Bullfighting
He couldn’t really remember life before the
children. He couldn’t feel it as something he’d once lived. It was
too far away, and buried. Something as simple as walking down the
street – he was always a father. Or looking at a woman – he was a
father.
He had one child left. There’d been four, but three
of them were up and running, more or less their own men. They were
all boys, still teenagers. But they weren’t his any more. Except
for the youngest. That was Peter. Peter still held Donal’s hand.
Except when there were people coming towards them, boys or girls
his own age or older. Then he’d let go, until they were around the
corner.
And Donal knew. One day soon he’d open his hand for
Peter’s, and it would stay empty. And when that happened he’d die;
he’d lie down on the ground. That was how he felt. After twenty
years. Independence, time to himself – he didn’t want it.
—You’ll have your own life, someone had told
him.
—I have my own life, he’d said back.—I fuckin’ like
it.
He’d never felt hard done by – he didn’t think he
had. He’d loved the life, even the stress of it. He’d be knackered
tired sometimes, red-eyed and soggy, only vaguely aware that he had
a name or even a gender, and still he’d think, I’m alive.
Making a dinner he knew none of them would eat, or charging in to
Temple Street Hospital with a wheezing or a bleeding child, or
standing at the side of a football pitch, in the pissing rain,
twenty miles from home, watching one of the boys trying to make
sure that the ball didn’t go anywhere near him. The boys had been
the rhythm of every day, even when he was sleeping. He woke before
they did, always. None of his lads had ever walked into an empty
kitchen first thing in the morning.
There was once, he was changing a nappy. Carl’s –
Carl was the second. They were at Elaine’s mother’s place. It was a
Sunday afternoon. He had Carl parked in front of him, on the edge
of his changing mat, his arse in the air, right over Elaine’s ma’s
white carpet. He pulled the nappy out from under Carl and the shite
jumped free of the nappy, a half-solid ball. Without thinking,
Donal caught it – his hand just went out. The nappy in one hand,
the shite in the other, Carl’s arse hanging over the carpet. And he
couldn’t wait to tell everyone. He knew he had his story.
The stories – twenty years of them.
They already seemed stale. They’d been over-lived,
dragged out too often. He’d start talking, even thinking, and he’d
feel the camera lights, the heat. He’d imagine he was talking to a
studio audience, selling something, trying to convince them. But
there was nothing dishonest about how he felt. Empty. Finished. The
stories, his memories, were wearing out and there was nothing new
replacing them. His whole fuckin’ life was going.
He watched telly now with Peter. A film on Sky
Movies. Little Man. It was dreadful. This tiny little black
guy was pretending he was a baby – Donal didn’t know why; they’d
missed the start – staring at a woman’s tits, trying to grab at
them. It was absolutely dreadful. But Peter was laughing, so he did
too.
—Should we be even watching this, Pete?
—It’s appropriate, said Peter.—I checked.
—But he wants to have sex with the woman.
—So do you, said Peter.
—Okay, said Donal.—Fair enough.
One last story for the file: So do you, he
says. Peter was ten. Donal was forty-eight. So were his
friends. He liked the precision of that: all his friends were
forty-eight. It was the best thing about Ireland, about Dublin
anyway; he could still see the men he’d grown up with. He’d gone to
school with lads who’d moved to Canada, the States, even South
Africa. But no one he knew had ever moved south of the Liffey.
They’d either got out of the country or stayed put. And Donal had
been lucky. He’d walked out of school in 1977, and straight into a
job in the civil service. A few years later, the jobs weren’t
there. But Donal had never been out of work. And his friends were
like him. They lived in houses a few miles from where they’d all
grown up. They could walk to the pub. It wasn’t the same place
where they’d had their first pints, but that place was only two
miles away.
They met up once a week. All four of them, or three
of them, or even just the two. It was an open kind of arrangement,
but a bit more organised since they’d started the texting a few
years back. Pub? Ye. 9.30? Grnd. Donal never felt tired on
Thursday nights. He’d be away on holidays – in France, say, or
Portugal, or Orlando, in the States – having a great time. But on
the Thursday, wherever, he wished he was at home, on his way up to
the pub.
