Serious People (32 page)
Authors: James A. Shea
“Dawn you did insist on coming, and you know what these hospitals can be like—all paperwork and red tape,” Mickey said.
Dawn was about to argue her case further when Jackie appeared around the corner in a wheelchair, pushed by Seamus and flanked by Haig.
“Dawn!” Jackie shouted out, the moment she saw her friend.
“Jackie!” Dawn ran up to her friend, giving her a big hug. “God Jack, you’re not stuck in this for the party are you?”
“God no,” Jackie said and stood up. “The doctor just wanted to wheel me down here; he said I might not be that easy on my feet. You know what they’re like.”
Haig looked at Mickey and shook his head.
“The doctor is going to have to be on hand all day, Dawn. So when we get to Charlie and Jackie’s, perhaps set him up on the sofa with a good film or something,” Mickey said, ignoring the glare from Haig.
“I thought you were staying with us?” Dawn replied.
“No, we got to make sure the band is set for the big show tonight,” Mickey smiled in Jackie’s direction.
“Wild n’ Weird?” Jackie asked quietly.
“You didn’t think Charlie was going to let you down did you?” Mickey smiled.
“Oh my God!” Jackie shouted, grabbing Dawn for another hug.
Ronny walked into Fame’s studio, all the boys were there, it was strange to think only yesterday he had been in Fame’s office giving him the idea to get Wild n’ Weird back together. Hats off to Fame he didn’t mess about, all done within hours.
“Guys!” Wild shouted, thrusting his arms into the air like a footballer who had just scored the winning goal in the World Cup Final. “We’re all here. You all got here so quickly! This is great!”
Wild looked around the studio. The old queen Crossbones was sat behind the skins, grinning like a loon, just like he did in the old days. Mohican was stood on top of his amp, with his punkish hair almost touching the ceiling of the studio, the stupid mad punk. Wild grinned.
Nails was stood in the corner of the studio, his guitar strapped so loosely around him, he had to hold the guitar’s neck so strongly that he might as well not be wearing a strap. This of course enabled him to lift it into an iconic position, when delivering his renowned solos. He was still a complete junkie, just like the old days. Just like the good old days, Wild thought—this is so great! The lead singer looked at Nail’s impossibly dilated pupils.
His eyes then fell on Steve ‘Weird’ Peters. Unlike Nails’ guitar, his guitar was strapped tightly to his stomach; it needed no holding in position to sit effortlessly in place, waiting to be strummed. Peters—ever the true muso—and still pissed off with me, I see, Wild thought, looking at the frown on Weird’s face. The frown was, without doubt, the result of his arrival.
“You decided to show then,” Weird said, seemingly annoyed.
“Hey, I arranged this, I made it happen.” Wild grinned back.
“What are you talking about?” Weird replied.
“I told you man, Ronny wouldn’t let us down,” Neil said, winking at Wild.
“Of course not Neil,” Wild said, given the junkie a nod. “How are things with you?”
“I’m flying man,” Nails said, spreading his wings like an airplane.
Wild smiled, “Still mashed then.”
“There’s no need for that Wild,” Weird snapped. “I knew it was a bad idea inviting you back.”
“What? I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Wild replied.
Wild shot an angry look at Crossbones; he’d expected this type of reception from Weird but not Crossbones. “Really? Is that why you wanted to sack him half way through our Locked in A Cage Tour?”
Wild knew he was sticking the knife in by saying this. It was a private conversation that he was referring to, between him and the drummer, and best kept so. But a dig deserved a dig back.
“You bitch. That's not true!” Crossbones lied.
Nails even in his drugged state looked hurt. “Hey, Dave wouldn’t want to sack me.”
Weird shook his head. “This is great Wild! You turn up, and it all goes up in flames straight away.”
Wild looked back at the door to the studio he’d just walked through. “I walked away from my solo career for this?”
Mohican jumped off his amplifier, storming towards Wild, his face full of anger. “Walked away from your fucking solo career? You think we fucking believe that? You were dumped by your record company; they only kept you on for a second album because you paid for it!”
Wild stepped backwards in shock; how the hell did he bloody know that?
“Mo! I told you that in confidence!” Crossbones shouted, from behind his drum set.
Fame! Wild thought and he looked back at the studio door. He hadn’t signed up for this rubbish; he was just here to try and make himself great again—to re-launch his career.
He took a step towards the door and was about to storm out. But then he remembered the radio show he’d had to endure, and then the two demoralising recent visits to Max Fame’s office. He couldn’t let such things happen again.
“Guys, I have spent so much of my life being a wanker. This is when I was at my best, when I was with you,” Ronny said, not daring to look around at the rest of the band.
“As usual all the attention has to be on you!” Weird snapped.
Ronny looked at the door; this was over before it begun, Wild thought and started to walk away from the band again.
“Where you bloody going? We need our singer if we’re going back on tour!” Weird said.
Mickey hated admitting when Fame was right, but this one time, he certainly was. Mickey had been listening to Wild n’ Weird practise for fifteen minutes now and they were good. He was sat in the recording studio, next to Seamus and Fame, watching the band perform on the other side of the glass window. There was no way though he was going to let on that he liked them; but it was taking all his will power not to tap his feet to the beat.
“I thought they were meant to hate each other?” Mickey said, wishing Fame’s job of keeping the band together for the next few hours had been just a little more difficult.
