Gurriers (38 page)

His grin was genuine. It felt good that the compliment had evidently hit home.

“Merci beaucoup, Monsier le Shy Boy!”

“Monsieur le garcon timide!” I corrected.

“Mais oui!” He returned with a big, French style gesture.

I knew I was up next at the pool table and because nature called, I wanted to go for a piss before I began playing. “Where’s the jacks from here, John?”

“Down the stairs, followin’ them around to the left past the bar, stayin’ left ye’ll find yerself on stairs down to the basement. Follow the stairs down to the bottom an’ then follow the stink into the gents.”

I noted that these people gave loads of detail even in directions to the toilet!

“Cheers!”

The alcohol and cannabis in my system made themselves that little bit more obvious, as I weaved my way downwards and leftwards from the top of the far stairs to the basement stairs, but from then on the increasingly sickening stench of stale piss
had a decidedly sobering effect. By the time I got to the door of the gents, I was already breathing through my mouth in big, irregular gulps (and only when I really, really needed to) to try to ease the suffering of my poor nose.

Opening the door then brought the foul odour to a new dimension, and I did my business with my whole face squinted as tight as possible in a futile attempt to ease my pain. I felt lucky to get out of there without vomiting. There wasn’t even enough time to wash my hands such was the rancid smell from the jacks.

Vinno was putting his fifty pence coin into the pool table when I returned, pale and sweaty with watery eyes. Joe was gathering his belongings amid pleas to stay for just one more.

Vinno deduced where I had been. “Tha’ jacks takes a bi’ o’ getting’ used to!”

“It’s fucking gross! What’s the problem?”

“One o’ the pipes below the pisser is broken an’ he’d have to tear the whole trough up to ge’ at i’! You’re on here next, so ye’ll be playin’ me after I show a certain little fat person who’s boss.”

“The medal is on the table, Numero Uno, so why don’t ye kiss one a yours goodbye an’ pu’ yer money where yer mouth is!”

“I’ll kiss i’ goodbye when I’m puttin’ i’ and one a yours into the cigarette machine, pal! There ye go!”

I was glad to reach the windowsill and enjoy a large cold swig of Guinness to help put the whole toilet episode that little bit further into my past. My respite was short lived, however, courtesy of Leo taking the trouble to break himself away from a four person conversation he had been a part of to slide up to me.

“You’re lookin’ a bi’ woozy there, Shy Boy! Ye’re noh’ goin’ to take another greener, are ye?”

“It’s that stinkin’ jacks that has me lookin’ like this! I’ll be grand until I have my next piss.”

“Cool! Ye be’er have a smoke owa this so. Eight Gary over there made i’ – ‘member him from the bridge?”

A knockout joint was exactly what I didn’t want at this particular point in time, but I took it from him so as not to lose face. He scrutinised me as I took my first drag of dread, with the smoke bringing with it a sense of impending doom as I inhaled. The crack of the balls as Ray broke seemed to fade away as the wave of cannabis coursed through my body, with fresh beads of perspiration forming on my forehead. I could feel the greener that Leo wanted coming on. One more drag of this joint would do it, but I couldn’t back down. Slowly I raised the catalyst of the masher towards my already parched mouth.

“What’s goin’ on wi’ all the fuckin’ joints, boys? Yis all know tha’ pool players can’t skin up an’ shouldn’ be left ou’ when the good stuff is goin’ round!” Ray said and saved me from smoking any more.

“Here ye go, Ray.” I thoroughly enjoyed the look of disappointment on Leo’s face, as his eyes followed the path of the joint.

A little sip of Guinness and a lot of large gulps of air and I was ready to settle and enjoy what turned out to be a very enjoyable battle on the pool table. Vinno was no slouch with a cue and put up a great fight. He was genuinely unlucky to lose the game on the black.

I felt more jittery than I had been expecting, as I approached the brightly lit battleground in full view of all present, armed with a clammy fifty pence coin that had rested way too long in my nervous palm.