It had always been like that. There was once, early
on with Elaine, they’d been on the bed, in his flat. She’d just
poured a melted Mars bar into her navel. And she caught him looking
at his watch.
—Have you something more important to do?
—God, no. Fuck, no. This is brilliant.
The hot chocolate had burnt his tongue a bit and
he’d felt a little bit sick. But it had been great. He could still
remember her stomach under his tongue.
—This is the first thing I’ve eaten since me
breakfast, he told her, and she laughed and he could feel that too,
rippling her skin, lifting her. He’d held her – he told her this
years later – he’d held her hips to keep her on her back, so that
none of the melted chocolate would drop onto the sheet, because it
was the only sheet he had and he didn’t want her to know that. He
ate the chocolate, cleaned it all up, and then he didn’t care what
way she ended up. It was up to her.
His friends never talked about sex, or health. They
never had. Or problems – they didn’t really talk about their
problems.
Other people didn’t really get it. Especially
women. Grown men getting together like that, as if it was weird or
unnatural. Or a bit silly.
—Are you meeting the lads tonight?
—I’m not answering, if you’re going to sneer like
that.
—Like what?
—The lads.
She’d even asked him once, when he was putting his
shoes on.
—What use are they?
—What?
—The lads, she’d said.—Your friends.
—What about them?
—Why are they your friends?
—I’m not answering that.
—Don’t be so touchy, she said.—I’m curious.
—Well, stay curious.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.
—Why do I have to defend myself?
—You don’t.
—I have to explain why my friends are my friends.
Why the fuck should I?
—Don’t, if you don’t want to.
—I never ask you about your friends, he said.
—I know, she said.—You don’t even know their
names.
—I do.
She smiled.
—I do, he insisted.—There’s Mary and—
—Stop, she said.—Listen. I suppose what I’m
wondering is. What do you talk about?
He looked at her.
—Football, he said.
He knew she’d hate the answer.
—Is that all?
—No.
—What else? she said.—Help me here.
He didn’t know what else to give her. He didn’t
know how to explain it. How what they talked about wasn’t
important. How they could sit and say nothing much, for most of the
night. And he’d still come home feeling great.
Appreciated.
—Jokes, he said.
—You tell jokes.
—Yeah, he said.—If we’ve heard any new ones.
—That’s nice.
She wasn’t sneering.
—Mind you, he said.—You never hear jokes these
days. It’s all e-mail stuff. No one makes up jokes any more. Like
stories, you know.
She nodded.
—Can I go now? he said.
—Go on.
He smiled. She smiled back.
He was the first in. Their usual table was free.
He nodded at the barman, raised one finger. He always liked that.
The fact that he could order a pint without talking. He’d been
coming here for years. The barman was Polish. He’d only been
working here for three months or so, but he knew what Donal’s order
was, and Donal had never had to tell him. The Poles were
great.
He sat and looked at the snooker on the telly. He
hadn’t a clue who was playing. He didn’t know either of the
players. They looked younger than his older kids. Hair gel, and
little rectangular ads stitched onto their waistcoats. They looked
too young to be out in the world on their own, millionaires
already, more than likely.
He was out of touch. He knew it.
The lounge girl came up with his pint in the centre
of her tray.
—Thanks, said Donal.
—Of course.
She was Lithuanian, as far as Donal remembered. Or
Latvian. A lovely young one, lovely attitude.
He gave her a tenner. She gave him his change, and
he gave her back some of it.
—Thank you.
—You’re grand.
Donal felt the draught, and saw Gerry closing the
door behind him.
The lounge girl was waiting.
—Will you like another pint of Guinness?
—Great, yeah. Thanks.
He felt a bit uncomfortable with her. She was a
woman and a girl – that was the problem. And the attraction. And
the problem. He’d have been happier with a lounge boy.
—Fuckin’ cold out there, said Gerry.
