Future Popes of Ireland Read online

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you too,’ John Paul said.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  It was the coldness of these two words that had John Paul bounding after Peg, leaving the gang behind for a moment, Denise busy giving Jason an earful about what their mother would say if she caught him smoking.

  John Paul caught Peg before she crossed the road.

  ‘Wait, we can do a deal, you know I’ve said—’

  ‘All I want is for you to leave me alone. I’ve told you to do this shit somewhere else.’

  John Paul put on his cheekiest smile.

  ‘Don’t you like hanging out with your little bro?’

  ‘No.’

  It was the truth of this that had John Paul saying what he did next.

  ‘Can do you another deal if you want. Write off some of your debt. Poor Boyler over there has never copped off with a soul, but he’d be well keen. He’s not blond, of course – not your type – but I could ask Jason, he’s almost thirteen, and he’d be glad of a BJ, I don’t know how many packets that’d be worth but we can do a deal …’

  Peg’s face was finally enough to drain John Paul’s courage. She could have slapped him. She’d certainly wanted to; slapping John Paul had been a frequent wish since the day of the triplets’ Confirmation. She should have slapped him when he’d made her buy the cigarettes to keep his business going. She should have slapped him when he’d forced her to spend all her wages on his new runners. She should definitely have slapped him that afternoon. Peg wasn’t sure she had the strength for a slap, though, it was enough to keep the tears back, so her arms remained fixed by her side and all she managed was a ‘just fuck off, okay.’

  Peg was the one fucking off down the road though, leaving John Paul frozen for the second time that afternoon, his insides performing another complicated loop-de-loop. He couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt at finally having the better of his stuck-up older sister. There was guilt too, a sense that he’d gone too far; Peg wasn’t to be spoken to like Boyler or Jason Donnelly. I was only messing, he might have said, with his best smile on, though Peg had always been immune to his dimples. This is only business, he might have said – the truth, or part of it, for he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he had in finally seeing Peg squirm. I’ll give you a cut, he might have said – also the truth, because between his Confirmation money and his profits he was loaded, and it was only business sense to keep the supplier happy.

  I’m sorry, he might have said, if he’d bounded after her, which he had the instinct to, though his feet remained stuck – a shame, when he was wearing the fastest runners in Killester.

  9

  Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)

  revoir (to see again)

  Damien stood transfixed by the scene in front of him: Peg swooping a bed-sheet around her, a teenage boy leaping out of the bed, squeezing a white bottom into a pair of dark blue Levis, the curtains drawn in the afternoon, the statue still on, filling the room with an odd red light. Did he know then that this would be an image fixed upon his retina, sharp as any photograph?

  There was more. The boy shuffled into a T-shirt and turned around. Help! the boy’s face said, though Damien’s legs couldn’t budge. He stayed there, as the boy gulped and ran his fingers though his wavy blond hair and barely looked at Peg. Damien stood still while John Paul headed downstairs and chatted to the ladies out the front door and Rosie kept lookout and summoned the boy down the stairs. Peg was as stuck as Damien, not a breath out of her until Rosie returned.

  Then, Damien moved, walking over to the window beside Rosie, watching the boy stride through their garden, his cool returned, his ascent of the back wall smooth and swift, escape accomplished in seconds, though not before Damien, with a horrid lurch of his heart, could clock another glimpse of that Levi-clad bottom, easing its way over the back wall, taunting, somehow.

  10

  Trócaire Box (1992)

  Damien dropped another twenty pence into his Trócaire charity box. John Paul took a break from admiring his runners to let out a sigh.

  ‘Jesus, Damo, Trócaire’ll be feeding half of Africa by the time Lent’s over. Why do you keep chucking in change?’

  Damien blushed; impossible to tell John Paul the truth. John Paul was shrewd enough to glean some of it.

  ‘Paying for your impure thoughts, are you? Fuck, man, you’re better than me: I’d be broke if I had to give money to charity every time I thought of Clo.’

