Aloysius Tempo by Jason Johnson Page A

over someone’s bag, fell onto some fella from the Daily Star and stabbed him in the chest with her pen. The fella had to go to hospital. He was near killed by a biro.’
    I say, ‘Jesus.’
    ‘And you’re wrong about the frozen shoulder. It’s not that. She drove out in front of a motorbike a couple of weeks ago and he slammed into her.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Aye. So that’s what happened her shoulder.’
    I nod.
    ‘The lad’s all right,’ he says. ‘The insurance will cover it, but he’s needing a lot of physio. Fuck knows what’ll happen, could end up in court.’
    I go, ‘Martin … ’
    He goes, ‘She’ll probably quote Yeats at you and fuck it up. It happens a lot. She doesn’t know the words too well but quotes away all the same.’
    ‘Right.’
    He looks up, closes his eyes and goes, ‘I have met them at close of day, Coming with vivid faces, From counter … ’
    ‘Martin,’ I say, ‘fuck up.’
    He chuckles.
    ‘I’m having you on,’ he says, chuckles some more. ‘I’m just letting you think I’m a bollocks, that you know everything about me before I start giving you a few straight facts, y’know. I’m softening you up before I hit you with the hard stuff, y’know?’
    And he takes a deep drink, his eyes closed as a quarter of a pint is pulled into his mouth.
    ‘Jesus that’s terrible,’ he says, exhaling and reaching into his inside pocket, taking out an iPhone.
    ‘Now here’s what I have to show you here,’ he says. ‘Just wait a little second,’ he says, plugging in a code.
    I look around. The bar is big, square, bland and blue, scented with bleach, scrubbed clean of atmosphere, of colour. With thirty minutes notice it could be a shop, a classroom, an operating theatre. There’s no one here but us and the barmaid, who is flicking the TV stations around, searching in vain for something better than rubbish.
    He goes, ‘Look at this, eh?’
    I look at his phone – a head-and-shoulders picture of a blonde woman, twenty, maybe twenty-one.
    A smile, ‘Bit of a looker, what?’
    ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘You don’t know?’
    I shake my head, take a sip of clean water for my dirty guts. ‘Should I?’
    He swipes, another image. The same woman, laughing now, wearing a baseball cap. Swipes again. Family picture, a picture everyone has. A few more family images. One with a cat, one eating popcorn, one standing in the rain, one with Ajax playing in red behind her.
    Then an unexpected one – with her legs open, lying back, laughing, a limp arm across her forehead, her bare vagina on display in the low light.
    ‘We’re getting to the bedroom scenes now,’ says Martin, chuckling.
    He swipes more. A blow job. A beer bottle. A Bavarian-style barmaid’s outfit. Then what looks like jizz on her face. Then breasts on show in Paris, then some kissing with another girl in a nightclub. There’s handcuffs, straps, a strap-on. Then she’s asleep with her underwear down, on display without knowing it, taking digits.
    ‘What’s this about, Martin?’
    ‘Revenge porn,’ he says, still swiping. She’s sucking two dicks, She’s got ‘ schlampe ’ written in lipstick across her back. She’s being held by the throat, one with blood under her nose, one where she’s being held by the hair, clearly in distress.
    I put my hand over the screen.
    ‘Thanks for the drink and the flight and the hotel and the porn, but I don’t want either you or Imelda in the rest of my day. You got that?’
    ‘Understood,’ he says. ‘Before you go, Aloysius, tell me honestly – you’ve no idea who she is, do you? Not a clue?’
    He puts the phone down.
    I sip, ‘As I said … ’
    ‘Right. Well that’s something. That’s something amazing, to be honest. You see, that girl is called Maya and she had this boyfriend, this rich lad called Kris, who was a bit of a dick, to be honest.’
    ‘Martin … ’
    ‘Listen to me, Aloysius. Just one more minute, okay?’
    I sigh. I sip.
    ‘So it didn’t end well