This was how it happened. They arrived in a clump,
from one man to four inside a minute or two. As if they’d been
hiding behind the bushes outside until one of them made the move
and went in. Or something, an instinct, told the four of them to
get up from the telly and go, at the same time every
Thursday.
Donal watched the other two, Ken and Seán, wrap the
wires around their iPods and put them into their jacket pockets. He
decided again; he’d get an iPod.
—What were yis listening to? he asked.
—Springsteen, said Ken.
—The new album?
—Yep.
—Any good?
—His best since the last one.
The young one brought the pints. Donal paid her,
and tipped her again. He’d given her €4, for one round. It made him
feel seedy, and generous.
They’d have four pints. They might go to five. Four
was automatic. The fifth was always a decision. It used to be more.
They used to drink all day, days in a row, weekends drunk, into
work on Monday, drunk. Donal and Gerry had gone twenty-four hours
once, in Majorca. They’d found a bar that would let them drink till
daylight. They’d had breakfast – Traditional English Breakfast – on
the way back to the apartment. He remembered being surprised that
he could hold the knife and fork.
Seán looked around.
—How many in here would you say have snorted
cocaine?
—None, said Gerry.
He was probably right.
—Not according to the news, said Seán.—We’re all
fuckin’ snorting.
—I’ve never even seen cocaine, said Gerry.—Have any
of youse?
They shook their heads.
Some young one, a model, had died, and two other
kids in Wexford or Waterford – they’d eaten damp cocaine. The radio
was full of it, and the television. Middle-class men, their faces
fuzzy and their voices disguised, describing their cocaine hells.
‘It’s on the cheeseboard. Every dinner party I’ve been to.’ And
hidden cameras, in pub toilets. More fuzzy faces, leaning over
cisterns, with rolled-up euros.
—What about your kids? said Ken.
They all had kids, teenagers and older.
Donal shrugged.
—Don’t know, he said.—Don’t think so.
—How do you know?
—I don’t, said Donal.—But I think I would. Gerry
nodded.
—How would we know? he said.—Unless they went
crazy, or something.
—A swab, said Seán.
—What?
—A swab. Of the cistern, or a shelf. For traces of
cocaine.
They laughed. Three of them laughed.
—You couldn’t do that in my house, said Gerry.—The
jacks is never empty.
—I did, said Seán.
They looked at him. They stared at him.
—You did a – what? – a test? A fuckin’ swab?
—Yep, said Seán.
—Did you get a kit or something? Gerry asked
him.—Do you not have to be a fuckin’ forensics expert or
something?
—Not at all, said Seán.—All you need is a cotton
bud. I ran one across the top of the jacks. The cistern,
like.
—And?
—It was filthy.
They laughed again.
—White particles, said Seán.
—Dust, said Donal.—Talc. The jacks would be full of
it. Any room. The air’s full of dust.
—Did you have them tested? The white
particles.
—No, said Seán.
—So? said Gerry.—What did you prove?
—I sniffed the bud, said Seán.—Snorted it, like. So
to speak.
—And?
—I was high as a fuckin’ kite.
He was joking.
—Dancing with the fridge. Seriously though, he
said.—I’ve been watching my girls since it got into the news. And
they’re the same as they’ve ever been. So they either aren’t using
cocaine or they’ve always been using cocaine.
He shrugged.
—They’re grand, he said.—The only one that might be
snorting is Maeve.
Maeve was his wife.
—D’you reckon?
—It would explain quite a lot, said Seán.
He left it at that. They didn’t talk about the
wives. They drifted from cocaine to football, and on to the film
that Gerry had seen at the weekend and the others wanted to
see.
—How was Denzel?
—Brilliant.
And on to international affairs.
—Poor oul’ Benazir.
—What a place.
—Mad. Would you have given her one?
—Oh, yeah. Absolutely.
—Too late now, an’anyway.
—She was a fine thing. I liked her headscarf.
—That’s the thing though, said Donal.—Women don’t
wear them here any more.
—Not even at mass.
—They’ll make a comeback, said Ken.—Wait and see.
