Bullfighting (2 page)

He can cross; the light is green for him. Cadbury's, down to the left. More houses, in off the road. He hated mass, the whole thing. Always did. Standing up, sitting down. Most Sundays. Or Saturday nights, when they started that. Getting it over with.

He's at the back of Cadbury's now. It's like a park. Greenhouses and all. It's like the countryside here, the little river, the trees. What it must have been like. But not in his memory. It was always like this.

It's depressing, a life, laid out like that. Mass, driving the kids to football, or dancing. The pint on Friday. The sex on Sunday. Pay on Thursday. The shop on Saturday. Leave the house at the same time, park in the same spot. The loyalty card. The bags. The routine. One day he knew: he hated it.

His mother worked in Cadbury's when he was a kid. Christmas and Easter. The cinema across the road. The UCI. He hasn't been to the pictures in years. She used to bring home Easter eggs, the ones that were out of shape, no use for the shops. He brought one into school. His lunch. King of the world that day. He can't remember the last film he went to. He's starting to sweat. Fine. That's exercise. That's what they want. He can smell the Tayto factory. It's not too bad today. Clouds gathering, ahead. Getting ready. It's hot.
Michael Collins
. The last film he went to. But that's a long time ago. He's sure he's been since then. He looks across at the UCI. But he can't read the names of the films. Too far away. He hasn't a clue what's on, what's big. No kids at home now. He's going past the paint factory. He thinks it's a paint factory. AkzoNobel. Berger, Sandtex, Sadolin. She doesn't go to the pictures either. He doesn't think she does. She didn't like
Michael Collins
. He did.

More country cottages. And more behind them, old lanes, warehouses. He's coming up to Woodie's. She meets her friends when she goes out – he thinks. She still tells him, sometimes. Before she goes. Tells him she's going. Who she's meeting. A gang of women she's known for years. He knows them all. He knows their husbands. They used to go out together, the men and the women. It wasn't too bad. Not now though, not in years. Maybe she goes to the pictures with them. He doubts it. She'd tell him. It's not that they never talk. She went to a play, a few months back. In town. She told him. Something like that, she'd tell him. He'd tell her. It's not that bad.

He hates Woodie's. Not the shop. He sees the need – wood, paint. He opens his jacket. It's a bit too hot now. He's fine. He's grand. The heart is calm. It's not the products. It's the idea. The DIY. The people who live in the place at the weekend. Haunting the aisles. And the other shops over there. Classic Furniture. Right Price Tiles. ‘Tile Your Bathroom For €299.' The pet shop's gone. The big place. He used to go there with the kids. She'd come with them. They laughed when they realised: it was a family outing. Nearer than the zoo. Ice cream on the way home. The kids were delighted. The innocence. It was lovely.

He looks behind. Before he crosses. It's usually busy. Nothing coming; he doesn't have to stop. The McDonald's is new. Toymaster. PC Superstore. And Lidl. Only open a week. Some kind of supermarket. The car park is fuller, packed since it opened.

He doesn't know when it changed. He doesn't know when he knew. Before she moved out of the bedroom. They stopped talking. There was nothing dramatic.

He's been living alone for years. He doesn't know what happened. There was no shouting, very little. There was no violence. No one was hit. No one played away from home. He didn't. She didn't.

There was a Christmas do. He's coming up to the Texaco station. The pub is behind it. Newtown House. Two doors, no windows. The Belcamp Inn, it used to be called – he thinks. The only place, the only time he was ever in a fight. In the days when he took his time coming home. He looks behind, crosses the turn for the industrial estate. Friday night. He knocked into a guy at the bar. Not really a fight. Just a couple of digs – he was too scared to feel them. Then too scared to leave.

That Christmas do. A young one who'd just started in the job a few weeks before. His leg had touched hers, sitting together. He was surprised when she didn't move. A bit scared. Her leg pressed against his. Nothing sexy about it. Nice, though. The thought. Then they'd met in the corridor. Him going to the toilet, her coming back. They smiled. He stopped. She didn't. Then she did. He put his hands on her. They kissed. Rubbed each other. He was bursting, full of drink. They stopped. He went to the jacks, came back, and it never happened. That was it.

