Future Popes of Ireland Read online

  *

  Outside, Mark could barely look Damien in the eye.

  ‘We’re going to Café en Seine for a drink, if you want,’ Damien attempted, knowing that Mark would decline.

  ‘No thanks.’

  It was Mark’s face that prompted Damien’s response.

  ‘You know what your problem is?’

  ‘I’d say you can’t wait to tell me.’

  ‘You can’t bear to compromise. You know where that gets you. If you’d been nicer to your adviser, you’d probably still have funding.’

  The colour drained from Mark’s face.

  ‘I should take lessons from you. Your tongue’s so far up Bertie’s arse you could lick his shites.’

  So, here it was, the end. Colour returned to Mark’s cheeks before he stormed off. Damien stayed standing on Dawson Street like an eejit, surprised by the sense of loss as much as release: he wouldn’t feel Mark’s stubble scratch against his face again; he wouldn’t rest his head against his chest; he wouldn’t be there to hold Mark when he got sad; nobody would be there to make fun of Damien in the morning when he blow-dried his hair.

  He should go home, he knew. Start to pack. Apologize? Leave. This he couldn’t face, though, not yet, so when ‘are you coming for one?’ was shouted in his direction, his legs headed for Café en Seine, Damien revelling in the fact that the establishment was one of the villains of Mark’s dissertation. He’d show his face; have the one. Or two. Eamon or John might buy him a beer and there was a lot to talk about, policies to be perfected and new beginnings to be toasted, no need for Mark to drag him down.

  But then there was somebody else in Damien’s path before he could find Eamon Ryan or John Gormley. Damien froze, taking it all in: the ridiculous hat; the half-second of panic before a grin was found.

  ‘Damo!’

  Here was the figure who had punched Rory O’Donoghue. Here was the boy who had called him faggot. Here was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with modern Ireland, stretching a grin to breaking point and gesturing towards the bar.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Series VII:

  The Tricks of John Paul Doyle

  (1992–2007)

  1

  iPhone (2007)

  The trick was to keep moving.

  Pope John Paul III worked the crowds in Café en Seine, shaking hands and slapping backs and holding up the exclusive prototype he’d managed to snag. Brilliant, isn’t it? he asked, unclear if it was the phone, the picture, or the Greens’ decision to go into government with Fianna Fáil. Why not all three? John Paul couldn’t be happier – the trick was to keep smiling – and it was brilliant to record every moment of the night. Some of the shite ones he’d delete, where the flash was too bright or the bar too dark or his cheeks strained at the edges. Maybe there was some technology that could airbrush in the perfect smile if you’d messed up in a photo; if this didn’t already exist, he’d have to invent it, he’d write it down on his phone. In the meantime, more drinks – the trick was to keep buzzed; the trick was to pay on credit – and a photo with his brother.

  The appearance of Damien Doyle threatened to awaken the black hole inside him, but John Paul had it under control; keep the liver busy and the black hole got confused. Damien had a better suit than he did and a mad grin on his face, hammered out of his tree he was, he could never hold his drink, though perhaps that had changed. Years since they’d had a pint. Had they, in fact, ever had a pint? Cups of tea and strained chat and cans at Christmas, the odd times they overlapped at 7 Dunluce Crescent. Sharing a pint, so, was an historic occasion and even though John Paul had an agenda, there was a part of him that was glad to sit in a bar with his brother (he wished that they could flee the chandeliers and the dark wood and the coffee cocktails and find some old man’s pub where they could chat into the dawn) despite everything Damien had done.

  ‘Here we go!’ John Paul said, depositing more drinks with a smile.

  ‘Let me,’ Damien said, fumbling for his wallet and almost falling off the stool with the effort.

  ‘Don’t even!’ Clodagh said. ‘It’s a small price to pay for your advice.’

  Another sin to add to Damien Doyle’s ledger: he was siding with Clodagh.

  ‘Damien thinks that gold cufflinks are a terrible idea,’ Clodagh announced, as Damien stared at his pint. ‘And he is not a fan of novelty boxers for the groomsmen either.’

