Future Popes of Ireland Page 25

  ‘I tell you, we’ll comb this beach later,’ Mrs Nugent said. ‘We’ll find it!’

  Whatever, John Paul’s exhalation of smoke spelt, though underneath his fuck this world face, his heart gave a tiny twist, a pea bothering a princess; he did want to find his missing phone because it had all of Clodagh’s old texts saved. It didn’t matter that she had a new phone with a zebra-case and the capacity to store picture messages from whatever Trinity twerp she was seeing; in his saved messages on the Nokia 3110 Clodagh Reynolds professed her love for John Paul Doyle in ALL CAPS.

  ‘Janey, maybe I should get Saint Ultán to sort out this weather,’ Mrs Nugent said as the drizzle started. ‘Doesn’t he know I came to Clougheally to get my tan?’

  Whatever, John Paul’s shrug wanted to say, though he coughed a laugh out too. Mrs Nugent had the trick of it, she had the words to pierce through the armour and tickle that blackened heart of his. She was the only one who knew what to do, playing penny poker with him and going for strolls and knowing when to keep the chat in the air and when to let silence settle and – crucially – always having a packet of fags at the ready. He couldn’t bear the gaze of the Doyles, looking at him like he was saviour of the family or the scourge of it, depending upon whose eyes were involved. Mrs Nugent saw him, the worst of him, and still thought he was worth looking at, a task that should have been Clodagh’s but she hadn’t returned his gaze when he’d thrown pebbles then rocks at her window and her eyes hadn’t known where to look when she’d come to visit him in the hospital, for all of five minutes; it would have been better if she’d worn sunglasses.

  ‘Should we head back?’ Mrs Nugent asked, looking up at the clouds.

  John Paul didn’t answer, but his legs led them to a bit of the cliff they could shelter under. He couldn’t face the house; the Doyles would be waiting there and one of the major rules was to avoid their gaze. Aunty Mary clearly blamed him for the presence of the lot of them in her house, disturbing the curated quiet of her Christmas and New Year’s. Damien didn’t know where to look, spent all his time in his room, wanking to the Virgin Mary or listening to the Corrs, who the fuck cared. Granny Doyle was the worst. She was in early in the morning, yanking the curtains open. Go on and mow the lawn, would you? I’ve a list of messages for you to get. Mary needs the gutters cleaned, come on now, up out of bed, we’ve no time for this. She’d already decided that what John Paul had done in the bath was taboo, ‘a little accident’ the preferred vocabulary for the events of late 1997.

  John Paul fumbled for another cigarette, every second without it a terror and a torture, the wind out to get him, until Mrs Nugent cupped her hands and then – relief! – the pins and needles in his head stopped.

  Mrs Nugent leant in for a light and let out a titter.

  ‘I hope you haven’t dragged me over here to seduce me: what will Sister Angela say?’

  John Paul managed a laugh.

  Oh, there’ll be murder, he might have said once, but the sentence was stuck.

  ‘Sure, we won’t tell her,’ Mrs Nugent said.

  They were all asking for him at the nursing home, Mrs Nugent had said. Even the nuns. Who’d petitioned to the guards on his behalf: he’d have some community service to do, though that was what got him in trouble in the first place. Sister Angela had sat with him in the hospital and she hadn’t a word of judgement. They could say a prayer, she’d said, and they had, ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’ stones that he didn’t need to think about, the familiar words helpful in quieting his mind.

  ‘God, maybe we should ask Saint Ultán for some feathers,’ Mrs Nugent said, blinking as the rain found a way to move sideways. ‘I’d say they’d come in handy here, though poor craters, wouldn’t you be wanting more than feathers to get through three hundred years in this place?’

  She looked out at the boulder where the Children of Lir were said to have huddled as swans, the same rock that the triplets had dived off into the sea together, back when they were eight and oblivious, incredible that a leap from such a piddly little thing could have seemed so terrifying.

  ‘Though who knows what Clougheally was like back then,’ Mrs Nugent continued. ‘Maybe it was hopping: jammers with tourists and theme parks and discos to rival Dublin.’

  John Paul coughed out a laugh.

  ‘Tanning salons,’ he said, surprised at the words coming out loud.