Abercrombie and Fitch or somebody will bring back the
headscarf.
—Benazir but, said Gerry.—She was a lot better
looking than any of the women politicians in this country.
—That’s for sure.
—What about Hillary Clinton?
—No.
—A few years back, maybe. Not now, though.
—She’d be saying the same thing about us.
—She hasn’t a clue.
—Would you ride Obama?
—Not unless he was a woman.
—I have a dream.
That was the same night the idea was planted.
They’d go away together, to Spain.
—The four of us?
—Why not? said Gerry.
—Sounds good.
Gerry’s brother had a place down there.
—Where?
—Valencia. Near there. A half-hour or so. Inland.
No sand or shite. It’s great.
There was no decision that night, nothing firm.
Donal said nothing to Elaine about it. He waited for Gerry to bring
it up the next Thursday.
—Did yis give any more thought to that?
—What? said Ken.
—Spain.
—Your brother’s gaff?
—Yeah.
They looked at one another, and shrugged, and
smiled.
—Well, I’m going, said Gerry.
—Grand.

They went a few weeks after Easter. A Ryanair
flight to Valencia, then a hired car. Donal had driven in France,
but in his own car; they’d always got the ferry. They’d been to
France four times. Always the same place, camping. The last time
was five years ago. The year after that, the eldest, Matthew, said
he wouldn’t go. They couldn’t make him – he was fifteen – and he
was too young to leave behind.
They drove into the town. It seemed deserted, and a
bit ugly.
—Is this the siesta?
—Suppose so.
It was early afternoon.
Gerry parked outside a bar.
—There’s people in there, so they’re not all
asleep.
They sat outside, with four bottles of beer that
cost the same as one bottle at home. Seán took off his
jumper.
—That’s it, lads. I’m on me holidays.
—Good man.
—How far is the house?
—Three minutes.
—Grand.
—This is fuckin’ great, said Donal.
But he was disappointed. It was great, a
week away from everything. But the town itself was shite. It was
dead. Their table was on a street, but it didn’t matter because the
street was empty. He sat up and looked properly.
—What’s that?
—What?
—The wall down there. The curved wall.
—The bullring, said Gerry.
—For bullfighting?
—Yeah.
—Serious?
—Yeah.
—Great.
—No, said Gerry.—It’s a pain in the hole.
Boring.
—Still, though, said Donal.
—Do they kill the bulls?
—Yeah.
—Cool.
—They, like, release them first, said Gerry.—Let
them run through the streets.
—And that’s fuckin’ boring, is it? said Seán.
—It is, said Gerry.—Believe me.
—Still though, said Donal.
—It’s the fiesta, said Gerry.—The annual festival.
Saint something. Or the Virgin Mary.
—They slaughter bulls for the Virgin Mary?
—Wait’ll you see it later, said Gerry.—It’s good.
The fiesta bit. He stood up.
They got back in the car. Gerry took them out of
the town, past a field full of solar panels, and behind a small
industrial estate. In Dublin, this was where you would dump the
body or the fridge. Here it was a row of flatroofed houses, under
palm trees.
—Here we are.
It was the last house in the row.
Gerry got out and unlocked the gate. They got out
and followed him. They saw the pool but kept behind Gerry as he got
the front door open and walked into hot dead air.
—Fuckin’ hell.
They hoisted the shutters and opened all the
windows. There weren’t many; it wasn’t a big house. They threw bags
on the beds and then they went out to the pool.
—It’s nice and clean.
—There’s a chap keeps an eye on it for Declan.
Declan was Gerry’s brother.
—He throws in the chlorine and scoops out the flies
and that.
—What’s that?
There was a white machine, like a fat pup with a
trunk, moving very slowly along the bottom.
—It’s a hoover, said Gerry.
—For fuck sake. Is it on all the time?
—Think so, yeah.
—Clever.
—It’s useless, said Gerry.—If it’s the same one. It
just moves into a corner and stays there. So the corner’s spotless
and the rest of it gets covered in fuckin’ goo.
