–Daddy!

–It’s true, Jimmy Sr insisted.

They were by themselves in the front room.

–Half the fuckin’ doctors in England are spendin’ their time lookin’ up children’s holes.

–You’re disgustin’.

–It’s not me, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh can’t turn on the fuckin’ telly or open a paper or—there’s somethin’ abou’ child abuse. The kids must be scared stiff.

–But it happens, said Sharon.

–Maybe it does, I don’t know. I suppose it does.

–I’d kill annyone tha’ did somethin’ like tha’ to a child. A little kid. They do it to snappers even. I’d chop his bollix—excuse me, Sharon—off. I would. Then hang him. Or shoot him.—At least it’s not goin’ on over here.

–You’d never know, said Sharon.

–Would yeh say so? said Jimmy Sr.—Maybe you’re righ’. Jaysis.—It’s shockin’. How could annyone—

Darren came in.

–Good man, Darren, said Jimmy Sr.—Have yeh come in for your cyclin’?

–Yeah, said Darren.

He sat down on the floor.

–Channel 4, said Jimmy Sr.—Let’s see now.

He studied the remote control.

–Number one.

He pressed it.

–Ads, he said.—That’s it. How’s Kelly doin’, Darren?

–Alrigh’.

–He’s gettin’ old, said Jimmy Sr.—The oul’ legs.

Wha’ abou’ Roche?

–Fourth.

–He hasn’t a hope, said Jimmy Sr.

–He has so.

–Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.—He’s too nice, that’s his problem. He doesn’t have the killer instinct.

–He won the Giro, Darren reminded him.

–Fluke, said Jimmy Sr.—Hang on, here it is.

He turned up the sound.

–The music’s great, isn’t it?

–Yeah, said Darren and Sharon.

–Good Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—Look at those mountains. Roche is fucked. There’s no mountains like tha’ in Ireland.

–Ah shut up, Da, will yeh.

–I’m only expressin’ me opinion.

–Yeh haven’t a clue.

Jimmy Sr nudged Sharon. Then he switched channels.

–Aaah!

–Sorry. Sorry, Darren. Me finger slipped, sorry—There; that’s it back. There’s Roche now. He’s strugglin’, look it. I told yeh. He’s not smilin’ now, wha’.

–Da!

Jimmy Sr grinned and nudged Sharon again.

Sharon got home from work a bit early on Monday, five days after she’d seen Mister Burgess throwing stones at the window. She hadn’t been feeling well, like as if she’d eaten too much chocolate, and the bottom of her back was killing her.

She took a box of cod steaks from her bag.

–I got these out o’ work, she told her mother.

–You’ll get caught, said Veronica.

–No, I won’t, said Sharon.

–It’s not right. There’s a letter over there for you.

–For me?

The envelope was white and the address was in ordinary writing. Sharon had never got a real letter before.

–That’s a man’s writing, said Veronica.

Sharon looked at her.

–I didn’t open it.

–I never thought yeh did, Mammy, said Sharon.

But she went upstairs to read it. Linda and Tracy were down watching the telly or practising their dancing. Something had been written on the back of the envelope but it had been rubbed over with the same pen. She couldn’t make it out. She opened the envelope carefully, afraid she’d rip what was inside. She gasped, then groaned,—Oh my God, and sat down on her bed when she saw what the letter was about. She should have guessed it, but she hadn’t; not really.

There was no address or date.

Dear Sharon,

I hope you are well. Please meet me in the Abbey Mooney in town at 8 o’clock on Tuesday night. I want to talk to you about something very important. I am looking forward to seeing you.

Yours sincerely

George Burgess.

There was a P.S.

The paper is my sisters.

The writing paper was pink. There was a bunny rabbit in the top left corner, sitting in some light blue and yellow flowers.

Sharon sat there. She just sat there.

Then she sort of shook herself, and realized that she was angry.

The fucker.

There was no way she was going to meet him, no fuckin’ way. She lifted the flap of the envelope up to the light coming through the window. She could make out the shapes of the rubbed-out writing on the flap now. They were capital letters.

S.W.A.L.K.

–Oh, the fuckin’ eejit! said Sharon.

Bertie came in.

–There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

–Howyeh, Bertie.

–Buenas noches, compadres, said Bertie.

–It’s your round, Paddy told him.

–Give us a chance, for the sake of fuck.

As Bertie said this he sat down and lifted his hand, showing four fingers to Leo the barman.

–How’s the Jobsearch goin’, Bertie? Jimmy Sr asked him.

–Don’t talk to me abou’ Jobsearch.

He pretended to spit on the ground.

–I speet on Jobsearch.

Bimbo and Jimmy Sr laughed and Paddy grinned.

–D’yis know wha’ they had me doin’ today, do yis? Yis won’t believe this.

–Wha’? said Bimbo.

–They were teachin’ us how to use the phone.

–Wha’!?

–I swear to God. The fuckin’ phone.

–You’re not serious.

–I am, yeh know. I fuckin’ am. The gringo in charge handed ou’ photocopies of a diagram of a phone. I think I have it—No, I left it back at the Ponderosa. I’ll show it to yis tomorrow.—A fuckin’ phone.

–Don’t listen to him.

–It’s true, I’m tellin’ yeh. I was embarrassed for him, the poor cunt. He knew it was fuckin’ stupid himself. You could tell; the poor fucker tellin’ us where to put the tenpences. One chap told him where he could stick the tenpences an’ then he walked ou’.

They laughed.

–Then he was tellin’ us, Bertie continued,—wha’ we should an’ shouldn’t say when we’re lookin’ for work.

–Wha’ should yeh not say? Bimbo asked.

–Anny chance of a fuckin’ job there, pal.

They laughed.

–It was the greatest waste o’ fuckin’ time, said Bertie.—You should always tell the name o’ the paper yeh saw the ad in. There now. An’ there’s no job ads in the Mirror.

Unless it’s the manager o’ Spurs or Man United or somethin’.—I wouldn’t mind, compadres, but I’ve abou’ thirty fuckin’ phones in cold storage. Mickey Mouse an’ Snoopy ones.

–Jessica’d like a Snoopy one, said Bimbo.—For her birth’y.

–You don’t have a phone, said Paddy.

–So?

–So a Snoopy one won’t be much use to Jessica, will it?

–For an ornament, I meant. For her bedside locker.

–Her wha’?

–Her bedside locker.

–I bet yeh you made it yourself.

–No!—I bought it an’ put it together.

Paddy raised his eyes to heaven.

–Do anny of yis ever hit your kids? Jimmy Sr asked them all.

He lowered a third of his latest pint while they looked at him.

–Never, said Bimbo.

–Now an’ again, said Paddy.

–Well, yeah, said Bimbo.—Now an’ again, alrigh’. When they’re lookin’ for it. Specially Wayne.

–It’s the only exercise I get, Bertie told them.—I wait till they’re old enough to run but. To give them a fair chance, yeh know.

Bimbo knew he was joking, so he laughed.

–I’m dyin’ to give Gillian a good hidin’, said Bertie.—But she never does annythin’ bold. She’d give yeh the sick. Trevor’s great though. Trevor’s a desperado.

Jimmy Sr took control of the conversation again.

–Yis’d want to be careful, he told them.

–Why’s tha’, compadre?

–Cos if you’re caught you’re fucked.

–What’re yeh on abou’? said Paddy.

–Child abuse, said Jimmy Sr.

–Would yeh ever fuck off, said Paddy.—Givin’ your kids a smack for bein’ bold isn’t child abuse.

–No way.

–I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr.—It looks to me like yeh can’t look crooked at your kids now—