— I know wha’ yeh mean, said Jimmy Sr. — I should’ve. He’s no proof. I’ll go round an’ have it ou’ with him later. On me way to the Hikers. But, he explained, — I got a terrible fuckin’ fright.
They waited for more.
— Look at its face, said Jimmy Sr.
They did.
— It’s the spit o’ George Burgess.
It was.
* * *
Darren had news for them the next day at tea time.
— Pat Burgess said his da’s after comin’ back.
Jimmy Sr put his knife and fork down.
— I knew it, he said. — I fuckin’ knew it. I told yis. When I saw tha’ gnome yoke’s face. — Where is it?
— Out on the windowsill, said Veronica.
— Well, it’s goin’ in the bin the minute I’ve liberated these fishfingers.
He shovelled one into him.
— So he’s back, he said.
He looked at Sharon.
— I don’t care, she said.
— Good girl, said Jimmy Sr. — Course yeh don’t. He’s only a bollix, isn’t tha’ righ’?
— Yeah.
* * *
Darren had more news later.
— I’ve been dropped.
He sat down on the arm of the couch and looked like he’d just seen his dog being splattered.
— From the soccer? said Jimmy Sr.
— No, said Darren.
Fuck the soccer, his face said.
— The cyclin’.
— Ah no. Why?
— Cos — cos you won’t pay for Mister Cantwell’s window an’ yeh called him names.
— I didn’t call him names, said Jimmy Sr.
— You told me you called him a little Virgin Mary, said Veronica.
— Now, Veronica. Please. — Let me talk to Darren.
Darren couldn’t stop the tears any more.
— Why won’t yeh pay him? he asked Jimmy Sr.
— Why should I? said Jimmy Sr. — Listen, Darren; he’s lookin’ for twenty-five quid an’ he doesn’t even know for definite tha’ Leslie broke the window. He only thinks he did. D’yeh expect me to cough up every time the man thinks Leslie done somethin’?
— All — all I know is—
— Ah Darren, sorry. But it’s a matter o’ principle. I can’t pay him. It’s not the money—
— It is!
— It isn’t! — It’s not the money, Darren. Fuck the money. It’s the principle o’ the thing. If he even said he saw Leslie runnin’ away I’d pay him. But Leslie says he didn’t do it an’, fuck it, I believe him.
Darren’s voice hurt Jimmy Sr.
— I’ll never get back on the team now.
Jimmy Sr thought about this. Darren was probably right. He didn’t know Cantwell but he looked like that sort of a small-minded bollix.
— We’ll form our own club.
— Wha’?
— We’ll form our own fuckin’ club, said Jimmy Sr.
He laughed and rubbed his hands and looked around him, laughing.
— You’re messin’, said Darren.
— I’m not, Darren, I can assure you. I’ve been thinkin’ that I should get involved in somethin’—for the kids — an’ the community.
— Oh my God, said Veronica.
— A cyclin’ club, Darren. Wha’ d’yeh say?
— Are yeh not messin’?
— I’m deadly serious, said Jimmy Sr. — Cross me heart, look it, an’ hope to die. You are attendin’ the inaugural meetin’ of the new cyclin’ club.
— Wha’?
— This is the club’s first meetin’.
Darren studied his da’s face.
— Ahh, rapid!
Jimmy Sr beamed.
— Is tha’ alrigh’ then? he asked.
— Ah Da; yeah. Fuckin’—sorry — brilliant!
Veronica was pretending to watch Today Tonight.
— Darren’s joined a new club, Veronica, Jimmy Sr told her.
— That’s nice.
— We’ll be wantin’ sequins on our jerseys, isn’t tha’ righ’, Darren?
— No way. — Oh yeah! Yeah.
Darren gasped, keeping the laugh in. Jimmy Sr nudged Darren. Darren nudged Jimmy Sr. Snot burst out of Darren’s nose because he was trying not to laugh, but Jimmy Sr didn’t mind. His cardigan was due a wash anyway.
Veronica flicked through the channels while the ads were on.
— How’s this for a name, Darren? — The Barrytown
Wheelies.
— Brilliant!
Darren couldn’t stay sitting any more.
— Better than the oul’ Barrytown Cyclin’ Club, wha’.
— Ah yeah!
— I’ll tell yeh wha’. Go an’ see if yeh can get a few o’ your chums to join. All o’ them. The more the merrier. We’ll poach them.
He laughed.
— That’ll teach the bollix.
Darren dashed to the door.
— You’ll never keep it up, said Veronica.
— Won’t I? said Jimmy Sr. — Who says I won’t? I’m serious abou’ this, yeh know. I’ve been doin’ a lot o’ thinkin’ these days an’, well — I’m his father an’—
Darren jumped back in.
— Da.
— Yes, Darren?
— Can girls be in the club?
Jimmy Sr looked at Darren. He wanted to give him the right answer. He guessed.
— Yeah — probably.
— Rapid! Thanks.
Darren was gone again. Jimmy Sr turned back to Veronica.
— That’s mah boy, he said.
— Are you crying?
— No, I amn’t! — Jaysis! — It’s the smoke.
— What smoke?
— Fuck off an’ stop annoyin’ me.
* * *
Sharon was passing her before she saw her. She’d been too busy thinking about wanting to get out; she felt really squashed in and surrounded and sticky. Then she saw her and before she had time even to say, Jesus, it’s her, she said — Hiyeh, Yvonne.
Yvonne Burgess saw who it was. She turned back quickly and continued to flick through the rack of skirts.
Sharon stayed for a second, half deciding to force Yvonne to talk to her.
Yvonne spoke.
— Terrible smell in here, isn’t there, Mary?
Sharon then saw that Mary Curran — she hadn’t seen her in months — was on the other side of the rack. She wasn’t exactly hiding but that was what she was doing all the same.
Mary didn’t say anything.
Sharon stood there a bit more, then went on.
She heard Yvonne again, louder.
— They shouldn’t let prostitutes in here, sure they shouldn’t, Mary?
Sharon grinned.
God help her, she thought. She couldn’t blame her really. At least she hadn’t tried to beat her up or anything. That Mary one was a right cow though, pretending she hadn’t seen her.
Spotty bitch. Even Mister Burgess wouldn’t have gone near her.
* * *
— What’s tha’ shite? said Jimmy Sr. — What’s tha’ under the hedge there? — A hedgehog, is it? The head on it, wha’.