  Fuck it, though, wasn’t he only seventeen and the world ahead of him? He’d climbed up onto that rock once, back when it had scared the shite out of him; he could get out of this hole. He didn’t need a Leaving Cert or Clodagh Reynolds. Wasn’t there nothing that John Paul Doyle couldn’t do?

  ‘Hookah bars,’ John Paul said, earning a laugh from Mrs Nugent.

  Talking about shite would be a rope to climb up. This would be another rule. Keep things light and breezy. Avoid the dark.

  ‘One of them inflatable slides down to the sea,’ Mrs Nugent said.

  He wouldn’t rummage around for some missing phone; he’d get a new one with his own fancy fucking cover.

  ‘Bouncy castles on the beach,’ John Paul said.

  He’d pick himself up. Keep going. The trick was to keep moving.

  ‘Them toadstools with the waterfalls that they have at Mosney,’ Mrs Nugent said.

  The rule was not to look any of the Doyles in the eye.

  ‘A big casino at the edge of the cliff,’ John Paul said.

  He’d keep things light. The trick was to avoid Clodagh Reynolds and Granny Doyle. The rule was not to care too much.

  ‘Ah, they would have had great craic altogether,’ Mrs Nugent said, laughing. ‘I’d say they asked to stay here another three hundred years.’

  9

  Furby (1999)

  The trick was to keep things light.

  ‘Isn’t this the most ridiculous contraption you’ve ever seen?’ Granny Doyle asked the porch, thrilled.

  ‘It’s all the rage,’ John Paul said, holding up the bright purple and yellow toy for display.

  ‘Go on, say hello, they have their own language – Furbish!’

  ‘A load of nonsense it is,’ Granny Doyle said, chuffed. ‘He’s even trying to teach it my name, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh lovely,’ Mrs Fay said.

  ‘Lord preserve us! The better to call out your name when it murders you at night,’ Mrs McGinty said. ‘Those eyes have the devil inside, I’d swear on it!’

  ‘Furby reeeeesha,’ the Furby said.

  (Mrs Nugent didn’t say anything, because she’d died earlier in the year, Saint Ultán fuck all use in the face of cancer. A shame – Mrs Nugent would have loved the Furby, a successor of sorts to the Tamagotchi that she’d borrowed from one of her grandchildren, back when she was still alive, leaning forward on her chair and trying to get a rise out of Mrs McGinty by mentioning electronic poo.)

  ‘Mind you, you’d want to be careful what you say in front of them,’ Mrs Donnelly said, sitting in Mrs Nugent’s chair. ‘You wouldn’t know what they’d repeat. Denise is processing very sensitive information at the bank: did I tell you she got a promotion?’

  ‘So you mentioned,’ Mrs McGinty said.

  ‘She’s run off her feet, so she is,’ Mrs Donnelly continued. ‘And did I tell you Jason has a summer internship at the Central Bank?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Off to Amsterdam for the weekend, he is, isn’t that brilliant! Mind you, that kind of schedule wouldn’t be for everyone, it’s very demanding. I’d say you’re happy in the building site, aren’t you, John Paul?’

  The trick was not to let the likes of Mrs Donnelly get to him.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well for you, like father like son!’

  The trick was to punch something, as soon as he could.

  ‘I always say, once you have your health, aren’t you doing grand? Mind you, I wouldn’t say no to a weekend in Amsterdam either, ha!’

  Mrs McGinty stiffened in her chair.

  ‘Goodness gracio
us, if you don’t take a breath this poor contraption will never get a word in.’

  John Paul grinned at the width of Granny Doyle’s smile. The Furby had done the trick; it would keep her happy for days. Damien had moved out and John Paul did some night shifts as a kitchen porter, so the Furby might make her less lonely in the dark. He could get a different job, Granny Doyle said, but that wasn’t what he wanted: the trick was to keep his distance. The trick was to keep her content with bits of plastic, because the things she asked for (love; time) were too much for him to trade with now.

  The trick was to keep things light.

  ‘Furby meeesho dooopla,’ said the Furby.

  ‘There you go,’ John Paul said. ‘Isn’t it already trying to say Doyle?’