  ‘You’d be broke if you had to put in money every time you talked about her.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ John Paul said, laughing and throwing the nearest thing he could find – a rolled-up sock – across at Damien.

  Damien groaned and tossed it back, lobbing a ‘so did you see her today?’ across too as insurance against escalation. Damien’s calculation was correct; John Paul flopped down and launched into an account of the latest sighting of Clodagh Reynolds. Damien was the only person John Paul could trust with such secret information, so Damien was treated to daily updates. Not that Damien minded, any distraction welcome at the moment, an evening listening to and the way she wears her jumper round her waist, fuck, man, I thought I’d die preferable to dealing with the thoughts jagging about in his head.

  March had been a difficult month. Whenever Damien closed his eyes, Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy’s buttocks appeared like magic, crowding out the poor Holy Spirit. When Damien thought of Jesus on the cross, he had Ruadhan’s chest, those beautiful biceps that Damien had seen shuffling into a T-shirt. When Damien imagined Daniel valiantly running towards the lion, it was Ruadhan’s rear that bounced across the Colosseum. When Damien thought of his island, of all the pure poor he would help, Ruadhan was beside him, no need for many clothes in the heat of the island sun. God was no help. Damien had lost the trick of finding the channel and no matter how many coins he shoved into his Trócaire box, a certain pair of buttocks always reappeared, squeezing into jeans or easing over a wall or—

  ‘Jesus, not again! Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about Clo?’

  Damien flushed; he hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped in another twenty pence.

  ‘What’s to say I’m not looking after your soul?’

  John Paul laughed.

  ‘You’re too generous. Maybe I’ll get Peg to buy you a pair of these to pay you back.’

  John Paul’s runners were kicked up towards the ceiling, the better for Damien to re-admire them.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Damien knew well enough why Peg suddenly cared about the state of John Paul’s footwear; he had enough sins to worry about without adding blackmail.

  ‘You can’t be wearing runners from Dunnes next year, everyone will slag you to bits.’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  They both knew that Damien would be slagged to bits in September, new runners or not. It was the way of the world: Damien got the piss ripped out of him, John Paul beat up the piss-rippers, secondary school sure to be no different.

  ‘Your loss,’ John Paul said with a shrug, finally taking off his beloved Nikes and shuffling into bed properly.

  This was the part of the day that Damien dreaded most. John Paul could only talk about Clodagh Reynolds for so long; soon his snores would fill the room and Damien would be left with Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy’s buttocks. He’d have to add more money in the morning; Damien had a terrible feeling he was getting further and further in debt to God and wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to buy his way out. Sleep wasn’t even safe; who could tell what his mind would get up to in the dark. He needed something to stop the horrible parade of arses dancing across his brain; a lobotomy was the only answer, but Damien didn’t have enough money for that either.

  11

  Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)

  deçevoir (to deceive; to disappoint)

  As soon as Rosie saw Ruadhan Kennedy-Carthy, she understood what she had to do. Sibling solidarity kicked in and Rosie shifte
d into crisis mode. Gone was all the daydreamy fuzz; in a crisis, Rosie could be counted on.

  It was remarkable how calm she could be, really. She waited until John Paul had charmed and chatted the ladies out of the porch, some urgent photo opportunity at Mrs Nugent’s enough to buy enough time for Rosie to lead Ruadhan downstairs and out the back door. Damien she led too, into his room, where John Paul made their strategy of silence clear, not that Rosie needed to be told. The elastic band was in place, the three of them united by the crisis, getting through the takeaway dinner together, John Paul supplying the chat for the old ladies, while Rosie made sure Damien ate. There was talk about Deirdre Barlow’s antics in Coronation Street and Bishop Casey’s antics in real life and the whole afternoon seemed normal until Rosie went back upstairs.

  Peg was in bed, looking genuinely sick.

  ‘Don’t worry, Peg. It’ll be a secret.’

  It would; Rosie felt a tingle at the thought that the secret might bind them together.

