The Snapper

  —Is Sharon in? said Doris.

  —She’s at work. Why?

  Veronica knew; before she had it properly worked out.

  Doris tried to look past Veronica.

  —Why do you want her? said Veronica.

  Now Doris looked at Veronica.

  —Well, if you must know, she’s been messin’ around with George.—He’s the father.

  —Get lost, Doris, said Veronica.

  —I will not get lost now, said Doris.—She’s your daughter, isn’t she?

  There were two women coming up the road, four gates away.

  —Of course, said Doris,—what else would you expect from a—

  Veronica punched her in the face.

  —What happened yeh, Doris? said Mrs Foster.

  —Tha’ one hit her, said Mrs Caprani.—Yeh seen it yourself.

  —I mean before that.

  Doris wanted to get out of Rabbitte territory. She pulled herself away from the women and ran out the gate. She stopped on the path.

  —What happened, Doris? Mrs Foster asked again.

  She tried to get to Doris’s nose with a paper hankie.

  More people were coming.

  —Veronica Rabbitte’s after givin’ poor Doris an awful clatter, Mrs Caprani told them.—In the nose.

  Doris was still crying.

  —I’ll do it—it myself.

  She took the hankie.

  —Wha’ happened yeh, Doris?

  —Sh—Shar—

  —Shar, Doris? What shar?

  Inside, Veronica sat in the kitchen, putting sequins onto Linda’s dancing dress.

  Sharon lay on her bed. She couldn’t go downstairs, she couldn’t go to the Hikers, or anywhere. She was surrounded. She was snared. If she went anywhere or—she couldn’t. All because of that stupid fucker.

  —The fucker, she said to the ceiling.

  The baby was nothing. It happened. It was alright. Barrytown was good that way. Nobody minded. Guess the daddy was a hobby. But now Burgess—He’d cut her off from everything. She’d no friends now, and no places to go to. She couldn’t even look at her family. God, she wanted to die; really she did. She just lay there. She couldn’t do anything else.

  She was angry now. She thumped the bed.

  The bastard, the fucker; it wasn’t fuckin’ fair. She’d deny it, that was what she’d do. And she’d keep denying it. And denying it.

  Veronica and Jimmy Sr were down in the kitchen.

  —Desperate, so it is, said Jimmy Sr quietly.—Shockin’.

  Veronica put the dress down. She couldn’t look at another sequin.

  —That’s about the hundredth time you’ve said that, she told him.

  —Well, it is fuckin’ desperate.

  They heard Linda and Tracy coming up the hall.

  —Slow—Slow—Quick—Quick—Slow.

  —Get ou’! Jimmy Sr roared.

  —We know where we’re not wanted, said Linda. —Come on, Tracy.

  —Slow—Slow—Quick—

  They danced down the hall, into the front room to annoy Darren.

  Jimmy Sr was miserable.

  —Poor Sharon though.

  —Poor Sharon! said Veronica.—What about poor us?

  —Don’t start now, said Jimmy Sr.

  He was playing with a cold chip.

  —I suppose—She could’ve been more careful, he said.

  —She could’ve had more taste, said Veronica.

  —That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr, glad to be able to say it. —You’re right o’ course. That’s what’s so terrible about it. George Burgess.—Georgie Burgess. Jesus, Veronica, I think the cunt’s older than I am.

  He threw the chip at the window, and then felt stupid. He was feeling sorry for himself; he knew it. And now he was letting his eyes water.

  —It’s only yourself you’re worried about, Veronica told him.

  —Ah—I know, said Jimmy Sr.—But poor Sharon as well.

  He rubbed his eyes quickly.

  —I can’t even go ou’ for a fuckin’ pint.

  —It’s about time you stayed in.

  —Is there annythin’ good on?

  —I don’t know.

  —George fuckin’ Burgess.

  Then they heard the voice from upstairs.

  —THIS IS JIMMY RABBITTE - ALL - OVER - IRELAND.

  —Oh fuck, no, Jimmy Sr pleaded.—Not tonigh’. Please.

  Jimmy Sr gave Sharon a lift to work the next morning. They didn’t say much. Jimmy Sr asked a question.

  —How—?

  —It wasn’t him.

  —I never—

  —It wasn’t him, righ’.

