Fifty/Fifty and Other Stories (2 page)

I had always wondered how it would feel to meet the ground at such a speed. Would you feel nothing at all as the shock of the impact turned your nervous system to mush? Would it feel like your whole body was on fire from the inside out, the way people who have been struck by lightning and survived often describe? Or would it be like that horrible stinging slap when you trip up, but can't get your arms out in time to break your fall, only worse?

Time had slowed down, the way it will if you are driving and hit a patch of ice. That split-second where you lose control of the car and then correct it, which seems to have lasted an age but in reality hasn't taken any time at all. This state of heightened awareness which I have experienced many, many times fascinates me. It is a well documented phenomenon, particularly in road traffic accidents or other near-death experiences, and sometimes you hear athletes or sportsmen describing it, but I can't remember ever hearing of anyone properly examining it. It seems to support the theory, found everywhere from comic books to ancient religions, that if we were to focus our minds we could be capable of so much more as human beings. Do we all have the ability to slow down time at will, to drown out the surrounding noise and concentrate all our energy and focus to a pinpoint? Do we all suspect this?

It can't have taken more than a few seconds for me to fall from the 12
^th
floor to the ground, but I experienced it as so much more. The longer it went on, the longer there was between moments. Like the falling cats, I spread my limbs out to the four corners of the earth in an instinctive need to arrest my rate of decline, and once more I felt calm as the pressure of something which I could not control held me in its grip.

I slowly began to twist until I was facing upwards, back to where I had came from, looking up through myriad shards of falling glass which seemed to hang in the moonlight, twinkling like so many little stars. Two faces peered over the edge of the balcony after me, clear and distinct despite the distance I had travelled, one etched with a look of abject horror, the other mirroring that same calmness which coursed through my being. 

Lansdowne Road

T
hat smell reminds me of going to rugby matches as a boy. The pipe smoke wafting over the crammed terraces of Lansdowne Road, being driven by the cold March wind gusting between the high stands on either side of the pitch. Behind me, two Welsh tenors clutching pints of stout as they belted out Bread of Heaven at the top of their lungs. The evening sky was a deep shade of purple as the floodlights illuminated the pitch, which glistened with that afternoon's rain. The flags on top of the stands cracked and whipped in the wind.

At least half the crowd wore cardboard hats that had been handed out by sponsors at the turnstiles, so that the stadium appeared to be full of living, breathing, giant pints of Guinness, bobbing up and down as people chattered to each other in the build up before kick-off. Every so often, the stands shook as a train went under them, and stopped to let loose another barrage of supporters.

The hum of ten thousand simultaneous conversations was swiftly replaced by a deafening roar, which spread around the ground as the players sprinted through the tunnel, emerging from the bowels of the stadium and into the sharp spring evening. They bounced around and sprinted in short bursts to keep warm in the cold air before lining up facing the west stand, as the presidential salute burst forth from the horns of the military band in the centre of the pitch. After what seemed like 10 minutes of shaking hands with dignitaries, the band struck up the national anthems, the two tenors behind me carrying what felt like the whole stadium in tune. All 30 players had stood still whilst the anthems rang out, but before the last note had finished sounding, they were bouncing around again, the tension too much for all to see as they rared to go.

The first kick soared into the Dublin sky, and I lost it against the glare of the lights. The players knew better than I, as they charged en masse towards a lone man in green who peered into the darkness and braced himself for the impact, eyes only for the oval ball which hung in the sky, despite the noise of so many pairs of boots thundering towards him against the turf. Through the roar of the spectators you could just hear him grunt, as the opposing team crashed into him, swallowing him up, spitting him out, leaving him to slowly get to his feet, and then chase after the pack which had rolled over him and on down the pitch. Before he got to where the pile of players had finished up, the ball was whipped out as if from nowhere and flung across the pitch, and he veered off in a new direction like a dog after its favourite squeaky toy.

The next eighty minutes of rugby have long since melded into all the other matches I've been to see, but I'll never forget that first evening on the terraces, standing on my tiptoes as I strained to see over the men from the Valleys with their sing-song voices, and the Munstermen with their thick brogues, all yelling encouragement and abuse as one as the game ebbed and flowed from one end of the pitch to the other.

I think I floated rather than walked back to the car, held up by the thousands of people heading for the bars of Dublin, but also buoyed by a sense of euphoria at what I had seen – my first rugby match, and a victory for Ireland.