They got into the togs and sat looking at the water
and, one at a time, they got in because there wasn’t really room
for more than one man, the way they swam. They sat with their backs
to the industrial estate and let themselves get hungry. They
chatted and kept an eye on the sun. The watches were off, thrown
onto the beds. They had one more swim, then showered and put on the
shorts and T-shirts. The shorts were new. They never wore shorts at
home.
—Is that a bruise?
—Varicose vein.
—Lovely.
—You can show it to whatever young one you pick up
tonight in town.
—I’ll tell yeh. Show a bird your varicose veins and
she’ll be on you like a fuckin’ barnacle.
They waited till Gerry locked the gate.
—Dogs, he said.—Have to keep them out.
—What? said Donal.—Wild?
—Kind of.
—Jaysis.
—It’s the one bad thing, said Gerry.—The way they
treat the dogs.
And now they could hear them. Dogs howling, baying
– whatever it was.
—Are they all wild?
—No, said Gerry.—Just fuckin’ miserable.
Gerry showed them the lane that would get them to
town. They walked, all four men in a row. The sandals slapped the
dust.
They went past the industrial estate and the
tied-up dogs.
—What gets made in there?
—Nothing. As far as I know.
—Distribution?
—Maybe. But I’ve never seen a truck.
—Who feeds the dogs?
—There’s an automatic feeder. It releases enough
food every day. And water. They all have them. Most of the houses
are empty during the week.
—That’s terrible.
—Talkin’ about feeders, said Donal,—I’m fuckin’
starving.
They all were.
—A few scoops, a game of pool and the nosebag.
How’s that for a plan?
They ignored the bullfighting. It was on the telly,
a local channel, in the bar. And it was outside. There were people
running down the street, and back up the street. And a marching
band, somewhere. Donal wanted to have a look, but Gerry was the
local and he didn’t even look out the window. And, fair enough, it
all looked shite on the telly. There was a bull standing still,
outside a church – it looked like. And young lads, all young lads,
were walking carefully up to it, and touching it and dashing back.
It looked like something anyone could do. The young lads all wore
red T-shirts. Trying to provoke the bull, he supposed. But the bull
wasn’t having any of it. He just stood there, still. Then he was
gone, off the screen, in the time it took Donal to bend down at the
table and pretend he was sizing up his shot – he hadn’t a clue,
really. The commentator was going mad but all Donal could see was
the door of the church.
They finished the game and went walking. The
excitement was still in the street. The young lads, bashing against
one another, thumping their chests. There was no sign of the bull,
although there was dung in the air and – Donal saw it now – blood
on the street. A topic for the phone call home in the morning. The
marching band was still marching, but they still hadn’t seen it.
There were stalls down both sides of the main street, and Donal saw
some of the stuff he’d bring home, the small presents the kids used
to charge down the hall for when they heard him coming in the door,
after he’d been away for a day or two because of work.
They found a place and ate well. Good, big
steaks.
—Straight off the fuckin’ bull.
The waiter recognised Gerry, smiled at him.
—Irish, yes?
—Yeah; good man.
—How are you? said the waiter.
—Good, said Gerry.—Yeah. How’s business?
—You are my business.
He clapped his hands.
—Business is good.
They stopped at another bar. Another few drinks, at
a table outside. The loud young lads were gone. There were families
strolling, proud men pushing buggies.
—It’s after one.
—A different world.
—It’s very civilised.
—If this was Dublin, we’d be watching the
fight.
—We’d be at home.
They walked back to the house at about three.
—A swim?
—Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.
They slept through the dogs. The room was still
dark when Donal woke. But there was a day outside; he could feel it
pressing against the shutter. He got out of the bed, and he was
grand. No bother. He went out to the hall and looked at his phone.
One o’clock. He’d woken up in the afternoon. He couldn’t remember
the last time that had happened. Long before kids, before marriage.
He went out to the pool, and Gerry was there, listening to his
iPod.
Donal sat beside him.
—What’re you listening to?
—The Cure.
—The Cure? Are they still good?