That was all. He never told anyone.

He looks. Cars coming up behind him. He waits, and crosses the station entrance. It's not as fancy as those new forecourts going up everywhere. Martina. Good-looking girl. She was young. But so was he.

That was all.

He doesn't know what happened. Or what he'd say, how he'd bring it up, after this long.

—What went wrong?

He could never say that.

—What happened?

She'd look at him. He'd have to explain. Where would he start? He hadn't a clue. And the question would announce it – the end. They'd have to admit it. And one of them would have to go.

Him.

But he's alone already. He knows the last time he spoke to someone. This morning. Getting the paper. The woman behind the counter.

—Nice day again.

—Yeah.

That was it. A nice woman. Attractive. His age. A bit younger. He's coming up to the Darndale roundabout. He never looked at women his age. Until recently. They were always too old. Not really women; ex-women. Now, though, he looks. But he doesn't. Not really. He doesn't know what he'd do if a woman spoke to him.

—Nice day again.

—Yeah.

What else could he say? He isn't interested. He's used to himself. He's fine. He's come to the roundabout. He'll go on. He isn't tired. He crosses. Darndale to the left. Rough spot. He's never been in there. He runs the last bit, trots – to the other side. He's fine.

It's dark, very quickly. Like four hours gone, in a second. And cold, and it's raining. He goes on. He closes his jacket. It's bucketing. There's an inch of sudden water. He can't see far. The traffic noise has changed; it's softer, menacing.

Who's to blame? No one. It just happened. It's too late now. He can't pull them back, his wife, the kids. They have their own lives. She does; they do. Maybe grandkids will do something. If there are any. He doesn't know. He knows nothing. He feels nothing. He doesn't even feel sorry for himself. He doesn't think he does.

He's fine. He copes.

But this is stupid. It's lashing, no sign of sunlight. He's cold. His feet are wringing. He turns back. He can feel the water down his back. It annoys him, giving up, but he's – not sure – reassured, or something. He can change his mind. He's prepared to.

He makes it to the bus shelter. Across the Malahide Road. A break in the traffic. He goes through the water. He's fine. In under the shelter. A gang of young guys. Fuckin' this, fuckin' that. Rough kids. Too skinny, too fat. Not really kids. One of them pushes him. Bangs against him. An accident. No apology. They laugh. They shove each other, out from the shelter.

He'll go. But one of them steps out, shouts. A taxi stops. They pile in. One slips. They laugh. They're gone.

There's one kid left there. A girl. Eight, nine – he's not sure. White tracksuit. Mousy hair, beads in it. She's chewing gum. His own kids were scared of gum, when they were little. His fault – he was always afraid of them choking. She's chewing away. He can hear her.

The rain is dying.

She speaks.

—I'm waitin' on me mammy.

He's surprised. He says nothing, at first.

—Where is she?

—At her work, she says.—Comin' home.

—On the bus?

—Yeah.

—That's nice.

—Yeah.

He puts his hand out.

—The rain's stopping.

—It was badly needed, she says.

He smiles.

—You're dead right, he says.

The ground is already steaming. He shakes water from his jacket.

—I'll go on, he says.—Will you be alright there by yourself?

—Ah yeah, she says.—I'm grand.

—Good, he says.—Well. Seeyeh.

—Seeyeh.

The rain is gone. It's bright again.

He walks.

Nice kid. He smiles.

Hanahoe walks home.

G
etting older wasn't too bad. The baldness suited Martin. Everyone said it. He'd had to change his trouser size from 34 to 36. It had been a bit of a shock, but it was kind of nice wearing loose trousers again, hitching them up when he stood up to go to the jacks, or whatever. He was fooling himself; he knew that. But that was the point – he
was
fooling himself. He'd put on weight but he felt a bit thinner.