Christmas with the Kids

“
I
t will just be for 10 minutes – you won't even know I'm gone!”

I hadn't signed up for this. I will always help out an old friend if called upon for a favour, but some things I can tell you are just Bad Ideas from the start, and this was one of them. I had called round after a phone call earlier on that afternoon - it was the kids nativity play that night, but their video camera had stopped working the day before when it had somehow ended up in the freezer. Apparently this sort of thing happens all the time when you have four girls under the age of ten, but to be honest it's not my area of expertise. I can barely look after myself let alone someone else's children, and if Greenpeace knew how many goldfish had been flushed down our family toilet over the years, I'd be spending the rest of my days in Guantanamo Bay, or wherever it is the eco-warriors are keeping their prisoners of war these days.

And so I had turned up with a camcorder, and been greeted at the door by the sight of two gorgeous little girls dressed in long white robes, complete with feathered wings smelling of freshly applied glue, and halos made from gold tinsel. The cup of coffee handed to me by their mother was still too hot to drink when she suddenly remembered that she had to nip out and pick up a last-minute Christmas present for the eldest girl that would make or break the holidays, depending on whether or not the owner of the toy shop had stayed open to milk every last desperate parent dry, or had already gone to the pub like every other sane adult on Christmas Eve. Incidentally, that is where I should have been.

I had started to protest, but she was out the door and halfway down the street before I could even get out of my seat. The twins stopped playing with each other and stared at me for about 10 seconds, before running from the room at top speed and full volume, wings fluttering and halos bouncing up and down in tandem.

I tried to go after them but the two older girls stood in my way, looking mischievous and somehow menacing at the same time, having materialised from nowhere dressed as reindeer.

“
Who are you? Why are you in our house? Can we go outside and play? When is Mummy coming back? Can we cut your hair?”

Don't panic.

“
I'm Jacob, and I'm your Mummy's friend. She will be back in a minute, so let's just sit here quietly and watch TV until she comes back, OK?”

If I act calmly, they will too - basic psychology gleaned from nature documentaries about wild animals (and feral children). Ignore the hair cutting thing.

“
Can we watch Kill Bill? Mummy lets us watch it all the time. It's our favourite film!”

Somehow, I doubted that this was entirely true...

“
How about The Lion King instead?” I suggested, reaching for the DVD which had caught my eye, poking out from between all the other animated films and kids movies, as if it was never on the shelf long enough to gain even the lightest coating of dust. “This is
my
favourite movie”.

I had chosen well, and soon Donner and Blitzen were sprawled on the floor, noses mere inches from the TV screen as 'The Circle of Life' belted out from the speakers and I found myself joining in with them as they sang along. I would rather have watched Kill Bill too, but I didn't think it would have gone down too well if their mother had arrived back to see Uma Thurman maim and dismember hordes of evil henchmen. And besides, I've always been a bit of a sucker for Disney movies.

Suddenly there came an almighty crash from above, a heavy thud, and that explosive sound of smashing glass that never fails to get your attention. Then a sound like someone dragging a dead animal across the floor.

Shit! The twins! I leapt from my chair and got to the door just in time to see the two identical angels riding a gigantic Christmas Tree past me at one hundred miles an hour down the stairs, still lit up with hundreds of perfectly coordinated fairy lights and countless matching baubles.

The twin riding on the front of this Fir missile was clutching a long piece of tinsel like the reins of a bucking bronco, whilst the one on the back whooped and hollered, clinging on for dear life, leaving a trail of feathers and pine needles in their wake.

The eldest child must have seen this sort of thing before, for she displayed a look of sheer annoyance as she held the front door open to allow the festive juggernaut past and out into the garden. The middle child was still glued to the TV.

For a split-second I thought to myself that twenty years wasn't that long to have known someone, friendships come and go, and I was thinking of moving house anyway. Maybe in ten years or so I could come back and pick up where I'd left off after the dust had settled

My escape route was cut off however, first by the enormous Christmas Tree blocking the garden path, and at the gate, their mother, laughing hysterically.

What Have You Done?

“
W
hat have you done?” I thought, as I looked at the little man who was busy helping himself to coffee and pastries. I had known beforehand that there would be people like him there, and even before I entered the room I had been looking around me, trying to guess at who it might be - if I’m honest I was more than a little nervous. When I saw him it was obvious.