  10

  Smiley Face Stress Ball (2000)

  The trick was to keep smiling.

  People can hear your smile over the phone, his team leader said, like a wanker. He left John Paul alone, though; his stats couldn’t be argued with so he could bounce as many stress balls off the ceiling as he wanted. John Paul didn’t need to finish school to sell shit to people. Selling phone plans turned out to be mostly about the chat and John Paul could switch between banter like a pianist, sound as a pound for the students, flirty hiyas for the mammies at home, God blesses for the auld ones, all business when he needed to be, the weekend rates to Warsaw at the tip of his tongue.

  Smiling was useful for the part-time promotions work he picked up, too. Most of the staff were girls with blonde hair and a thick layer of fake tan and self-belief, but John Paul did well too, grinning at festival-goers as he handed out free ice cream samples or cajoled them into filling out a quick survey or asked them if they wanted to enter a draw to win a car. He was a natural, his manager said, before she slept with him.

  Smiling was helpful too for when he slept with some of the promotions girls; it did well to look happy as they Maniaced away on the dance floor or Woo-hooed up and down in some field that was meant to be a festival. A smile can stretch as big as a black hole, that was what he liked to think, dancing fiercer and faster if he felt any dark feelings bristling inside. Pills were great at keeping his mouth fixed in its Time of My Life! position, I love you, I do easier to say with some tabs inside.

  And smiling got him up and down Dunluce Crescent. Bat away Mrs McGinty’s tut with a grin. Smile like he couldn’t be happier when Mrs Donnelly asked if he knew Jason was off to Slovenia. Grin like his teeth might crack when he saw Jason’s 00 licence plate. And smile and nod at whatever Granny Doyle said.

  Would he not make it to Mass with her in the morning?

  Would he not stay for a bit of dinner?

  Would he not get a job with more regular hours?

  No, John Paul said, as he nodded his head and grinned, he’d catch the evening Mass or pick something up in town or look for something else soon, all unfortunate events, but the great thing about a smile was that it made everything you said seem positive, even a refusal. Refusing Granny Doyle was absolutely necessary; the trick was to keep everyone at a distance, he couldn’t forget that.

  11

  High Heel (2001)

  Rules, though, were made to be broken, especially when life could be like a fairy tale, Clodagh Reynolds at the Trinity Ball, auburn hair tied up, gorgeous as ever, one gold heel trapped in the cobblestones. It had to be Fate, because John Paul was only escorting one of Jason Donnelly’s mates, her name already forgotten, because their love wasn’t fated; they weren’t like Ross and Rachel from Friends.

  ‘Clo,’ John Paul shouted, her heel in his hand. Then she turned and he smiled and all the lights in Front Square flashed fluorescent at once; it was a wonder there wasn’t a power cut.

  Clodagh couldn’t help returning his smile, because there was John Paul in a tux, her heel in his hand, an excellent occurrence as she was a bit pissed and she’d left her bag with the spare shoes somewhere, and the cobblestones had always been out to get her, had probably been laid in the 15whatevers with the express purpose of thwarting Clodagh Reynolds, except that, actually, they were her friends, the equivalents of fairy-tale mice, bringing John Paul back to her, her heel in his hand, her name on his lips, bright lights transforming all the stones. Clodagh knew then that it was tough titties for Marcus and whoever John Paul was escorting; she was going to shag John Paul, preferably in the Provost’s garden, and that was that.

  12

  Euro-holder (2002)

  The trick was to bring her offerings, bits of plastic to keep her distracted. Then, instead of ‘I don’t know what you’re at with Clodagh Reynolds again, do you not remember (… the little accident hung in the air, unsayable)’ Granny Doyle would hold up the purple coin-holder and say: ‘Ah, what is this nonsense!’

  John Paul could write the script.

  ‘Goodness, don’t they think of everything!’ Mrs Fay would say.

  ‘No proper punt would fit in those tiny holes,’ Mrs McGinty would say. ‘The only thing you can trust the European Union to make is a mess!’

  ‘Mind you, won’t the euros be very handy for the travelling?’ Mrs Donnelly would say, as if any of them ever went beyond the Howth Road. ‘Did I tell you that Jason’s off to Thailand?’

