and climb into a small van. As he drove away the boys with the hurley sticks stared across at me.
I returned to my beans. I microwaved them again because there are few experiences in life more depressing than eating cold beans. They’d already soaked through the toast, turning it to mush. I finished them, then cleaned and washed the plate. I tried to watch something on the TV but I couldn’t concentrate. I was a stranger in a strange land, even though it was only down the road. I couldn’t relax. There was a crack against the window and then a boy came over the garden wall to retrieve a ball. He didn’t look up at me standing glaring down as he lifted it.
I unpacked. Another twenty seconds. There was a knock on the door. A young fella in a white coat said: ‘Ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve ice-cooled chicken in the van. I call here every Monday.’
I looked beyond him to a plain white van, then back to him. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘What?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
He blinked several times. ‘Do you want to buy some ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘No, I’m a vegetarian.’
‘I also do frozen vegetables.’
‘No. Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘I can call again. I’m always in the area.’
I said, ‘Please do.’
As he walked back down the drive the ball came into the garden again. The boy came over the wall and had picked it up and was already climbing back out when I shouted, ‘Why don’t you go and play outside your own house?’ like my father.
He glanced back, his brow furrowed. ‘I was,’ he said.
I looked across the road to where a middle-aged man was scraping birdshit off his lounge window. He glanced round at me and I waved across. ‘Well just be careful of that wall,’ I said and closed the door.
I switched the TV off and paced. I had an address for Geordie McClean’s stables but it was getting into early evening and there didn’t seem much point in driving out immediately. That left the option of more TV and an early night or checking out the pubs in town. I went upstairs and had a shower. I dried my hair and had a think about what to wear. I decided on black jeans and a green tartan shirt. Black trainers and a smile. Friendly. Ingratiate. See how they are about strangers. The doorbell sounded again. There was an intercom by the master bedroom. I pressed the button and said, ‘Whatever the fuck you’re selling, I don’t fucking want it, now fuck away off and don’t come fucking near me again.’
I combed my hair and cleaned my teeth. When I went back downstairs I looked out of the front window at two nuns standing with collecting tins talking to the man who’d been cleaning birdshit off his window. One of the sisters saw me, then quickly pointed me out to her colleague. They both glared at me, then turned their backs and hurried along to the next house. The birdshit man fixed me with a steady gaze, then darted back inside.
Third pub. Third pint. The first two had been dead but the third was much better. It was called Muldoons, and like the others was decorated with photos of previous Fairyhouse winners. The barman was big and jolly and I didn’t understand a blind word he said, his accent was that thick. Maybe he had the same problem. Every time I asked for a lager he poured me a Guinness. I can’t stand Guinness, but seeing as how I was undercover it was important for me to blend in, so I accepted it without complaint and drank for God and Ulster. There were a couple of dozen people drinking, enough to give it a nice buzz. I’d brought a newspaper with me. I sat on a bar stool, reading some, pausing, looking, then reading some more. I’d thought about cutting eyeholes in it to simplify the process but I resisted on the grounds that it was getting a bit close to being origami, and origami sounds a bit like orgasm, and I hadn’t had one of those for months and I didn’t want to get depressed, first night on the job. The talk around
I returned to my beans. I microwaved them again because there are few experiences in life more depressing than eating cold beans. They’d already soaked through the toast, turning it to mush. I finished them, then cleaned and washed the plate. I tried to watch something on the TV but I couldn’t concentrate. I was a stranger in a strange land, even though it was only down the road. I couldn’t relax. There was a crack against the window and then a boy came over the garden wall to retrieve a ball. He didn’t look up at me standing glaring down as he lifted it.
I unpacked. Another twenty seconds. There was a knock on the door. A young fella in a white coat said: ‘Ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve ice-cooled chicken in the van. I call here every Monday.’
I looked beyond him to a plain white van, then back to him. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘What?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
He blinked several times. ‘Do you want to buy some ice-cooled chicken breasts?’
‘No, I’m a vegetarian.’
‘I also do frozen vegetables.’
‘No. Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘I can call again. I’m always in the area.’
I said, ‘Please do.’
As he walked back down the drive the ball came into the garden again. The boy came over the wall and had picked it up and was already climbing back out when I shouted, ‘Why don’t you go and play outside your own house?’ like my father.
He glanced back, his brow furrowed. ‘I was,’ he said.
I looked across the road to where a middle-aged man was scraping birdshit off his lounge window. He glanced round at me and I waved across. ‘Well just be careful of that wall,’ I said and closed the door.
I switched the TV off and paced. I had an address for Geordie McClean’s stables but it was getting into early evening and there didn’t seem much point in driving out immediately. That left the option of more TV and an early night or checking out the pubs in town. I went upstairs and had a shower. I dried my hair and had a think about what to wear. I decided on black jeans and a green tartan shirt. Black trainers and a smile. Friendly. Ingratiate. See how they are about strangers. The doorbell sounded again. There was an intercom by the master bedroom. I pressed the button and said, ‘Whatever the fuck you’re selling, I don’t fucking want it, now fuck away off and don’t come fucking near me again.’
I combed my hair and cleaned my teeth. When I went back downstairs I looked out of the front window at two nuns standing with collecting tins talking to the man who’d been cleaning birdshit off his window. One of the sisters saw me, then quickly pointed me out to her colleague. They both glared at me, then turned their backs and hurried along to the next house. The birdshit man fixed me with a steady gaze, then darted back inside.
Third pub. Third pint. The first two had been dead but the third was much better. It was called Muldoons, and like the others was decorated with photos of previous Fairyhouse winners. The barman was big and jolly and I didn’t understand a blind word he said, his accent was that thick. Maybe he had the same problem. Every time I asked for a lager he poured me a Guinness. I can’t stand Guinness, but seeing as how I was undercover it was important for me to blend in, so I accepted it without complaint and drank for God and Ulster. There were a couple of dozen people drinking, enough to give it a nice buzz. I’d brought a newspaper with me. I sat on a bar stool, reading some, pausing, looking, then reading some more. I’d thought about cutting eyeholes in it to simplify the process but I resisted on the grounds that it was getting a bit close to being origami, and origami sounds a bit like orgasm, and I hadn’t had one of those for months and I didn’t want to get depressed, first night on the job. The talk around
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