—They’re great. Hang on. I can link this up to the
speakers inside. It’ll wake the other pair up.
He went inside and, a minute later, Donal was
listening to ‘The Love Cats’. Gerry came back with a pot of good,
solid coffee. The other two got up. They chatted. They swam. They
read. They ate some bread and cheese. They got bored with the Cure,
so Gerry changed it to Echo and the Bunnymen. Donal was definitely
getting an iPod. He’d forgotten these bands had existed.
—D’you remember Japan?
—They haven’t aged well.
—Have they not? What about Madness?
—Kids love Madness.
—I love Madness. Talking Heads?
—They’re next.
The sun started dipping, and Seán came out with
four bottles of Stella.
That was their week in Spain. Their routine. Like
heaven, in the Talking Heads song. Where nothing ever
happened.
The songs were queuing up.
He rang home every day, walked around the pool
while he talked to Elaine and Peter, and the older boys if they
were at home. He texted them too. Hw’r things? They usually
got back to him. Gnd, or Gud, or Fin. U? But
he didn’t really miss them. He didn’t think about them. He didn’t
ache to hold them as they used to be, their weight in his arms,
their smells under his nose. He didn’t mind being alone in the bed,
when he woke. He liked it, just himself, nothing to remember or
catch up on. He stopped hearing the dogs.
The three lads were up before him one of the
mornings. Gerry was walking around the pool, worrying the hoover
with the butt of a brush, pushing it out towards the centre. Ken
had his BlackBerry, was poking away at it with the little plastic
stick.
He put it on the table.
—There now, he said.—That should keep the economy
afloat.
—Day’s work done?
—And no one even knows I’m here. This is the world
we live in, men.
Ken had rigged his life so that where he actually
was rarely mattered. And Gerry was the same. Gerry and Ken had slid
into self-employment, about fifteen years before. Donal hadn’t
noticed – too busy changing nappies. And he was happy enough where
he was, in the Revenue. He still liked it, going after the farmers.
He’d found bogus accounts and all sorts of hidden accounts. Hairy
men with shite on their boots, with millions stashed away in the
Caymans and Bermuda, or in biscuit tins under their beds. A few
years back, he’d been asked into an office, for a chat. Had he ever
thought of the CAB? He must have looked a bit slack-jawed, because
the man in a better suit than Donal’s added a word to each of the
letters.
—Criminal Assets Bureau. Would you be up for
it?
—Are they not the Guards? said Donal.—Cops. Going
after gangsters?
—It’s liquid, said his boss’s boss.—You’d be on
secondment. And, now, you wouldn’t be breaking down doors or
anything like that. It wouldn’t be The Untouchables. Will
you think about it, anyway? We wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t
think you were the man they needed.
—Thanks.
—You’ll think about it?
—Yeah, he said.—I will.
—I’ll leave it with you.
He didn’t tell Elaine; he told no one. He was
flattered, thrilled. He actually saw himself in the part; he felt
the door give way against his shoulder. Felt the weight of the
shotgun. Felt – saw – his eyes match the look coming at him from
the drugs baron across the room.
They never came back to him about it, but that
didn’t matter. He couldn’t have gone to work knowing that Elaine or
the kids were worried about him. He didn’t think it was just an
excuse, or a lie. He didn’t think it then – he wasn’t sure. It was
six or seven years ago. Six. And, actually, he was sure.
He’d wanted nothing to do with gangland warlords or major drug
dealers. He was happier with the farmers.
Gerry had always been a bit more daring, or mad.
Donal could see him now. He rolled – he multitasked. He scooped the
dead stuff out of the pool with a net while he sold a guy in Dublin
an insurance policy, or something. An update, Gerry called
it.
—You’re what? said Gerry, to the
phone.—Fifty-two?
Now he was shoving the hoover back to the middle of
the pool.
—It’s not about the years you’ve left, Mick, he
said.
He was wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt,
nearly faded to nothing. One of his kid’s, Donal guessed.
—It’s about the years you’ve already lived, he
said.—What you have to show for them, what there is to protect. Are
you with me?