  Peg didn’t turn. She had her earphones in, well enough to listen to her Walkman, not that Rosie needed it any more.

  12

  Cosmopolitan Magazine (1992)

  Rosie frowned. She was sure Peg had heard her; she was too perfectly still to be asleep. She chanced the repeat.

  ‘What was it like?’

  Rosie sighed into the silence. Other older sisters would have sat on Rosie’s bed and told her all about the dances at the Grove and who was the biggest ride at St Paul’s. Other older sisters would have told Rosie about what it was like. All Rosie had were the smuggled copies of Cosmopolitan she had stolen from Peg’s dresser, the quizzes already filled out by Denise Donnelly, riddles that Rosie didn’t know how to start deciphering.

  Which toy does your man fantasize about:

  a) body cream b) a strap-on dildo c) handcuffs d) all of the above?

  ‘Peg …’

  Who do you fantasize about:

  a) Kevin Costner b) Patrick Swayze c) Tom Cruise d) all of the above?

  Rosie had already clocked five minutes of furtive fumbling by the bike sheds with Stephen Daly. When Rosie wanted something, she leapt in, whether it was diving from a boulder into the Atlantic or sending a hand down Stephen Daly’s trousers. The five minutes behind the bike sheds had not evoked any particular feelings in Rosie, boredom swiftly replacing curiosity, but Stephen Daly had told the yard, so nobody in Rosie’s class was talking to her. Rosie had always been a bit too odd for the other girls but now they looked at her as if she were contaminated – a slut as well as a weirdo – even though she’d only done what they all whispered about. John Paul had given Stephen Daly an unasked-for thumping, but he couldn’t attack a class of girls, not that Rosie wanted him to, because she was fine in her own dream world, happy enough to spend the day doodling, self-sufficiency one of the first things she’d learnt in a house where she was invisible.

  How regularly do you perform oral sex for your man:

  a) once a month b) once a week c) daily d) all of the above?

  I’m here, Rosie wanted to call across, wondering why Peg felt a million miles away, when their hands could have touched in the space between their beds if they’d tried.

  ‘Peg …’

  She tried the name a bit louder.

  ‘Peg, what was it like?’

  Nothing.

  Is your older sister:

  a) a bitch b) a selfish bitch c) an oblivious bitch d) all of the above?

  Peg turned and faced her in the dark.

  ‘Rosie, go to sleep. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  13

  Fallons French Regular and Irregular Verb Book (1992)

  se taire (to keep quiet)

  Peg’s phone calls to Ruadhan received a variety of responses, all equally heartbreaking.

  The brisk severity of his father: ‘He’s not home.’

  The acid curtness of his mother: ‘I’m afraid Ruadhan is busy studying.’

  The awful kindness of his younger sister: ‘I’m sure he’ll call you back.’

  être; suivre (to be; to follow)

  No accident that they had the same conjugation in the first person singular: how could she exist without him to follow?

  seoir (to fit; to suit)

  ‘Forget about those D4 bollixes: Stevo’s sound. And he’s more in your league, you know? And anyways, you’re still probably a virgin after being with Speedy Gonzago: sounds like he was in and out faster than Flo-Jo. You’re better off without the prick. Ah, what’s wrong? Peg … what is it?’

  confirmer (to confirm)

  Denise Donnelly looked at the pregnancy test and sighed.

  ‘Most of those yokes are rip-offs. We’ll try another one.’

  avoir (to have)

  History sighed, stubbed out a cigarette. She’d seen it all before. The name changed, Tamar into Clarissa into Tess, lots of them, sitting in each other like Babushkas, their unwanted offspring swelling in their bellies, shame and zygotes bulging out the folds of the flesh. Even the shock of the tale – the awful awareness that while Peg’s heart was shrivelling, something else was twisting and growing – even that sting of the pregnancy was nothing new for history. Girls had sex from time to time and out the babies came.

  ouïr (to listen; obsolete)

  ‘Ruadhan, hello … did you hear what I said? … Ruadhan?’