  -Okay.—Okay.

  That was it.

  Jimmy Sr scooped out the teabag and flung it into a corner. His shoulders were at him. He felt shite. He wanted to go home.

  It wasn’t him, she’d said.

  He didn’t know. He tried it again: it wasn’t him. He believed her of course, but—If it wasn’t Burgess then who the fuck was it? She’d have to tell them. He had to know for certain that it was definitely someone else; anyone. She’d just have to fuckin’ tell them.

  Or else.

  He tried the tea. It was brutal.

  —There’s no fuckin’ way, Jackie. You know tha’.

  Jackie was sitting on the twins’ bed. Sharon was sitting on her own bed. She looked at the steam rising up off her tea, so she didn’t have to look at Jackie.

  —I know, said Jackie.

  It wasn’t enough, Jackie knew; not nearly. It didn’t sound as if she’d meant it enough.

  —I know tha‘, she said; better this time, she thought. —Jesus, the state of him. There’s no way you’d’ve—

  —Don’t say it, said Sharon.—I’ll get sick, I swear.

  Jackie tried to laugh. They looked at each other and then they really laughed. Sharon thought the happiness would burst out of her, through her ribs, out of her mouth.

  —Can yeh imagine it! she said.

  —Tha’ dirty big belly on top o’ yeh!

  —Stop it!

  They said nothing for a bit, and the giggling died. Sharon’s nails dug into her palms.

  —I KNOW WHA’ YOU’RE THIN—KIN’, she sang.

  Jackie laughed, at the floor.

  —Fuck off, she said.—Are yeh tellin’?

  —S’pose I’d better.

  —Jesus, Sharon, come on.

  —It was one o’ them Spanish sailors.

  —Wha’?

  —Yeh know, said Sharon.—Yeh do. In the Harp, I met him.

  —Oh, now I get yeh. Jesus, Sharon.

  —There was loads o’ them there, yeh know. There was a big boat, yeh know; down in the docks for two days, I think it was.

  She had this bit off by heart.

  —He was gorgeous, Jackie, I’m not jokin’ yeh.

  —Was he? Jesus.—Yeh never mentioned him before.

  -No. I didn’t want to.—Yeh know. It was only for one night.

  —Yeah. Do yeh know his address?

  —I don’t even know his fuckin’ name, Jackie.

  Manuel was the only Spanish name she could think of.

  —Jesus, said Jackie.—Go on annyway.

  —Ah, I just met him. In the Harp, yeh know. His English was brutal.—Come here, he had a sword.

  She’d just thought up that bit.

  —I’d say he did alrigh’, said Jackie, and they roared laughing.

  —That’s disgustin’, Jackie.

  —Where did yis—do it? Jackie asked.

  She was smiling. She was enjoying herself now.

  —In his hotel. The Ormond, yeh know.

  —Was he not supposed to sleep in his ship?

  —No, not really. They let them ou’ for the night.

  —Oh yeah.—Like Letter To Brezhnev.

  —God, yeah, said Sharon.—Jesus, I never thought o’ tha’.

  She was sure her nails had gone through the skin.

  —Was he nice?
/>
  —Fuckin’ gorgeous. Anyway, I wouldn’t’ve done it with him if he hadn’t o’ been, sure I wouldn’t?

  —No way.

  —He was very dark.

  She hoped to God the baby wouldn’t have red hair.

  —Was he good?

  —Fuckin’ brilliant. He had me nearly screamin’, I’m not jokin’ yeh.

  —Oh—

  —We did it in the bath as well.

  —God, I’d love tha’.

  —It was brilliant.

  —Yeah, said Jackie.—Yeh lucky bitch yeh, Sharon. I’m goin’ to go to the Harp from now on.—Come here, did he give you his cap?

  —Wha’?

  —His cap. Yeh know. His uniform.

  —Ah,no.

  —Did he not?—Yeh know Melanie Beglin? She has two o’ them. A German an’ a Swedish.

  —Does she?

  —Yeah. She’s a slut, tha’ one.—Jesus, sorry, Sharon! I didn’t mean—

  Sharon laughed.

  —She is though, said Jackie.—I hate her. Come here, Sharon, though. Why did Mister Burgess run away?