He sat down and picked up one of the bottles.
—It’s not going to get cheaper because you’ve less
years to live. It’s insurance I’m selling, not milk. And look, I’m
not even selling it. You’re already well covered. I’m just telling
you about it. I have to. It’s the law.
He took a swig from the bottle.
—Spain, he said.—Yeah, it’s great. Just me and a
few lads. No. No golf. Fuck golf. You know about me and golf. So,
anyway, grand, there’s no hurry. You phone me, Mick. Either way,
yeah. I will, yeah. Good luck.
He put the phone on the table. He said nothing. It
was just work, the way he did it now, what he used to do at a desk,
or in a pub or a restaurant, five years ago. He’d adjusted. He
could work beside a swimming pool in Spain, with his best
friends.
—The world, said Ken, one of the nights they were
out.
—What about it?
—It’s grand, said Ken.—But I worry a bit
sometimes.
—Why?
—Not about global warming or that, said
Ken.—That’ll sort itself out. There’ll be good and bad there.
They nodded. They all kind of agreed, and none of
them wanted to talk about global warming. They were wearing shorts
and sandals. It was boring.
—Just, said Ken.—The future. Like, I’ve complete
faith in us. Our age group. And the very young. Kids, like.
Donal knew what he meant.
—It’s the ones in between, he said.
And Ken nodded.
—Exactly, he said.—D’you know many people in their
thirties?
—One or two, said Seán.
—Fuckin’ eejits, said Ken.—Every one of them. I’m
right, amn’t I?
—Yeah, said Donal.—But you’re right about kids as
well. They’re brilliant.
They were talking shite, enjoying themselves. But,
still and all, Donal nearly cried. He was talking about his own
kids. Moving away from him, setting off on their own. He loved it
and hated it. He’d never get over it. But he’d have to.
Gerry looked at him.
—Are you alright? he said, quietly.
—I’m grand, said Donal.
And he was. They’d never talk about it. Except
agree, and move on.
The day before they went home, they went into
Valencia. They got up in time to catch the bus. Past half-built
apartment blocks and wasteland – no real countryside, and no sea.
They yawned and chatted till Gerry stood up, and they followed him
off the bus. They wandered around for a couple of hours. They went
into the cathedral. Donal put fifty cent in a slot and watched the
electric candles come on. He walked away before they went off
again. They went to an old market, the plaça redonda, and
decided not to buy any bootleg DVDs because they didn’t want to
carry them around all day and lose them. They went into a tapas
place and ate about fifty euros’ worth of the little things along
the counter. They went to a bar with a big screen, to watch the
English football. They had their first beers, slowly, and a few
more, slowly, till the match was over, and they went for a stroll.
They found a small corner bar with a very good-looking waitress,
and they stayed there till it was dark. They talked more than they
had all week. Got pissed slowly, enjoyed the fact that they knew
they were getting pissed. They couldn’t come back from the jacks
without slapping a back. The talk got a bit mad. The first ride,
the best ride, the weirdest, the longest.
—Four minutes.
—Four and a half.
—Good man.
Ever with another man.
—No.
—No way.
Ever curious.
—No. Not really.
Ever with a relation.
—Does it have to be a blood relation?
—Yeah.
—Then no.
—Who, but?
—Her ma.
—Your mother-in-law?
—Yeah.
—You’re jesting.
—I’m not.
—You are.
—Yeah. I am. But it was touch and go. At her da’s
funeral, you know. Back at the house.
They were the only ones laughing in the bar. They
left, and moved on to another one. David Bowie and another
good-looking waitress. Donal told them about the job in the CAB.
They told him he’d been right not to take it. They all told him
that. They had more tapas in another place. Seán told Donal that
his marriage was on the rocks. Gerry told Donal that his marriage
was on the rocks. Donal told Gerry that his own had been rocky for
a while, but that things were grand now, much better. Then he told
Seán. And Ken. Then they were in a taxi, heading back to the town.
