Colm Brady

The Messenger

Mick got off the bus followed by Gubmund. They turned and walked through wrought iron gates and onto a tree-lined avenue leading to the school buildings.
“Did you see that Spitting Image on last night?”
“No, was it on RTE?”
“Oh I forgot ye haven’t got into the 1980s yet. Would ye not put up an aerial like everyone else?”
“It’s the transmitter up the road.”
“Oh yeah, the transmitter.”
“We can get RTE even when the coat-hanger falls out but nothing else. One of the neighbours put up a thirty foot aerial then it collapsed and killed his dog. The ould fellah says we should learn from his mistakes.”
“But you don’t have a dog.”
“I didn’t bother mentioning that. I reckon he would have us living up a tree using ogham stones to communicate if he had his way.”
Mick glared at the tarmac as they crossed the threshold of the grounds proper.
“What the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”
“They got them at the weekend. The ould lass says they are loafers.”
“But they are brown, and they have heels.”
“They are tan and that’s what loafers look like.”
“One of them is tan and the other one is dark tan. Where did they get them?”
“They just sort of appeared. I thought they might have got them on the markets in the North. Are they that bad?”
“If anyone sees them you are fuckin’ dead. What colour are everyone else’s shoes?”
Gubmund glanced around and looked deflated.
“They are grey and a few black pairs. I’m in trouble amn’t I?”
“They will eat you alive. If the boarders spot them you don’t want to know what they will do. Remember when Clams came in all proud of the sheepskin coat that his Mammy bought him?”
“Yeah Fucus and the boarders brought it into the urinals and … Jesus, me shoes! I can’t go home wearing a pair of piss containers!”
“I am afraid it’s worse than that captain. I don’t reckon those heels belong on a pair of men’s shoes. I think you are swanning into this kip in a pair of brown women’s shoes that don’t match. The only reason they will piss on them is if they set them on fire first.”
“You know the smokies called at our house in a Hiace on Saturday; you don’t think the shoes came from them do you? That would be instant death in this place. They hate poor people but they hate smokies even more.”
“That’s cos the smokes don’t give a fuck about them and would beat seven colours of shite out of them given any excuse.”
“Jesus, women’s shoes; this is gonna get nasty. Yer man Ethics got declared bent just for saying that word in English.”
“What word?”
“Ethics. He only said it once. He doesn’t seem to mind being a bender but I’m fucked if …”
“You will be if the boarders get you. You need protection, someone hard. Someone like Mongo.”
“What have I got that that lunatic needs? He hits priests for fuck sake! He doesn’t give a shite about a couple of farmers with no money.”
“Well I hear his last messenger is suspended. Mongo is doing a nice trade in selling loose Rothmans, chocolate and erm, other stuff for the boarders. If we take a detour by the smoking shed we might just catch him.”
Smoking was prohibited in the whole school with one exception. Students who had permission from their parents could use a shelter beside the soccer pitches. With the literal-mindedness that all adolescent boys possess it became known as ‘the smoking shed’. It was understood that no priest was going to raid the shed seeking parental notes and Mongo was there to ensure there was no glue-sniffing or homosexuality on the premises.
The etiquette was that when a cigarette was lit up boys would clamour for first drag. In a base three system, as complicated as anything the Babylonians came up with, a drag consisted of three pulls. A pull in turn consisted of three blasts, which was the lowest graduation of nicotine available. Mongo was the exception to this convention; he just took whatever he wanted.
He was surprised to see the two farmers stick their heads into the shed. He was deep in conversation with his deputy, a gangly boarder known universally as ‘Fucus’ on a matter of some import. A fourth year had the temerity to strike back at a Leaving Cert. bully and apparently had given the guy a fairly comprehensive beating. The Leaving Certs. wanted to put manners on the junior year who in turn wanted to end years of oppression. If they went down the brawling route there would be a discipline issue for the priests and people would get suspended. More importantly the petty scams that Mongo ran would be disrupted by a war. He and Fucus quickly decided that a prizefight between the two parties would be arranged for the following Wednesday.
Mick and Gubmund walked over to his bench as Mongo lit a cigarette.
“Smoke, gentlemen?” Gubmund had recently got over the bouts of nausea and dizziness that cigarettes caused but had yet to get to the stage where he actually enjoyed them.
“I will take first drag.”
Fucus wandered off to accost some younger boarders, glancing at the ground looking for butts. As he passed Gubmund, he stopped to get another look.
“Nice shoes man.”
Once the sentence hit the cold concrete it shattered and spread. People were in shock that anyone would have the gall to sport such footwear in the shed. Mongo liked to think he was broadminded, he despised everyone equally and if they decided one day to wear two-tone ladies’ shoes, then that was their business. They would, of course, die but that was of no interest to him. Mick nudged Gubmund who cleared his throat to speak.
“I hear you need someone to run messages.”
Mongo mulled this over and looked down at his expensive Adidas basketball boots. The closest he had come to playing basketball this year was hanging a first year on a fence by his underpants. The unfortunate basketball player had been left with the dilemma of whether to bear the discomfort until he was discovered or risk the complete destruction of his waistband in an attempt to release himself. Mongo was the sort of a guy who gauged the success of such an action by how many laughs he got. He didn’t do these things because he enjoyed them; he was not a sadist. He did them because he could, and that to him was reason enough.
“Right, you get to wear the shoes if you get a few things for me in town.”
Mongo produced money and a list torn from a notebook and looked Gubmund in the eye.
“Anyone stops you, and you tell them you are collecting stuff for me, anyone…”
Gubmund headed off to class and opened the list as he walked:

1 Packet of American hard gums.
1 Packet of Sugar Puffs.
Ten Major.
Ten Silk Cut Purple.
Two packets of green Rizla.
1 packet of Mates from chemist.
1 Packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
1 Wham Bar.
1 Handball (Dunlop).

He sat through a priest trying to impart the joy of geography. As the teacher pointed out the main cities of Brazil the class became aware of the telltale shoes.
“Recife on de north East Coast is a major centre of commerce for de hinterland with a sugar cane processing industry…”
“ Check out the funky mammy brogues man!” said Minto who had appointed himself the fashion arbiter of the class.
“Belo Horizonte is noted for its…are you lads listening to me at all?” said the priest reaching for his metre stick.
“Are there a lot of shoe shops in Brazil sir?”
“Well de leatherworking industry would be centred in de south. Why do you ask?”
“Well I heard we are importing some mad looking shoes from the third world.”
The class erupted and the priest knew he had lost them again. Minto gave Gubmund the cut-throat gesture but was instantly corrected by a punch to the right kidney from Fucus. This outlined the fact that Gubmund now had the equivalent of diplomatic immunity; he was untouchable.
He walked out the gates at lunchtime going through the list. He picked up the sweets and fags at the newsagents where the convent girls hung out. They wore gabardine skirts accessorised with bubble gum and menthol cigarettes. He was keeping an eye out for the girl with the red hair who usually occupied this spot. She wasn’t around but two girls from home were. They looked at the bag in his hand.
“Where are you off to with all that stuff?”
“Food run for the boarders. It’s my new job.”
“Why are you bothering with that shower?”
Gubmund pointed at the tan loafers.
“Oh right, if they were a bit smaller my mother would wear them.”
He would have waited around if he didn’t have such a heavy schedule from Mongo. He bought the handball in the sports shop then casually wandered into the chemist. He busied himself at the counter and picked up the condoms. The girl behind the counter showed no reaction and took the offered note. She opened the till but was short of change so she opened the cash register at the other end of the counter. The door swung open and a couple of convent girls came in. He knew without turning around that the red haired girl was one of them. He crept his hand over the packet on the counter but was too late.
“Good man Gubmund, it looks like you have a good weekend planned.”
“They aren’t mine, I am picking them up for lads at school.”
“That’s what they all say…what exactly are you going to do with the handball or do I want to know?”
“It’s the shoes, it all started with the shoes.”
“I’d say you will be describing this to a psychiatrist in a few years.” The girl smiled, it was a pitying smile, but a smile nonetheless. Gubmund walked back up the town towards the school. There were none of the usual crowds around the gate. He was late.
He tried to speed up but the tan shoes were cutting into his ankles so he proceeded at a slow grimacing canter up the avenue. In a puff of Major smoke a priest with wispy grey hair appeared from behind the statue of the school’s founder. The statue was of some bishop from the previous century in a soutane and was universally known as ‘Stoneskirt’. The priest in front of the statue was the dean and he was not shy about administering discipline when he saw fit. He usually went for a ringing slap to the ear but often used an uppercut for variety. He looked at the bag in Gubmund’s hand curiously. The student paled, the last thing he wanted was a conversation about bringing prophylactics into the school grounds.
“You are late, have you got a reason?”
“I had to collect stuff for one of the boarders.”
“Really, we will have to see about that now won’t we?”
“It’s for Mongo, Mongo McPartland.”
The priest stepped back as if stung and gestured that Gubmund should be on his way. He went to his locker through the quiet corridors. As he opened the door Mongo materialised beside him. He had a key in his hand.
“Anymore just leave the stuff in there and I will collect it.”
“How did you get a key for my locker?”
Mongo held up a ring of locker keys and touched his nose.
“The only problem is keeping track of which one is which. Did you get the handball?”
Gubmund nodded and handed it to Mongo who hopped it off the floor a few times.
“There is a money game going on tonight and some fuckin’ eejit put all the handballs on the roof.” Mongo scowled to indicate the culprit would be dealt with severely.
“I sent Fucus up to collect some but he is kind of useless. I bought this one as insurance, supply and demand you see.”
There was an elongated scream from the direction of the handball alleys followed swiftly by a thud. It looked like Mongo was going to have staff out on sick leave for a while. Gubmund went into his class and sat down at the back. People moved out of his way. In this place if you didn’t fit in you needed to carry a big stick. Sticks didn’t come much bigger than Mongo.
On the way out towards the bus Minto asked Gubmund where he could get a pair of the shoes. “The point is not moot, I must have the boots.” Mick laughed as Gubmund promised to have a look for a pair in a size eight.
“You will be doing well to find another pair of those yokes.”
“The mother specialises in this stuff, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We are gonna be rich, rich I tells ya!”
“Once Mongo doesn’t go straight to the source on the wholesale market…”
Gubmund lit one of Mongo’s cigarettes as he got on the bus. He was too cool for school, much too cool.