  —I don’t know!

  —I know it wasn’t—because. Yeh know. But—Let’s go an’ get pissed.

  —Ah—

  —Go on, Sharon. Howth. A bit o’ buzz.

  -Okay. Where’s me shoes?

  —There, look it. I’ll get them.

  —No, it’s alrigh’. Jesus, me fuckin’ back.—How’s Yvonne takin’ it?

  —Will yeh tell her about the sailor? said Sharon.

  -Okay.

  —Thanks.

  —I’ll be blinded by these bloody sequins, said Veronica.

  —Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Look it, said Veronica.—I’m still on Linda’s one.

  She held up the dress.

  —It looks like I’ve only started.

  —That’s shockin‘, said Jimmy Sr.—Why couldn’t they just play basketball or somethin’? It looks very nice though, Veronica.

  —Mm.

  Jimmy Sr wriggled around on the couch. It was past his going out time.

  —D‘yeh know wha’, Veronica? I’m nearly afraid to go down to the pub—because of—

  —Oh, shut up.

  —Do you believe her, Veronica?

  —Shut up.

  There was a bunch of kids, boys Darren’s age, sitting on the wall at the bus-stop when Sharon got off. They all stared at her as she went past them. When she’d gone about three gates one of them shouted.

  —How’s Mister Burgess?

  She didn’t turn or stop.

  —Yeh ride yeh.

  She kept walking.

  They were only kids.

  Still, she was shaking and kind of upset when she got home and upstairs. She didn’t know why really. Men and boys had been shouting things after her since she was thirteen and fourteen. She’d never liked it much, especially when she was very young, but she’d looked on it as a sort of a stupid compliment.

  Tonight was different though. Being called a ride wasn’t any sort of a compliment anymore.

  —What’re YOU fuckin’ lookin’ at? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.

  He was serious.

  —Nothin’.

  —D‘yeh think I have fuckin’ cancer or somethin’?

  —No!

  —Ah lads, now, said Bimbo.—There’s no need for tha’ sort o’ shite.

  —I didn’t do annythin’, Paddy insisted.

  —You were starin’ at me, said Jimmy Sr.—Annyway, he said out of nowhere. (They’d been talking about Stephen Roche.)—It wasn’t Burgess. It was a Spanish sailor.

  —She thinks he was Spanish annyway, Jackie told Mary.

  —Where? said Mary.

  —The Harp.

  —Oh, yeah.—D’you believe her?

  —Yeah. It couldn’t have been—

  —No.

  —Wiil Yvonne believe it, d’yeh think? Jackie asked.

  —Emm she might.

  —She won’t, sure she won’t?

  -No.—She might though.

  Two nights after Sharon told Jackie about the Spanish sailor George Burgess was waiting for her outside work.

  —God! said Sharon.—How did you know where I worked?

  —Did yeh not see me at the vegetables?

  He was having problems holding up his smile.

  —What d’you want, Mister Burgess?

  —George.

  —Mister Burgess.

  —Yeh didn’t turn up on Tuesday.

  —I know I didn’t. Wha’ d’yeh want?

  —I want to talk to yeh, Sharon.

  —That’s a pity now, Mister Burgess, cos I don’t want to talk to you.

  —Ah Sharon, please. I have to talk.

  The smile was gone.

  —I’m tormented.

  —You’re tormented! Yeh prick yeh. Who’s been flingin’ rocks at my window? An’ how did yeh know it was my window annyway? An’ sendin’ me stupid fuckin’ letters. Well?—You’ve made me the laughin’ stock o’ Barrytown, that I can’t even go ou’ without bein’ jeered. You’re tormented! Fuck off, Mister Burgess.

  She started to walk around him. He was going to stop her, but then he didn’t. He walked with her.

  —Look, Sharon, I swear I’ll leave you alone. On the Bible; forever. If yeh just listen to me for a minute. I swear.

  —Fuck off.

  —Please, Sharon. Please.

  —Get your fuckin’ hands off me!

  But she stopped.

  —Wha’? she said.

  —Here?

  —Yeah.

  —Can we not go into a pub or—or a coffee place or somethin’?

  —No, we can’t. Come on, I’m in a hurry.

  -Okay.

  She was watching Mister Burgess blushing.