  14

  Piggybank (1992)

  The Ninth Unofficial Miracle of John Paul Doyle was swift and brutal. Peg didn’t know why John Paul ratted her out. Maybe he’d leached her of enough runners and fags. Maybe he felt sorry for Granny Doyle. Or perhaps he was just eager to finally put an older sister in her place. Peg didn’t care what motivated him; as soon as she saw the fury on Granny Doyle’s back, she knew that her secret had been unveiled.

  Granny Doyle was quick to show Peg the door. Out she was, the house finally rid of her, possessions stuffed into a schoolbag, John Paul’s piggybank smashed and raided on the way out, the least the little git owed her. Damien sat sobbing in the bathroom, but Peg hadn’t the time to reassure him. In any case, what was there to say?

  She used up all her words once she was outside, cold and lonely in the rain, Granny Doyle at the kitchen window, her back inflexible. She pushed more words through the letterbox of 5 Dunluce Crescent, but Denise Donnelly wouldn’t open the door. Then she turned to look at her home and saw John Paul sitting in the porch with the door locked. One last sentence, she owed him that, one to knock all the twitching curtains of Dunluce Crescent off their rails.

  ‘You fucking bastard!’

  John Paul sat there unrepentant; he’d won.

  Then Peg was around the corner, disappeared in seconds.

  15

  St Vincent de Paul Bag (1992)

  Granny Doyle stripped Peg’s bed, duvets and sheets stuffed into St Vincent de Paul bags. Fresh sheets for a fresh start. She pressed the new sheets down on the bed, checking the corners, the way she’d been trained to as a nurse. It had always struck her as remarkable what a fresh set of sheets could do: marvellous how the rows of freshly made beds in the hospital looked, so neat without the complications of human limbs. Yet this bed looked sad. Not a moment’s pity for that one; this was the mantra that got Granny Doyle through the day. Hadn’t she brought somebody home – into her house, in the middle of the day – and worse, letting the triplets see what was going on, the secret tearing away at them over the weeks, though only one of them had the decency to tell her. No, not a moment’s pity for that one. People made their beds; they lay in them.

  Granny Doyle sat down on the bed, ruining the sheet’s crisp calm. She was too tired for this world! She’d murder a cigarette, but she hadn’t the energy to go down the stairs and fish one out from the dining-room cabinet. She caught the eye of the statue of the Sacred Heart; what was it to him if she had a smoke? He’d kept quiet too, hadn’t he, the lot of them in conspiracy against her, when all she was doing was trying to keep the place going and everybody
healthy and she was too old for this, too tired, and Danny had a lot to answer for, leaving her with this mess. Though she’d got what she prayed for, hadn’t she? That was the joke of the world, giving you what you wished for in a way you didn’t want. She’d sat in this very bedroom and prayed for more babies: it was shameful to have only the one, especially with so many buggies bustling across Dunluce Crescent, as if something was wrong with her. Well. There was Danny and the two miscarriages, scars in her heart each of them, and that was it. So, she should have been happy with all the rooms in the house finally full, shouldn’t she?

  Granny Doyle gripped the side of the bed, her knuckles whitening. It was a wicked world, there was nothing she could do to protect them, and that one always had her eye cocked for trouble. Not a moment’s pity for that one: this would get her through the day. Peg didn’t want to keep the baby; that was when Granny Doyle knew the door was the only direction Peg could head. She might have been able to work out some old-school solution – Peg sent off to Mayo for the while – but she wasn’t having anything to do with the other business. It was bad enough with the papers full of this X girl – poor child, she hadn’t asked to get pregnant at fourteen – who was denied passage to England and so there was all this uproar about the rights of women to access information when you’d hardly be giving out pamphlets in school about how to knife somebody, would you? The whole thing was a disgrace, especially considering how much women went through to get pregnant – the prayers she’d said in this room, the nights she’d lain there while Mick heaved and told her to ‘just stay still’ – and then that one said she didn’t want it, as if it were a toy to be thrown away. It was too much, this world.