Laughing. Three of them squashed into the back. Gerry in the front
beside the driver.
It was three in the morning. There was still a bar
open, the one just down from the bullring. Ken went in, came back
out with four bottles. They sat. They heard the marching band. It
might have been a different band. They still hadn’t seen it.
—At this time? said Seán.
—The town that never sleeps.
Donal stood up. He left his bottle on the table.
He’d had enough. He wanted the bed.
He walked.
There was some sort of action going on at the
bullring. The exit gates were open. It was lit, inside. He could
see people, lots of young lads, standing in the ring. There was a
barrier between him and the ring, like the metal bars of a jail.
The bars were wide enough apart for people to get through, but – he
supposed – solid enough to stop a bull. He went in, sideways,
between two of the bars. He walked onto the ring. It was quiet – he
couldn’t hear the band – but the seats all around seemed full. A
double gate at the other side was wide open, but he couldn’t see
anything beyond it. The young lads were just standing there.
He heard an engine. A truck, a big one, reversed
slowly through the double gates. Lads got out of the way. A man in
a black T-shirt jumped out of the cab and went to the back of the
truck. There was another man there with him. They lowered the
tailgate – Donal heard chains and a rumble – and they stood back.
The crowd roared, and he saw the bull charge down the ramp, then
stop. Dead still. Like the bull on a wine bottle. Black and huge,
and still. The young lads didn’t move any nearer, but no one ran.
Donal moved a step closer. The truck was leaving, slowly. He
watched till it was gone, and the double gates were shut behind it.
The bull had moved. Not much – he didn’t think – the angle was
different, turned more towards Donal. Then the strange thing
happened. A man with a burning torch – Donal hadn’t seen him arrive
– walked right up to the bull and set fire to it. The two horns
were on fire. Red flames roared over its head.
There was a hand on Donal’s shoulder.
—You might want to step back a bit.
It was Gerry.
—Yeah, said Donal.
—Behind the barrier.
—Yeah.
He looked behind him. He’d gone further than he’d
thought – he hadn’t thought at all. He was turning away when the
bull moved.
—Fuckin’ Jesus.
It ran, dashed, in a broken stop – start – fast.
Every move covered distance. They wouldn’t have had a hope. But it
didn’t come at them. It went across the ring, then away and out a
different gate that Donal hadn’t seen. The horns three times
higher, because of the flames. It was gone just as Donal realised
he was falling. His chest hit the ground, his chin. He felt grit in
his hands. But he was fine, standing up again, grand. He felt his
chin. The ring was empty.
—Where’s he gone?
There was no blood in his mouth. He rubbed his
hands clean.
—That was great, said Donal.—Fuckin’ great.
What he’d just seen. What he’d just done.
—I didn’t know they set fire to the poor fuckers as
well, said Seán.
—Why do they?
—Fuck knows, said Gerry.—It’s mad.
They walked to the house. One more beer, out at the
pool. Gerry stuck on the music. Donal held the bottle against his
chin.
The way the bull had stood absolutely still.
He put the bottle on the table.
Then the movement. Across the ring. The speed. The
flames.
He went over to the pool.
The feeling he’d had, before the bull moved. Not
caring. But knowing he was safe – it hadn’t felt stupid.
He puked into the pool. On his knees. Straight
in.
Echo and the Bunnymen. The dogs howling.
There was no more. He lay down. He could hear the
hoover under the water.
Gerry was beside him.
—Feeling better?
—Sorry.
—No bother.
—How do you get vomit out of water?
—Don’t worry about it. We’ll throw in a bucket of
chlorine. That should fix it. It’ll eat it or something.
Gerry was sitting beside him.
—Alright?
—Grand, said Donal.—Thanks.
—No bother.
—A great day, said Donal.—Wasn’t it?
—Yeah, said Gerry.—Brilliant.
—Brilliant.
He lay there for a while longer, his face on his
arm. He felt good – clear. He’d get up in a minute. He might finish
the bottle. He was fine.
—Fuckin’ brilliant.
This was living, he thought. This was
happiness.