posted by Colm Brady @ 9:25 PM 0 comments

English Steve

Peter hit English Steve on the side of the head with a chair leg. English Steve was going out with one of our friends, a teacher from Galway. This gained him entry into the club of expats living it up in nineties London. Maslow said there was a hierarchy of needs that people make progress on. It started out with basic needs such as food and shelter and worked its way up in steps to self actualisation. I don’t know if we would have termed that party lifestyle as fulfilling our dreams but it was close enough. Peter drank in the Beresford Arms in Clapham North. It was a dirty hovel with green velour seats that stank of cheap lager and Lambert and Butler cigarettes.
He lived in a council house nearby with a middle-aged man called John. John never spoke, he just smoked joints all day. When he wasn’t smoking he was rolling up his next joint. His fingers worked quickly and efficiently to create cones that were achingly beautiful to the amateur eye. Peter was a successful cocaine dealer who specialised in the debutante market in the wealthy west London suburbs of Kensington and Chelsea. He had an emaciated wiry frame and the most horrific cast in his right eye. It was so staggeringly obvious that we were drawn to stare at it despite all efforts not to. Peter had a sheen on his pale skin like the grease on the cobblestones outside the Chinese restaurants in Soho.
After he introduced himself we were invited to Peter’s house. He was a gracious host with beers in the fridge and a supply of discounted drugs. The house was neat and home to an elaborate Hifi system that pumped out techno music at deafening volumes all day and night. I don’t know how Peter’s neighbours tolerated it but he was not a man you would want to have an argument with. He did his business with a steady stream of visitors, getting John to act as his receptionist.

