I ordered a pint of Heineken for him.
—Are you not having one?
—I’m grand.
—Grand my hole, he said.—Have a fuckin’ pint. I’m not drinking alone.
—I have one.
—It’s nearly gone. Here, Carlo. Stick on a pint for this poor miserable fucker.
He clapped his hands.
—Well.
He wiped the back of his neck with a hand and rubbed the hand on the side of his shorts.
—First man to mention the weather gets a dig in the snot, he said.
That got a laugh. I’d gone from being alone in a quiet pub to being one of the lads in a busy one. But Fitzpatrick still had me cornered. He stood between me and the loose group of other men. I could only get into the gang if he let me in.
—I saw your ex there, Pat, said one.—I thought she was looking well.
—Where did you see her?
—In the scratcher beside me.
—Fuck off now.
I was allowed to laugh. But I had to look around Fitzpatrick to see who was talking. I shifted my stool a bit, dragged it away from the counter without standing up. But it didn’t work. I was still stuck behind him. They were talking about a woman now, someone they’d known all their lives.
—She was always a slapper, that one.
—I saw her in SuperValu. My Jesus – you’d swear she was on her way to a fuckin’ disco.
Who? I wanted to shout. Who?
—Ah, now, she makes the effort.
—And I’ll tell you now. I would.
—So would I – no fuckin’ qualms.
Who?
—Talking about qualms, said Fitzpatrick.—D’you want to guess who this guy’s married to?
He stood aside. He was unveiling me and he’d caught me off guard, my pint at my mouth. There were four men looking at me. Fitzpatrick put a big, wet open hand on the back of my head and pushed me forward.
—Yis’ll never guess, he said.
They looked at me.
A mouth opened.
—Who?
I’d have to speak. One of Fitzpatrick’s fingers was tapping the back of my head. I admit it: I wanted to name her.
—Rachel Carey, I said.
—Who?
—Off the telly, said Fitzpatrick.
—Who?
They were delighted, although they didn’t know who she was yet. She could have read the news, done the weather, delivered the gossip, cooked, sung, renovated, lost weight, hugged troubled teenagers, spoken Irish, any of the stuff they never watched but knew about.
—Which one is she?
The question wasn’t directed at me. I’d given them the name but they might as well have seen it on a screen. I wasn’t there. The four of them were throwing Rachel around, like dogs with a toy. It struck me: Fitzpatrick wasn’t one of them either. He was outside, like me, looking in.
—Hit the Ground Running, he said.
—What?
He was interrupting them.
—She’s your woman on Hit the Ground Running.
—Which one is that?
Fitzpatrick was bang against me. He had me pinned to the counter, but he was fading. They were messing, pretending – calm. They were acting the eejit. They were the lads I’d grown up with. They’d turn to me in a while.
—She crosses her legs when she’s bored, said Fitzpatrick.
That stunned me. He was right: she did. And they knew what he meant and who she was. Rachel’s legs were famous.
—Her?
—Fuckin’ hell.
They knew who she was. That part was over. They looked at me now. Not with new respect, or any respect. She was off the telly, so I was off the telly. She was a celebrity, and that made me an alien. These men were tight; they’d been growing up and old together. Fitzpatrick wasn’t one of them – I didn’t think he was now – but they knew him to see. They tolerated him. A bit of banter, a comment on the weather, the football, Cheryl Cole or the cunts in government, five of their minutes once or twice a week; that was Fitzpatrick’s lot. But he knew me and that made him useful. It made me human.
—This prick went to school with me, he told them now.
—Is that right? said one of them.—What school was that?
—St Martin’s CBS.
—Oh, for fuck sake.
—Fuck off now, said Fitzpatrick.—It wasn’t the worst.
—Oh, yes, it was, I said.
Research. The word bumped about in my head, back where Fitzpatrick had been tapping my skull. I’m going to write about this. I’m going to write – I’m going to keep writing.
They laughed.
—Have you met your man who presents it? one of them asked me.
Hit the Ground Running was a mix of The Apprentice and Dragons’ Den, an endurance test for young entrepreneurs ‘of all ages’. The presenter was Will O’Gorman, the former rugby player. The show had been running for five years and O’Gorman and Rachel had both joined ‘Team HGR’ at the start of the second season. It had quickly become the Will and Rachel show.
—I have, yeah, I said.
—What’s he like?
—Grand.
—Is he not up his own arse?
—Not really, I said.—He’s sound.
I was giving them the answer they wanted. O’Gorman was actually a cunt. Not that I’d met him. Rachel had told me, the last time we’d sat in the kitchen together.
—I hate saying it, Victor, I hate the word. But he’s a cunt – he really is.
I thought at the time that she was talking about me, and I was right. I thought too that hearing her call him a cunt confirmed my suspicions that they were having some kind of affair, but I was probably wrong. The lads here needed to know that Will O’Gorman, or ‘WOG’, as he was known among the guys who knew their rugby, was one of them. I could see it in front of me. I knew Will, so they knew Will. Fitzpatrick was still there, still hanging over me, but he wasn’t one of us.