  Thank you, Granny Doyle would have to say, instead of will you be home tonight? or are you sure you can trust that one? or did I tell you Grace Fay broke up with her boyfriend, a lovely young one she is, she was always very fond of you. John Paul would be down the drive before she got any of that out, headphones in the ears before he reached the gate, leaving Granny Doyle with the sad circle of plastic to hold coins she didn’t want – not that it mattered, because the trick was to keep moving forwards.

  13

  The Irish Times Property Supplement (2003)

  ‘What about that one?’

  Clodagh rolled her eyes: I’ve told you.

  ‘I know, I know,’ John Paul said. ‘Even-numbered postcode. But Croke Park is crying out for regeneration. It might be funeral homes and flats now, but give it a decade and you’ll get vertigo from the skyscrapers.’

  They were in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Storehouse, the city laid in front of them. John Paul moved around the curved glass window and pointed towards O’Connell Street.

  ‘That one?’

  Clodagh folded her arms; she wasn’t going to be moved by John Paul’s dimples. Finding the right apartment was a serious business – she had a colour-coded spreadsheet and the property section of the Irish Times marked up – and she didn’t have time for John Paul’s messing.

  ‘We’d have a great view,’ John Paul said.

  ‘I’d chuck you off the fucking top.’

  ‘Very well situated for amenities.’

  ‘Every shade of fast-food vomit on our doorstep!’

  ‘And it would only cost what, a couple of mill?’

  Clodagh rolled her eyes but she couldn’t resist a tiny smile; she was powerless against the dimples of John Paul Doyle. She turned to beckon to Jason Donnelly, who sleeked over with his latest girlfriend.

  ‘Tell J.P. we’re not moving into the Spire!’

  Jason Donnelly laughed and raised up his pint of Guinness in salute. Jason already had a couple of ‘properties’ alongside some consultancy job in the Irish Financial Services Centre that John Paul didn’t understand; ah, but he was sound, even if he went by ‘Jay’ now.

  ‘Niche,’ Jason said. ‘You could probably carve out some space in the middle.’

  ‘Prime real estate!’ John Paul said. ‘And it’s not like they’re using it for anything: stupid cunts built a giant telegraph pole and you can’t even walk up to see the view. That’s what we can do, Clo, we’ll charge people to …’

  Clodagh was already deep in conversation with Jason’s girlfriend.

  The smile froze on John Paul’s face as he gazed at the Spire. It would be great to live inside, he thought, madly; it could be a cocoon for the two of them, where nobody could find them, all sleek and steel and perfect. Better at
least than the task of actually finding an apartment, the numbers involved terrifying, even with Clo’s parents helping; it was enough to stir the black hole inside him.

  John Paul remembered to smile.

  ‘My round,’ he said, even though Jason could probably have bought the bar if he wanted.

  ‘Or I could swipe us a couple of fresh ones,’ he added, eyeing the many nearly full complimentary pints that tourists, content with a sip and a photo, had abandoned.

  ‘Ha,’ Jason Donnelly said (he was sound, even if he said ‘ha’ instead of laughing), so John Paul laughed and headed to the bar, ignoring the criminal waste of good Guinness and the chance to pull a fast one. They weren’t thirteen and knocking about St Anne’s Park any more; the trick was to grow up.

  Or, the trick was to grow up in the right direction, towards a Southside postcode and another property to rent out in Marino and a Friday night where they could stand above their shining city and watch the sun gleam against the glass as they thought about where next they might descend, like gods.

  The trick was to have aspirations.

  The trick was to pay by credit card.

  The trick was, whatever the situation, to always say Cheers!

  14

  Couch (2004)

  ‘Cheers!’ John Paul shouted, clinking his flute against Clodagh’s.

  Careful of the couch! stuck in Clodagh’s mouth; she would not turn into her mother.

  ‘Cheers!’ Clodagh said, sitting down into the couch and looking at the magnolia walls in front of them.

  Not for the first time, John Paul threw the keycard up and down in the air. It was sleek and aerodynamic and nothing like the chubby keys that opened 7 Dunluce Crescent. Clodagh sipped her Prosecco; she wouldn’t tell him to stop. Not for the first time, John Paul admired the couch.