  —Sharon, he said.—Sharon—I love you, Sharon. Don’t laugh; I do! I swear. On the—I love you. I’m very embarrassed, Sharon. I’ve been thinkin’ about it.—I think I—I want to take care of you—

  —You took care of me five months ago. Goodbye, Mister Burgess.

  She walked on.

  —It’s my son too, remember, said George.

  —Son!?

  —Baby, I meant baby.

  —Your baby?

  She couldn’t stop the laugh coming out.

  —You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, Mister Burgess?

  —I have, Sharon; yeah.

  He sighed. He looked at the ground. Then he looked at her for a second.

  —I’ve always liked yeh, Sharon; you know tha’. I —Sharon, I’ve been livin’ a lie for the last fifteen years. Twenty years. The happily married man. Huh. It’s taken you to make me cop on. You, Sharon.

  —Did you rehearse this, Mister Burgess?

  -No.—Yeah, I did. I’ve thought o’ nothin’ else, to be honest with yeh. I’ve been eatin an’ drinkin’ an’ sleepin’ —sleepin’ it, Sharon.

  —Bye bye, Mister Burgess.

  —Come to London with me, Sharon.

  —Wha’!?

  —I’ve a sister, another one, lives there an’—

  —Would you ever—

  —Please, Sharon; let me finish.—Thanks. Avril. Me sister. She lives very near QPR’s place, yeh know. Loftus Road. She’d put us up no problem, till we get a place of our own. I’ll get a—

  —Stop.

  Sharon looked straight at him. It wasn’t easy.

  —I’m not goin’ annywhere with yeh, Mister Burgess. I’m stayin’ here. An’ it’s not YOUR baby either. It’s not yours or annyone else’s. Will yeh leave me alone now?

  —Is it because I’m older than yeh?

  —It’s because I hate the fuckin’ sight of yeh.

  —Oh.—You’re not just sayin’ tha’?

  -No. I hate yeh. Will I sing it for yeh?

  —What abou’ the little baby?

  —Look; forget about the little baby, righ’. If yeh must know, you were off-target tha’ time annyway.

  —I was
not!

  That was going too far.

  —Yeh were. So now.

  Then she remembered.

  —An’ anyway, it was a Spanish sailor, if yeh must know.

  —Spanish?

  —Yeah. I sleep around, Mister Burgess. D’yeh know what I mean?

  —I find tha’ hard to believe, Sharon.

  Sharon laughed.

  —Go home, Mister Burgess. George. Go home.

  —But—

  —If yeh really want to do me a favour—

  —Annythin’, Sharon. You know I’d—

  —Shut up before yeh make an even bigger sap of yourself. Sorry.—Don’t ever talk abou’ wha’ we did to annyone again; okay?

  —Righ’, Sharon; okay. It’ll be our—

  —Bye bye.

  She went.

  He didn’t follow.

  —I’ll always remember you, Sharon.

  Sharon laughed again, quietly. That was that out of the way. She hoped. She felt better now. That poor man was some eejit.

  Sharon grabbed the boy. She held him by the hood of his sweatshirt.

  —Let go o’ me!

  She was twice as big as him. He wriggled and elbowed and tried to pull away from her but he wasn’t getting anywhere. They heard cloth ripping.

  —You’re after ripping me hoodie, said the boy.

  He stopped squirming. He was stunned. His ma had only bought it for him last week. When she saw it she’d—

  Sharon slapped him across the head.

  —Wha’!

  —Wha’ did yeh call me? said Sharon, and she slapped him again.

  —I didn’t call yeh ann’thin’!

  Sharon held onto the hood and swung him into the wall. There was another rip, a long one.

  —If you ever call me annythin’ again I’ll fuckin’ kill yeh, d’yeh hear me?

  The boy stood there against the wall, afraid to move in case there was another tear.

  —D’yeh hear me?

  He said nothing. His mates were at the corner, watching. Sharon looked down quickly to see if there was room. Then she lifted her leg and kneed him.

  —There, she said.

  She’d never done it before. It was easy. She’d do it again.

  For a while the boy forgot about his ripped hoodie and his ma.

  Sharon looked back, to make sure that he was still alive.

  He was. His mates were around him, in stitches.