There were other things too, that had nothing to do with his body and ageing. The kids getting older was one, and the freedom he'd kind of forgotten about. For years, if he stayed in bed in the morning, if he wanted to, it had to be carefully planned. Lizzie, his wife, had to be told. The kids had to be told, and nearly asked. It hadn't been worth it, the fuckin' palaver he'd had to go through. For years, all those years the kids were growing up, he'd been on call. A pal of his had used the phrase,
on call
. He'd been talking about his own life, but – there were four of them there that night in the local, sitting around one of the high tables – he'd been describing all their lives.

—I'm like a doctor without the fuckin' money, Noel had said.

They'd all smiled and nodded.

He'd loved it, mostly, the whole family/kids things, and he'd ignored the throb above his left eye that had often felt like too much coffee or dehydration, too much or too little of something, that he thought now had probably been the pressure of that life. For years, the throb – the vein. Everything he'd done, everywhere he'd gone. Every minute had been counted and used. He had four children, and there were eleven years between the oldest and the youngest. It was over now – it seemed to be over – and the throb had gone away.

It had taken a while. He'd be wide awake early on Saturday, with nothing to do. He'd drive down to the recycling centre in Coolock with five empty bottles and a cardboard box. He'd shove the box in on top of the other boxes and newspapers and he'd remember holding up one of the kids, usually the little girl, so she could reach the slot the cardboard was pushed into. He'd wonder what the fuck he was doing up and out of the house when he could have been at home in bed. He'd drive out to Howth and watch other people buying fish. He'd feel useful while he was driving. There were no kids in the back, only more cars behind him in the rear-view mirror. It took him a good while to stop. Well over a year. He was driving long after the kids stopped needing him. But he did stop. He could relax now without thinking too much about it.

He wasn't on call any more, and Noel was dead.

He missed the kids. Two of them still lived at home. They smiled when they saw him. They sometimes stayed at the table for a few minutes after they'd finished eating, and they'd chat. They'd talk more to Lizzie than to him, but it was easy enough; it was nice. They'd been wise that way, him and Lizzie. They'd got through the teen years without too much grief. There'd been no drug habits or pregnancies, not too much puking and far less screaming than they'd heard coming from some of the other houses on the road. They were great kids. He missed them. If he thought of it, the fact that he didn't have children any more – if he'd been an actor, it was what he'd have done to make himself cry.

There was sex as well. That was a nice surprise. There'd always been sex, more or less, in among the nappies and the Calpol and school books. They'd never really stopped fancying each other. But the big surprise was some of the stuff they'd got up to since the kids had stopped being kids. Without any announcement or decision. She bit one of his nipples one night, and she'd never done that before. It hurt but, fuck, it woke him up. And he'd made her come – this was a different night – just by talking to her. So she'd said, anyway. She was hanging onto him and crying before he really knew what was going on. He just thought it was a bit of gas, whispering into her ear. He even put on an American accent, all that
pussy
and
cock
palaver. He was still just getting the hang of it, deciding what part of the States he was from, when she came. He'd never fuckin' forget it.

And there were other women. Women liked mature men. He'd read that somewhere, in a waiting room somewhere – the dentist or the doctor. Or it was just one of the things you grew up with. Women went for older men. He'd never believed it. Even when he changed it a bit, to
some
women, and
some
older men. He'd always thought it was a load of bollix. He still thought that, even more since he'd started noticing women looking at him, kind of giving him the eye. Not young ones – he didn't think he could have coped with that, smiling back at some gorgeous monster less than half his age. No, it was mature women, older women –
some
older women. One or two of them. There was a woman from up the road who always waved at him – she lived on the other side, nearer the shops – and she looked great from that distance. He'd looked up from the pile of newspapers in the Spar one Sunday morning, and she'd been right beside him. He smelt her perfume, and she looked nice up close too. She was dressed up a bit, in the old-fashioned Sunday way. And she blushed when she saw him –