  A point in his favour: Damien had agreed to be a groomsman, ensuring that Clodagh’s desire for symmetry would be satisfied.

  ‘I see you’ve been catching up!’ John Paul said, his best gormless grin on.

  ‘And you can’t be spray-painting peacocks for the lawn,’ Clodagh continued. ‘Bad for the environment, isn’t it, Damien?’

  John Paul tried his catchphrase: ‘Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!’

  They needed some stunning images if they were to make it into a decent magazine – Clodagh was the one who’d suggested finding golden butterflies and releasing them as confetti, hardly approved by the Green Party, John Paul imagined – but John Paul knew what Clodagh was at, coddling Damien into solidarity, the things we have to put up with!

  ‘And Rosie can’t have blue hair if she wants to be a bridesmaid,’ Clodagh said, waving her finger through the air. ‘Personally, I love that she’s got her own sense of style but from a colour scheme perspective, I just think it might clash, you know what I mean?’

  Damien did, or he pretended to, sitting with his pint like some nodding dog. John Paul relaxed; Damien didn’t want to talk about Rosie, which was fine as far as he was concerned. He didn’t even know if she’d come to the wedding and he hadn’t thought he cared until he felt some powerful stretch in his chest at the idea of the three of them together again; he had to sit down.

  ‘I’m just glad the Green Party isn’t that extreme,’ Clodagh said. ‘I mean, you have to compromise, don’t you?’

  He had to credit her, she was a great veerer of conversations, leading Damien smoothly from how prickly Rosie could be to what a good thing it was that the Greens weren’t going to be kicking up too much fuss.

  ‘I just think we’re lucky to be free of all these regulations,’ Clodagh said, swooping her hands through the air like she was performing a dance move. ‘I mean, that’s what was holding us back from developing, wasn’t it? Like, haven’t we had enough of people telling us what to do in this country! I mean, I am all for choice: everybody should be able to love who they want.’

  Clodagh gripped Damien’s hand; it was magnificent, the way she could keep focus, even when she was pissed.

  ‘And it’s the same everywhere, isn’t it? All we want is freedom! Nobody should be telling us what to do, do you know what I mean?’

  John Paul saw the struggle on Damien’s face – perhaps there were circumstances when a government should tell citizens and corporations what to do and perhaps economic and personal freedoms were different fights – but Damien had had enough arguing that day, all he could manage was a nod. On Clodagh moved, to the blissful deregulation of the telecommunications industry and her success in setting up Fiannix, a nimble operation that would only be possible in a light-touch environment (‘and isn’t that what we all want, a light touch!’ Clodagh said, gripping Damien’s hand and laughing, the best of mates), and by the way, did Damien have any inside information on who might be the Communications Minister, between friends, and the Greens didn’t have any plans to interfere with corporate taxation, did they, not now they were in with Fianna Fáil? She was magnificent, the perfect partner for John Paul; they could conquer continents together.

  John Paul remembered to smile. Some gobshite wanted a photo, which meant the pope’s hat went back on; uncomfortable, with the heat of the place. He longed to run away to a less crowded bar or even to slip outside for a fag, but he wasn’t sure that he should leave Damien with Clodagh. Damien was turning the wrong shade of green – he still couldn’t handle his drink – and Damie
n puking in Clo’s Dolce & Gabbana bag might put a wrinkle in their best-of-friends business. But why did he need to protect his brother? Couldn’t Damien cop on himself and know when to head to the jacks? Damien, certainly, hadn’t protected John Paul, had he? All in the past, John Paul wanted to say, through a hearty back-slap, but his hands had turned into fists. Something was stirring inside John Paul’s chest too and he wasn’t sure if it was the black hole or the oyster tacos or the too many shots or the past, poking away at him, when all he wanted to do was forget.

  The trick was to keep moving.

  ‘J.P., you all right?’

  ‘Hey, it’s the Irish Pope!’

  ‘Pope J.P. is in the house!’

  He felt completely scuttered, all of a sudden, a miracle that his legs could wobble around the crowds. Jason Donnelly heyyyyed him from across the bar. The chandelier danced down from the ceiling and swirled in front of his eyes. A patterned rug launched from the floor. Fat-faced gobshites chuckled.