They were waiting for more.
—He gives the impression of being a bit lackadaisical, I said.—But, actually, he’s – he’s very professional.
They nodded; they’d known it all along.
—So Rachel says, I told them.—And he’s a bit mad too.
They loved that.
—Pints? one of them asked.
He was talking to the other three.
—Stupid question.
—G’wan.
He looked at me.
—Yourself?
—Thanks, I said.
He didn’t want to look at Fitzpatrick. I could see that. They all wanted Fitzpatrick to go away. But he’d brought a gift, so they couldn’t be rude. I watched the man who was buying the round trying to think of Fitzpatrick’s name.
—No point in asking you, he said.—You’d never say no to a pint. What’s that piss you’re on?
—Heineken, said Fitzpatrick.—The official beer of fuckin’ rugby.
—The official beer of fuckin’ nothing.
Fitzpatrick could feel himself being pushed from the shore.
—Would you trust him, though? he asked me.
He’d stepped away so he could look at me and get in among the other men.
—Who?
—WOG, he said.—He’d get up on anything, that fella.
—Ah now, said one of them.—None of that. Keep it clean.
They didn’t like it.
—I trust my wife, I said.
I was smiling.
—With that fella around? said Fitzpatrick.
—You heard the man. Give it up.
—He’s not even with her any more, said Fitzpatrick.—That’s why he’s here.
—Shut it, said the man
who was buying the round.—We all have our issues, so fuck it. Enough.
I’d got rid of Fitzpatrick. He was still there but I could feel him floating away.
I’d seen these men before; I’d watched them. They flirted with women their own age, they gave the lounge girls plenty of space when they were passing through with the trays. They came in every second night, usually when I was leaving. I’d change that. I wanted this thing I’d missed out on, even a late glimpse of it.
—Though it has to be said, said one of the men.—She is a good-looking woman. No offence.
I smiled.
—God, yeah.
I kept smiling. I felt wretched. But the life I hadn’t had, I was getting a bit of it now. The companionship, the ease of it, the acceptance – I was going to live it.
—We’ll leave it at that, said the round-buyer.—We’re fans.
—We fuckin’ are.
We laughed.
* * *
I sat at the table, and wrote. She pulled me to the floor by the sleeve of my jumper. Then she kneeled in front of me – she wasn’t smiling. She turned her back and dropped onto her elbows. I put on a record. I was listening to music again. I’d brought my record player and some of the records across from the house. I’d texted Rachel and asked her if I could take it. Yes. X. It had been in the hall when I rang the bell, the deck, speakers, amp, the wires all neatly coiled and in a Lidl bag. The cleaner, a Russian or Latvian woman – I could never remember her name – helped me get the speakers into the back of the car.
—Rachel isn’t in, no?
—No.
—Okay.
I’d put the deck on the table, in front of me, behind the laptop. I’d get something better, a proper cabinet or something, but I quite liked the idea of looking up from the screen and seeing the record turning. I could hear myself in a studio, telling some big-eyed presenter about my work routine. Vinyl? God, yeah. Right in front of me. I played the first side of Blood on the Tracks and wrote a page. I lifted the needle and left. I was happy, somehow; there was bounce in me. I was a man on his way to meet his friends.
I was worried about Fitzpatrick. I’d get the timing or the day wrong; there’d be no one there, or I’d be too early and be stuck with him. They’d never see me alone. I was thinking the way I’d done when I was a teenager. I’d stand at the front door and try to see through the pebbled glass, make sure it was Moonshine passing on the road outside and not Cyril Toner or some other spa, before I opened the door and got stuck. There was always the timing, always the gamble.
They were there, the men, whoever they were. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had to remember names, or the last time I’d thought it mattered. I didn’t go straight across to them; I couldn’t do that. I went to the bar, a bit to their left, and ordered my pint.
—Pint, please, Carl; thanks.
I looked around – no sign of Fitzpatrick. One of the men was looking my way. I gave him the chin lift, hello. He nodded, grimaced. One of his friends turned on his stool and looked.
—Ah – good man.
I was in.
—Are you alright for drink? I asked.
He looked at his own pint.
—I think we’re alright, he said.—No – fuck it, go on ahead.
—Three pints, is it?
—Just three.
—No one in the jacks or gone for a smoke?
—No, he said.—It’s just us tonight.
—Three more pints as well, Carl; thanks.
The man on the stool pushed it back and I became the fourth corner. Liam, Pat, Harry. They were the men there that night.
—I’m Victor, by the way.
—I googled yeh.
—And?
—Fuck all.
We laughed.
—Rachel always keeps her private life private, I said.—We were a bit stupid about that when we were younger.
—Wise move, said Liam.
—We were just talking about the football, said Pat.—The money – the amount the fuckers get paid.
—It’s mad money, said Harry.—But it’s there. The money’s in football. So fair play to them.
—Your man that owns Liverpool, did you ever see his wife?