It’s funny how sparks of primeval fear flare into our modern world in competitive circumstances, a genetic reflection from deep within of times when entering into contest before the tribe had infinitely more serious consequences.

I felt so nervous setting up the balls that I almost didn’t do my balancing trick that I had perfected during my college days. It simply involved tucking both knees under the pool table in such a way that upwards pressure from the feet supplied enough steadying force as to free both hands and even – with enough of
a push from the feet – the entire upper body.

Ray - sitting behind me and to my right as I addressed the table – made up my mind with his big mouth. “Ah, sure it’s only Shy Boy, Naoise. I’ll have him polished off in no time an’ then it’s you!”

I readied myself just as I was about to do the trick. Okay, Sean, knees under but no leaning back!

As I put the money in with my left hand I turned and pointed my right index finger at him. “You don’t know anything about my game, Ray.” I held eye contact above my extended finger in my increasingly uncomfortable position while I pushed home the slot releasing the balls, he looked momentarily confused, standing there with a pint in one hand and a cue in the other, but only momentarily.

“It’ll take more than a fuckin’ balancin’ act to beat me, Shy Boy. You jus’ make sure ye don’ fuckin’ stick yerself there all nie!” He elbowed a chuckle out of Naoise, taking his eye off me for a split second. I leaned back as far as I could, back facing the ground parallel with shoulder blades only inches from the floorboards, and extended my right arm fully at an angle to leave my right hand behind his left ankle.

It took very little force to send him wildly off balance, and I could have pulled his foot forward more than the few inches that I did, but I was just making a point. Besides, there was both danger and pain involved for me and I made a hasty exit upwards before I got covered in Guinness, belted by a cue that was being swung to reclaim balance, or rendered paralysed from the knee down by exploding calf muscles.

The crowd loved it though. This was another primeval instinct – performance.

A performance that carried me through to win what turned out to be a thrilling game that I played with a fervour I’d forgotten that I had. A fervour manufactured from a lot of teeth gritting as it happened, for as soon as the balls broke, a huge wave of missing her caught me totally by surprise – nearly bringing me to tears on the spot in front of everybody. In retrospect I might have been better prepared for it. I longed to show off to
her one more time.

“Any fuckin’ time tonie, Shy Boy!”

Despite holding back tears that held a very real threat of breaching the eyelid, I managed to pot the first ball that I aimed at, positioning myself for an easy second pot. This went in but my next one had to be a safety which I miscalculated to leave Ray a shot while I scurried towards my pint to pull myself together. This is where the aforementioned teeth gritting occurred, stemming any emotional uprising and sending me back to the table with a focus that allowed me to win the game.

Winning the game, albeit increasing my longing for her even more, picked me up a bit and I ambled my way into a conversation with Vinno and three couriers – only one of which I had ever spoken to before but two of whom were sporting lit joints, while Naoise was setting up the balls and Ray went to the bar.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen Ray quiet for so long! Oh, thanks very much! When do we put the bikes in the yard?”

“At eight o’ clock Andy comes in an’ as soon as he gets a chance, Jimmy opens the yard for five minutes for us to park the bikes. Make sure ye go for i’ as soon as he gives us the nod, he’s a rie grumpy fucker if we leave ‘im standin’ there too long.”

I appreciated the great deal of effort that it obviously took the very stoned stranger to string together the explanation all the more because of my stoned failure in the effort to listen. One piece of information did wade through the sludge of my brain as I took a deep drag from the joint he had passed me. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet!

Ray came back with more pints, people regularly passed me more joints and because Naoise had a crap game, it provided me with another victory. Slurping large gulps of my pint to catch up, as the Gizzard set up the next game, I edged myself into the audience for a crash story that Ray was just finishing. I was feeling pretty good at this point, despite niggling concerns equating the early hour with the level of drunkenness already reached combined with smoking more joints tonight than on any other night in my life already.

What the hell! I thought. I wanted as much of this as I could
take in. I wanted to hear everything, see everyone, drink with everyone, smoke joints with all these good people.