  ‘J.P., are you all right?’ Clo called.

  The trick was to say yes, but he hadn’t the words.

  The trick was to find a smile, but he couldn’t find the shape.

  The trick was to keep moving: out of this bar, away from the past and – most especially – steer clear of the Doyles, because when he thought about it Damien had a lot to answer for.

  2

  Piggybank (1992)

  John Paul read the room immediately. He was fairly buzzed after a couple of cans of Bulmers but the sight of Granny Doyle sobered him instantly. She was still as stone, hands planted on the sink, eyes fixed on the wall, as Peg shouted in through the kitchen window, a wet and wild thing. If any of Peg’s words made any impression, Granny Doyle’s body didn’t show it; she could have been a statue, there by the sink, the tap trickling into an overflowing saucepan. Peg continued to shout and sob outside; John Paul remained frozen, his eyes fixed on Granny Doyle’s unflinching back.

  So Damien had told. An entirely predictable course of events when he thought about it, yet John Paul had never considered the possibility. He felt the shift in the room, the carpet ripped from under his feet, all the furniture of his life struggling to figure out a new arrangement.

  ‘Get out!’

  John Paul started at the sound of Granny Doyle’s roar. She had turned, finally, but it wasn’t Peg she was looking at, but him. She’d never shouted at him before, not with any weight behind the words, and John Paul shook, startled by the rage in her voice. Her face trembled but the rest of her body remained calm and John Paul wanted to go over to her and hug her or tell her he was sorry or turn off the trickling tap but before he could move she let out another shout.

  ‘I’ve told you now: get out!’

  She was exerting all her energy to stay still, he could see that. The cider had made his legs wobbly, so he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to walk over to her and quiet her. A thousand actions seemed possible in the fuzz of his brain, opening the window and letting Peg in from the rain included, but when his legs decided to move, they did what Granny Doyle suggested; John Paul got out.

  He leant against the stairs, the cider catching up with him. Minutes passed, the quiet of the house threatening to kill him. The walls seemed ready to come for him too, so he opened the door, not expecting Peg to be out there, but there she was, through the glass of the porch, banging the door of 5 Dunluce Crescent. The Donnellys were definitely home but their door remained closed. Peg battered her knuckles against the wood, Denise! pushed through the letterbox, but the only thing to move were the curtains. Other curtains twitched on Dunluce Crescent. John Paul had the sense that the whole road was watching, peering out at the desperate figure in the wind and the rain, while Granny Doyle stayed rooted in the kitchen, hands either side of the sink while the water continued to run.

  Peg turned and saw him. It would have been the easiest thing to open the porch door. A simple slide of the latch and she’d be in. John Paul didn’t open the door. Instead, he stared at his older sister, watching the cogs turn in her brain. You ratted me out, you bastard, her face said and even though he might have cleared things up, John Paul’s head did not shake from side to side nor did his hand reach for the latch. ‘You fucking bastard’, Peg shouted. John Paul waited for a fuck off but Peg was beyond that now, a purer form of hatred sent towards him, an energy that he returned, because how dare she look at him like that?

  Then she was gone, disappeared around the corner.

  *

  John Paul’s legs swayed and he found himself on one of the porch’s folding chairs, staring out at the rain. She’d be back later. Granny Doyle’s temper would cool. She’d forgive John Paul for not telling her too; she’d have to. Curtains shifted next door and John Paul knew that Mrs Donnelly was only too eager for the news of what was happening, though she didn’t show her face. The road was completely quiet, the lash of the wind and the rain against the glass the only sound. Peg hadn’t her coat on, something that Granny Doyle might scold her about, eventually, when everything shifted back to normal and John Paul’s knees stopped knocking into each other.

  John Paul walked upstairs, a mistake: the rain would have shaken off his feelings. Rosie was still out, up to who knew what with who knew who; John Paul had an urge to go and thump him – one sister at least he could protect – but the man of the house found his legs leading him to his own room, where a smashed piggybank greeted him.