—Don’t think so, said Harry.
—My Christ, said Pat.—Beautiful – fuckin’ beautiful. Mature woman, you know. Beautiful.
—What’s your point?
—No point. But it’s all football. Today’s game. The women and the money. Isn’t it?
He looked at me. I smiled. I could tell: Pat was the fucker and he wanted to mention Rachel. The women and the money. But he left me alone. I paid for the pints and handed them around. They felt cold and great in my hand. I’d be drinking four pints before closing time. I was in the round. I was delighted – I really was. My gut, my body, felt open, ready to take its share.
The last time I’d paid attention to football I’d followed Derby County. I knew enough; announcing this would make me a serious football man. It would give me the needed decades and misery. But I knew nothing about Derby these days – who managed them, what Irish players played for them, the chances of promotion next season, the more recent history. I’d do my homework; I’d enjoy it. I’d fall back in love with Derby County.
I liked Harry. There was a bit of colour about him. The women liked Harry. I knew that before I saw the proof. Pat was a fat imp. A messer. He had edge and he was clever. He could read faces. He’d always known his place in the gang. I was a kid again, reading the signs. That was what had happened when my father died: I’d stopped being able to read.
—Here we go, said Pat.
My back was to the door but I knew: women had walked in. Pat was trying to make himself taller. Liam put his pint on the counter, grabbed his belt at the back and hoisted his jeans. Harry did nothing but the bit of tiredness in his face was gone. I knew what all of this meant: nothing. I’d turn and see a group of mature women – I love the word ‘mature’. I could hear them, deciding what they’d have. I loved that about women – all those lived years and they still didn’t know what they’d have to drink when they walked into a pub. Or they pretended not to know, and I loved the effort that went into it. They wouldn’t be going wild, these women. They’d just add screams to the laughter coming up to closing time and they’d flirt – slightly – with my new friends, on the way back from the toilet or a smoke in the beer garden. They’d have known one another for years – school, weddings, house sales, break-ups. They’d know the wives, ex-wives, husbands, ex-husbands.
Girls walk into a room. The boys sit up. Women in their late forties walk into a room. Men in their fifties sit up, straighten their backs, pull down the fronts of their hoodies. It made me want to cry. I felt I was going right back into the life I’d missed.
I still hadn’t looked. The women had gone to one of the high tables near the row of windows. I heard the scrape of stools and I saw one of the lounge girls fill a tray with drinks and mixers and head over to them. Things settled. Liam’s pint was back in his paw – he was a big man. Harry was waiting for Carl to see him, so he could show him four fingers and order his round.
—Where were we? said Liam.
—Right fuckin’ here, said Pat.
—Going anywhere this year, Victor? Liam asked.
He’d used my name but it still took me a while to realise that he was talking to me.
—I doubt it, I said.—I’ve only moved in.
—Too much on.
—Yeah.
—Too fuckin’ skint.
—That too. What about yourself?
What about yourself? I was doing well, I thought. I’d heard men say that, the uncles and my father, gathered in the hall and kitchen at home, when I was a child. What about yourself? Ah sure – I was back home, back across the river. There was definitely
a novel in me.
—The Algarve, said Liam.
—You should see his place, said Pat.—Fuckin’ magnificent.
There was something vicious in the words, envy sharpened to a point.
—You have a place there? I asked Liam.
—Kind of, he said.
—You should see it.
—A timeshare thing, said Liam.
—Great.
—Unbelievable, said Pat.—Two golf courses, by the way. Fuckin’ two.
—Great.
—D’you play, yourself, Victor?
—No.
—Do you not?
—No, I said.—I never got round to it.
—Never too late, said Harry.
—I only started a few years back, said Pat.
—And you’re still shite, said Liam.
—Fuck off, you.
Pat turned his eyes on me again.
—D’you have a place? Abroad, like?
—No, I lied.
It wasn’t a lie, but it would have been a year before.
I saw the man I’d spoken to a few days back, Gerry, the hill walker. I nodded, smiled. He smiled back, and got back talking to his friend beside him. He was keeping an eye on the women too, I saw.
—We don’t take it too seriously, said Harry.
—What?
—The golf.
—To avoid the disappointment, said Liam.—The same with everything. That’s what it’s all about now, isn’t it? From here on in. Avoiding disappointment.
—Will you listen to fuckin’ Aristotle.
Would I play golf? Would I go that far? I didn’t think so. Catching up on Derby County would be enough, and probably a basic knowledge of current rugby. I’d have to get Sky Sports. I’d have to watch it.
These men had done alright. They’d coped with the mortgages, their kids were done or nearly done with school, their houses were a bit bigger than the ones they’d grown up in. Or, the houses they’d lived in before the break-ups. I knew nothing yet, but I was guessing that Harry was still married and sliding his arm around a wife and Pat was on his own in half a house or an apartment. I wasn’t sure about Liam. I wasn’t sure about anything. There was something about Pat’s anger; he was still catching up, still grieving. Why did I care? I wanted to know them.