“Tha’ was i’! Bang! Road, sky, road, sky, road, sky, ambulance!”

“D’ye noh fuckin’ think I’ve been wai’ in fuckin’ long enough for fuck’s sake, Shy Boy! Wake up an’ break the fuckin’ balls!”

“Goin’ for a medal, Gizzard?”

“Fuckin’ sure!”

I broke and played with all, if not more, of the focus and determination of the previous games, but this time I was up against too sharp a player. The Gizzard should have been called the wizard when he had a cue in his hand. Every shot was the perfect pace, angle and perfect spin on the cue ball. Instead of potting a ball and tracking the next one, the Gizzard would pot a ball at such an angle and at such a pace so as to cannon one of mine onto a cushion and then carry on to leave him in position for the next pot. I felt a sense of achievement for potting four of my balls against such a player.

Defeat naturally bought all of my demons back to torment and torture me and I could feel more damned tears welling up as the Gizzard and I exchanged the customary “hard luck, well done” handshake. I grabbed my pint from the windowsill and jostled my way the short distance through sympathetic nods from my companions to squeeze in beside Al to offer him the service of rolling a joint for him.

Vinno arrived with more pints as I was burning in, including one for Al. The already loud proceedings erupted in a fresh cascade of joyous greetings as Mick, looking sparklingly clean in jeans and a light summer jacket, came through the door after Vinno. I was surprised to see how happy Charlie was to see him and how eager he was to be the first one over to him.

“Here’s yours, Shy Boy, watch tha’ joint!”

As I moved the makings to make room for a fresh pint to be parked beside it’s still half full predecessor, I happened to catch the exchange between Charlie and Mick out of the corner of my eye. I should have averted my eyes immediately, but curiosity got the better of me, as Charlie put one of the little white pills
that Mick had given him into his mouth.

In the time it took me to finish the joint and spark it up, Mick had similar exchanges with several people, some of whom subsequently dished out the bounty in their own little groups. There were a lot of hands making trips to mouths and a lot of faces twisted in the bitter grimace of chemical aftertaste. As I banged my empty glass on the table after polishing off the half pint in one go, it startled me slightly to see that Mick had made his way over to our table while I hadn’t been looking. He handed Al a pill with a wink that declared it to be a freebie.

“Nice one, Mick!”

“Wha’ abou’ you, Shy Boy, want any pills?”

“I, er, well…em”

“Did you ever do pills before?” Vinno interjected.

“No.” My voice was weak and laced with shame.

“He’s been knockin’ back the pints, Mick. Maybe some other nie for ‘is first one?”

I didn’t want to take ecstasy, but I felt too much like a little kid having somebody else apparently make the decision for me.

“I’ll buy some hash if ye have any of that for shale.” I could have done a lot worse for assertiveness but I needed to put more effort into speaking slowly and clearly.

“How much do ye want?”

“Ten spot?” I replied, slow and deliberate with shaky near – eye contact.

“Ah for fuck’s sake, Shy Boy! Would ye noh go mad an’ buy a qua’er for twenty five?”

I looked away from him to take a long slow drag out of my joint while the line that I needed formulated itself in my head. I turned back and managed to deliver it perfectly.

“Never smoked hash before,” I released a large exhalation of smoke and continued. “Don’t know if I’m going to like it Mick.”

The roar of laughter helped my cause.

“I suppose I could cut ye a bit off me personal lump, bu’ you’ll have te geh the knife off jimmy! An’ remember tha’ I only
carry qua’ers to sell!”

I passed the joint to Al, took a swig of my Guinness and awkwardly stood up while gesturing towards the seat I was vacating.

“You sit down then, Mick, I’ll get ye a knife.”

“An I’ll cut ye off a pound o’ fuckin’ flesh as well while I’m a’ i’!

“Ye’re grand, man! I’ve done that one before an’ I don’t like it, just the hash please!” I giggled all the more to myself as I made my way down the stairs on the realisation that that had been the first time in my life I had ever referred to anybody as “man”. I was turning into a courier!