  Peg had cleaned it out. She’d taken all of his Confirmation money and his profits from the cigarette business, something that Peg wouldn’t be facilitating any more. It hit John Paul then that she’d turned a corner she might not come back from; he crouched on the floor and picked up the pieces of his piggybank for the sake of something to do.

  Damien appeared at the doorway and wrung out words through tears.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  John Paul glared at his brother, fists ready to push him down the stairs if it came to it. John Paul couldn’t shout at Peg or Granny Doyle so here was somebody to blame, the poor sap who John Paul had always stood up for; he’d never imagined Damien could do something like this.

  So he told the little faggot to fuck off, making every word count, the last he’d speak to Damien, so he resolved, as he flopped down onto the bed and wriggled under the covers, tears threatening him too, but he’d keep them in, steel coursing through his veins, fists balled for a fight, sleep a long way off.

  3

  Triple X Mints (1993)

  The trick was to stay away from 7 Dunluce Crescent as long as possible.

  Some days he went back to Jason Donnelly’s to play Nintendo, but even 5 Dunluce Crescent was compromised: the ghost of Peg hung around Denise’s room, beside the cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke.

  ‘You’re lucky, I wish she’d disappear,’ Jason said, one day when Denise was wrecking his head with her Enya phase, but once he saw the face on John Paul he never mentioned Peg again.

  Most days they went deep into the woods of St Anne’s Park. Some days, they experimented: glue, the vodka that Jason stole off Denise, the weed that Keifo’s cousin got them. Some days they brought spray cans and swirled out their immortality in squiggly capitals or wrote glorious revenges against the teachers who tormented them. Some days they sat in some empty ruin that stank of piss and chatted shite about the birds they’d bang and the teachers they’d batter and the glorious goals they’d score that would make even Eamon Dunphy cum in his kacks.

  The trick was to always come prepared: a couple of Triple X Mints strong enough to blast away the trace of most things, cider or vodka or weed soon replaced with minty freshness.

  The trick was to keep a good distance. Granny Doyle always pottered about in the kitchen until he came home, but if he hovered by the doorway they could get through the chat without her seeing anything.

  Or without her saying anything. Granny Doyle’s nose was sharp enough and some nights he was sure she could smell the weed on him. Whatever her olfactory powers, the
tongue of Granny Doyle could be silent when it wanted and most days they could make it through the ritual with a nod and a ‘night’ before John Paul stumbled upstairs to copy Damien’s homework.

  4

  Riverdance Video (1994)

  The trick was to keep her happy.

  Granny Doyle squinted at the video in front of her.

  ‘Ah, you didn’t need to be bothering with this nonsense! Where did you get this?’

  ‘I picked it up at HMV in town,’ John Paul said, which was technically true, though he hadn’t taken it to the till: the trick was to deal in half-truths.

  ‘We had a half-day,’ Jason Donnelly added, which was also technically true, although their teachers might not have seen it that way.

  ‘Would you look at the cut of them!’ Granny Doyle said, examining the box. ‘Yer man Flatley prancing about in leather pants and that one beside him, flailing her arms about like she’s drowning! It’s a great gladness that Mammy didn’t have to see this like!’

  Granny Doyle was chuffed to bits, though, in her element when she was giving out about something and could dangle some controversy in front of the rest of the porch.

  ‘I think it’s lovely to see all the young people getting involved in Irish dancing again,’ Mrs Fay said.

  ‘I wish Anuna got more credit,’ Mrs McGinty sniffed. ‘The singers were the real stars of the show, not that infernal tapping: I had a headache by the end of it.’

  ‘Michael Flatley is welcome to give me a headache any day!’ Mrs Nugent said, grabbing the box from Granny Doyle. ‘Look at those leather pants!’

  Mrs McGinty attempted to shatter glass with her tut.

  ‘Ah, don’t be at me – I’d say half the girls in that choir of yours have their eyes on him as well; sure, all the “nourishing” and “cherishing” they’d be singing about, there’s only one man they could be talking about – they’ll have to get in line, though!’