We started to visit Peter at the weekends before hitting the underground clubs down South. On a Friday night Peter supplied a lump of black hash each and a couple of pills for the night out. He never joined us at the clubs. He was banned from most places and weekends were his busiest times. In classic dealer form Peter offered us other consumer choices; wraps of speed and ketamine but never coke.
“I won’t sell you coke cos I like yer...Irish like me. Me dad was Irish, he fucked off in the seventies. Left us in Shadwell ‘e did.”
Peter was a Millwall fan and spent his Saturdays fighting West Ham and Chelsea fans on the terraces of Upton Park and Stamford Bridge. He went to the games alone and drifted towards the opposing fans looking for trouble. He usually found it.
One night Peter told me a story. A guy in Streatham was supposed to be selling coke for him in a club. The guy took the coke but didn’t return with the money.
“I decides to pay him a visit so I walks up and knocks on the door. The guy opens the door bollock fackin naked, lookin at me like a rabbit in the headlights.” I opened a can and nodded to encourage Peter in his narration.
“So what did you do?”
“I twatted the cant, gave him a few kicks to soften him up. His bird is screaming from the bedroom and then I see it…”
“See what?”
“He is only getting a huge hard on while I am kicking him around! I started getting frustrated so I gave him a right going over.”
“Maybe he was a masochist or something.”
“I dunno but I gave him a week to pay. He paid.”
Peter shifted so much product that he should have been wealthy. The problem was that he consumed a lot of his own stuff. He laid out the fat lines on a glass table and hoovered them up between deals. He had the paranoia of all coke-heads and was convinced (correctly) that he was being watched by the police. He had the exclusive use of a Jamaican minicab to carry on his business in the West End, supplying the endless rounds of coming-out parties and balls. The Vauxhall Omega was often parked in Cadogan Square with techno music pouring from the speakers while smoke emerged from the door seals. He had a collection of mobile phones. They were all the same model but in different colours and Peter was very selective about who he gave the numbers out to.
The Friday night buying session soon progressed until there was a weekly party back at the council house. He didn’t encourage any extra guests, just people he recognised. English Steve came along on a couple of nights with the Galway teacher. Peter’s eyes narrowed as they were introduced, Steve was purely English and didn’t fit into the celtic clique Peter had built there at the house. One night Peter attempted to enhance the music by installing a strobe light and leaving it on for three hours. One of the revellers, ‘Junkie James’, collapsed and had an ecstasy-induced epileptic fit on the sitting room floor. Peter didn’t want an ambulance but he was overruled. A jaded medic came in and asked what James had taken. There was a general shuffling of feet and guilty coughing.
“What did he take, speed?”
“Two wraps.”
“Anything else?”
“A pill… and a half.”
The medics put James on a stretcher and took him away in an ambulance. The crowd settled and the music came back on. Peter was talking to a girl in the kitchen when he glanced up and saw English Steve was standing in the front door facing outwards. He was having a leisurely piss out onto the footpath. Peter dived from the kitchen with a Holsten bottle clutched in his hand. Two lads stopped him using the bottle but Peter was ranting with spit falling from the corners of his mouth.
“He is taking liberties in my ‘ouse.”
“Relax Peter, he didn’t mean it.”
“The cops are watching this place an this cant pisses out my front door. He is a fackin’ dead man.” English Steve looked scared and turned his wide eyes to the group. He knew if the Irish crowd stayed with him he was safe; they did. Eventually Peter calmed down and he and English Steve shook hands. Over the months people started to drop out of the group, either to travel or return to Ireland. The parties became sporadic and Peter’s deals less generous.
One Saturday he and English Steve went to a Millwall Vs Crystal Palace game. Before the game they went to a pub near the ground. English Steve started singing a Crystal Palace chant. He liked to sing when he had a beer but he picked the wrong day.
“Oh South London, Oh South London…”
Peter hadn’t slept in two days and he was in foul humour.
“Shut the fack up you palace fack.”
English Steve was emboldened by his audience and continued the song.
“Oh South London is wonderful,
It’s full of tits, fanny and palace,
Oh South London is wonderful.”
The crowd in the pub cheered and English Steve took a bow. Peter reached into his jacket and started to pull a long object from inside. The crowd gasped and collectively took a step back. There was a sigh as Peter produced a metal chair leg and advanced on English Steve with his good eye focussed on his target. He was muttering as he advanced and the soccer fans got out of his way rapidly. The first blow landed above English Steve’s ear. Fortunately he got the rounded end of the metal bar; the jagged edge where it had been ripped from the chair was facing away from him. The next blow was to the ribs and the sharp edge tore Steve’s shirt. He stood wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open waiting for the next blow to land. Sirens sounded outside and Peter stopped with his arm in mid-air, the last thing he needed was more attention from the police. English Steve got off with a concussion, which was not for want of enthusiasm on Peter’s part.
The remaining members of the Irish group never went back to the house in Clapham North. Over the years Peter’s name came up in conversation, people laughed at what they used to get up to. Their lives became more respectable and the spell in London was revealed for what it was, a dalliance with the underworld. The stories from the old days made people laugh but nobody laughed at Peter – nobody ever laughed at Peter.

posted by Colm Brady @ 9:21 PM 0 comments