–Don’t be thick, said Paddy.—You’re exaggeratin’. Yeh have to burn them with cigarette butts or—

–I’m not listenin’ to this, said Bimbo.

–Don’t then, said Paddy.—Or mess around with their—

–SHUT UP.

It was Bimbo. Paddy stopped.

–You’re makin’ a joke of it, said Bimbo.

–I’m not.

–Yeh are.

–Whose twist is it? said Bertie.—Someone’s shy.

–Four pints, Leo, Jimmy Sr shouted.—Like a good man.—Maybe you’re righ’, he said to both Bimbo and Paddy.—It’s shockin’ though, isn’t it? The whole business.

–Fuckin’ terrible, said Bimbo.

–Come here, said Bertie.—Guess who I spied with my little eye this mornin’.

–Who?

–Someone beginnin’ with B.

–Burgess!

–Si.

–Great. Where?

–Swords.

–How was he lookin’? said Jimmy Sr.

–Oh, very thin an’ undernourished, said Bertie.—An’ creased.

–Yahaah!

Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands.

I nearly gave the poor cunt twopence, Bertie told them.

They liked that.

–There mustn’t be another mot so, said Paddy.—If he’s in rag order like tha’.

–Unless she’s a brasser.

–Were yeh talkin’ to him? Bimbo asked.

–No, said Bertie.—I was on me way to learn how to use the phone.

–Now, Leo called.—Four nice pints over here.

–Leo wants yeh, Paddy told Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr brought the pints down to the table and sat down. Bertie picked up the remains of his old pint.

–To the Signor Horge Burgess, he said.

–Oh def’ny, said Bimbo.

They raised their glasses.

–The fuckin’ eejit, said Jimmy Sr.

–Ah now, said Bertie.—That’s not nice.

Sharon was nowhere near the Abbey Mooney at eight o’clock on Tuesday.

She lay in bed later, half expecting stones to start hitting the window. Or something.

It was that Sharon Rabbitte one from across the road. She was pregnant. She’d come to the house. She was the one; she knew it.

Dear Doris,

I hope you are well—

People probably knew already. They always did around here. Oh God, the shame; the mortification. She’d never be able to step out of the house again.

I am writing to you to let you know why I left you last week—

If he’d died and left her a widow it would’ve been different, alright; but this wasn’t fair. He was making her feel ashamed, the selfish bastard, and she hadn’t done anything.

Doris, I’ve been having a bit of an affair with a girl. This girl is expecting—

The Rabbitte one; it had to be.

I am very sorry—

It had to be.

I hope you will understand, Doris. I cannot abandon this girl. She has no one else to look after her—

The next bit was worse.

I still love you, Doris. But I love this girl as well. I am, as the old song goes, torn between two lovers. I will miss you and the children very much—

Oh God!

He was her husband!

Twenty-four years. It wasn’t her fault.

P.S.

I got a lend of the paper.

Doris sniffed.

He’d always been an eejit. She’d never be able to go out again.—Men got funny at George’s age. She’d noticed the same thing with her father. They went silly when there were girls near them; when her friends had been in the house. They tried to pretend that they weren’t getting old and made eejits out of themselves. And, God knew, George had a head start there.

The Rabbitte one probably took money off him as well.

Veronica made out Doris Burgess’s shape through the glass. The hair was the give-away.

She opened the door.

–Doris, she said.

–Is Sharon in? said Doris.

–She’s at work. Why?

Veronica knew; before she had it properly worked out.

Doris tried to look past Veronica.

–Why do you want her? said Veronica.

Now Doris looked at Veronica.

–Well, if you must know, she’s been messin’ around with George.—He’s the father.

–Get lost, Doris, said Veronica.

–I will not get lost now, said Doris.—She’s your daughter, isn’t she?

There were two women coming up the road, four gates away.

–Of course, said Doris,—what else would you expect from a—

Veronica punched her in the face.

–What happened yeh, Doris? said Mrs Foster.

–Tha’ one hit her, said Mrs Caprani.—Yeh seen it yourself.

–I mean before that.

Doris wanted to get out of Rabbitte territory. She pulled herself away from the women and ran out the gate. She stopped on the path.

–What happened, Doris? Mrs Foster asked again.

She tried to get to Doris’s nose with a paper hankie.

More people were coming.

–Veronica Rabbitte’s after givin’ poor Doris an awful clatter, Mrs Caprani told them.—In the nose.

Doris was still crying.

–I’ll do it—it myself.

She took the hankie.

–Wha’ happened yeh, Doris?

–Sh—Shar—

–Shar, Doris? What shar?

Inside, Veronica sat in the kitchen, putting sequins onto Linda’s dancing dress.

Sharon lay on her bed. She couldn’t go downstairs, she couldn’t go to the Hikers, or anywhere. She was surrounded. She was snared. If she went anywhere or—she couldn’t. All because of that stupid fucker.

–The fucker, she said to the ceiling.

The baby was nothing. It happened. It was alright. Barrytown was good that way. Nobody minded. Guess the daddy was a hobby. But now Burgess—He’d cut her off from everything. She’d no friends now, and no places to go to. She couldn’t even look at her family. God, she wanted to die; really she did. She just lay there. She couldn’t do anything else.

She was angry now. She thumped the bed.

The bastard, the fucker; it wasn’t fuckin’ fair. She’d deny it, that was what she’d do. And she’d keep denying it. And denying it.

Veronica and Jimmy Sr were down in the kitchen.

–Desperate, so it is, said Jimmy Sr quietly.—Shockin’.

Veronica put the dress down. She couldn’t look at another sequin.

–That’s about the hundredth time you’ve said that, she told him.

–Well, it is fuckin’ desperate.

They heard Linda and Tracy coming up the hall.

–Slow—Slow—Quick—Quick—Slow.

–Get ou’! Jimmy Sr roared.

–We know where we’re not wanted, said Linda.—Come on, Tracy.

–Slow—Slow—Quick—

They danced down the hall, into the front room to annoy Darren.

Jimmy Sr was miserable.

–Poor Sharon though.

–Poor Sharon! said Veronica.—What about poor us?

–Don’t start now, said Jimmy Sr.

He was playing with a cold chip.

–I suppose—She could’ve been more careful, he said.

–She could’ve had more taste, said Veronica.

–That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr, glad to be able to say it.—You’re right o’ course. That’s what’s so terrible about it.

George Burgess.—Georgie Burgess. Jesus, Veronica, I think the cunt’s older than I am.