Darkhouse

They both shook their heads.

‘We’ll think of something,’ said Joe. ‘Do you have to do this part? I mean, the thing doesn’t work anyway,’ he said, looking at the old mercury pedestal, ‘and won’t the shoot be really from the outside?’ She knew he was half serious.

‘I’m not even going to answer that,’ she said. And besides, he didn’t know her plan.

Shaun dropped his bag on the floor of the small Portakabin he had seen lowered earlier that day onto the concrete at the side of the soccer pitch.

‘What the hell kind of locker room is this?’ he said.

‘Can you see a locker in here anywhere?’ said Robert, looking around the empty room. He liked to tease his friend. ‘It’s called a changing room, Lucky. We change our clothes in here. Even when we think our balls will be frozen off.’

Shaun discovered early on that teasing was called slagging in Ireland and if you weren’t getting slagged, there was something wrong.

‘Out of the way,’ said one of the boys, pushing past him. The rest of the team, miserable in shorts and T-shirts, ran towards the blinding floodlights. The pitch was bald, hard and unseasonably cold. Running in head-to-toe black Nike along the sideline was the coach, Richie Bates. He was twenty-five years old, six foot three and two-hundred-and-ten pounds, every inch of his body carefully toned into hard muscle. His neck was short and thick and the top of his head was Action Man flat. Richie was a guard, short for garda, singular of gardai, the Irish police force. He worked with a sergeant out of the small sub-station in Mountcannon. After an hour of play, he was still running up and down, roaring.

‘Come on, lads! Move it! Move it!’

‘It’s freezing,’ said Robert, jogging after the ball.

‘If you run, you’ll warm up,’ said Richie. Robert rolled his eyes. He had just come on. Everyone around him had hot red faces and white breath. He was still ghostly pale, but knew the slightest effort would turn him to crimson and make his eyes stream. He was not a sportsman. He sweated too much, he breathed too heavily, his hair fell across his face, his legs were dark and hairy, thick and slow. But he could appreciate the irony. He was the sports writer for the school paper.

Shaun had the ball and was heading for goal. He stumbled and landed hard.

‘Get up, Lucchesi!’ said Richie instantly. Shaun breathed through the anger. Richie blew the whistle. ‘Right, lads, that’s it. Off you go. Well done.’ No-one responded.

Back in the changing room, Billy McMann, a short, skinny twelve-year-old, was hunched shivering in the corner, trying to do up his fly, but his fingers were curled and numb from the cold. He caught Shaun’s eye and gave a weak smile. Shaun stepped over, quickly zipped up the boy’s fly and patted him on the head.

‘Thanks,’ said Billy, blushing.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Shaun.

‘Jesus Christ, Billy! Can’t even zip up your own pants?’ It was Richie, standing, laughing in the doorway.

Shaun stared at him. ‘Give the kid a break.’

Billy fumbled with his bag.

‘You need to toughen up,’ said Richie, pointing at him.

‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ said Shaun. ‘His goddamn fingers were freezing.’

‘Watch your mouth, Lucchesi,’ said Richie. ‘Or we won’t be calling you Lucky for much longer.’ His look challenged the rest of the room.

‘You’re not in uniform now,’ someone shouted from the back.

‘You watch yourself, Cunningham,’ said Richie. ‘Or I’ll be waiting outside that off-licence when you’re picking up your next six pack.’ He left.

A few of the boys groaned. Then Robert said, ‘You’re still a fag, Lucky.’ Everyone laughed.

‘Do you need a lift?’ Robert asked Shaun.

‘Nah,’ said Shaun. ‘My dad’s coming.’

He walked out of the school and stood by the gates, watching all the other parents come and go with their sons. Joe eventually pulled up in the Jeep.

‘You’re such a loser,’ said Shaun through the window. ‘I’ve been standing out here for, like, twenty minutes.’

‘I was busy. I’m trying to pack.’

‘You forgot.’

‘No, I didn’t. Just get in, Shaun.’

‘What’s your hierarchy of things to remember, Dad? Like on a scale of one to ten, where do I come in?’

‘Here we go,’ said Joe.

‘Yeah, well, it’s a pain in the ass. You can remember everything for work, but—’

‘Drop it,’ snapped Joe.

‘Jeez, relax, would you? I’m the one who got stood up here. Again.’

‘I said, drop it,’ said Joe, too loud. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

They were just in the door when the phone rang. Joe picked up.

‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ said Danny Markey.

‘Please stop calling me at this number,’ said Joe. ‘I told you. It’s over.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,’ said Danny. ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’

They laughed. Shaun made a face at his father’s transformation.

‘So things that bad?’ asked Joe, ignoring Shaun.

‘You’ve no idea,’ said Danny. ‘I’m with Aldos Martinez or All Doze – guaranteed to help you sleep or your money back. And if that’s not enough, I’m out last night, date with Maria, and my wife calls looking for me. And this rookie on the TS tells her I’m finished hours ago. I go home telling her the hard night I’ve had and she knees me in the downtown area. I swear to God. What happened to, “He’s out on the road, I’ll get him to call you.” I’m gonna rip the guy’s rookie head off next time I see him. He’s a retard. Clancy called to fuck with him, pretended he was some pimp looking for his girl Juanita Sophia Marguerita whatever and the guy leaves his desk to go check. I shit you not. Anyway, it’s like everywhere I look I’m getting screwed.’

‘Wish I was there to offer my support,’ said Joe.

‘Yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Danny. ‘So how are those ugly Irish broads?’

‘They’re doing great,’ said Joe. ‘Want me to pass on your regards?’

‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll come over, wrap myself round one of those wide backs.’

‘Hey, Shaun isn’t doing too badly with his Irish girl.’