“They do,” Fame grinned. “That’s what gives many of the truly great bands their musical edge.”
“They’re not bad, are they Mick,” Seamus said, rocking his head to the music.
“I’ve heard better,” Mickey shrugged. “They’re not really my musical taste.”
“I tell you what; you might have done me the biggest ever favour by getting these guys back together. I’m going to have the phone ringing off the hook if they keep playing like this!” Fame said excitedly.
Mickey eyed the showbiz manager for a moment. The man’s eyes were looking glassy as he watched Wild n’ Weird strut their stuff, he actually looked as if he may well break into tears at any moment. Impending pound notes clearly got his emotions going.
“Mickey I’ve been thinking about what you asked me a few days ago,” Seamus said. “You know, about where I want to be in five years.”
Oh no, Mickey thought, here it comes confirmation of my failure to bring the man on board. Fame has finally won; this was the final nail in the coffin—seeing these old bastards getting back together and all the rock ‘n roll bullshit that goes with it. He’s finally going to admit he wants to go and work with Max Fame.
“Go on,” Micky replied.
“I want to try and do what you do, you know, be a boss in Mr. O’Neil’s firm,” Seamus said. “I know it will take some time—probably a lot more than five years—but that’s what I want to do.”
Mickey smiled back at him, at last he might become mouldable, he thought. But more importantly, Mickey knew he had won. Fame had been subtly trying to impress Seamus all week with the benefits a life in showbiz gave, but it had counted for nothing. Nothing, that is, against a master influencer like Mickey.
Mickey looked across at Fame, hoping he’d registered Mickey’s victory, but he hadn't. He was still watching Wild n’ Weird, awe struck.
Mickey started to let his mind wander towards some empowerment opportunities he could push in Seamus’s direction; perhaps he could have his own group of businesses to look after? Or he could become Mickey’s official driver?
But his mind was quickly taken away from reviewing Seamus’ future by his mobile phone ringing. He quickly grabbed it from his pocket. His phone hardly ever rang; the only people who had his number were serious contacts, people who only phoned when a telephone conversation was absolutely necessary. It had been one of O’Neil’s strictest rules.
Mobile phones, Mickey knew, were your potential enemy. They could lead to significant difficulties, if your number got into the wrong hands, and that you could never be sure who could be listening in. In the late nineties, a policy of complete non use of mobile phones was put in force, which was kept in place even into the early part of the noughties, when the world could still be operated through pay phones and word of mouth. The last few years were different though; the thought of not carrying a mobile phone was implausible. The nature of their business meant that some people must always be able to make contact—but this only applied to serious people.
Mickey looked at the name on the screen; it was Leroy.
“Leroy.” Mickey said, answering the phone.
“What up bad man,” the familiar Jamaican voice replied. “Boss man tell you ‘bout the shit I’d be checking for him?”
“Yeah, he might have mentioned it,” Mickey said, remembering the rules of phone conversations. Keep it short—to the point.
“Well something’s come up, bad man. I need you here double quick times,” Leroy said.
Mickey’s heart started beating harder. “Where?”
“I’ll text you the detail,” Leroy replied. “Be quick.”
The phone went dead.
Charlie stood outside, Our Lady of Peace. It was the church where he had been baptised, served as an altar boy, then confirmed and finally married in by Father Declan. He had not been inside for years; in recent times he’d become uncomfortable with religion.
It was not that he had lost his religion. He still had his belief in God; his Irish Catholic roots, which had been nurtured through his childhood, were hard to shake and had been the real reason he couldn’t walk through the doors of the church. If his faith were shallower he would have been able to shoulder the hypocrisy of where his life had taken him.
The nineties had been dark years for Charlie. He had poured more blood onto his hands that any repentance could gain forgiveness for. Part of him was convinced, had Father Declan remained at the church, he would have been able to continue going on a Sunday, attend confession and talk through his deeds. At times, he even thought this might have helped him to carry the burden of his sins; but he never had that option.
Soon after Charlie and Jackie’s wedding, Father Declan returned to Ireland to a small diocese as a form of retirement. In the years which followed the church had gone through many priests—all good enough in different ways—but O’Neil could never trust them sufficiently to go to confession. He subsequently drifted away from the Sunday morning ritual.
He walked towards the church entrance, looked up at the cross on top of the building, and faltered for a moment. He had tried to walk inside many times over the last few months, since Jackie’s diagnosis. He had so many questions that only a priest could answer. But he had never summoned the strength needed to walk through the doors; his sins carried a heavy weight.
Charlie took a deep breath and walked in.
He was immediately hit by the familiar musty smell of incense. He looked across at the rows of seats and the Stations of the Cross that covered the walls between the stained-glass windows. His mind was suddenly full of long forgotten memories.
Charlie looked to the floor so that his eyes didn’t meet the Christ on the cross; his new-found strength only stretched so far.
He saw an old man kneeling near the front of the church. He had hoped the church would be empty, though in some ways he was pleased he wasn’t alone.
He was about to move his eyes away from the old man, when he felt a sudden urge to come closer to him and examine who the old man was further. There was something about him that seemed familiar.
Charlie moved slowly closer. He could now see an old looking rosary in his hands; the beads were a dark-brown colour and seemed larger than most he was familiar with. As he got closer, he could see the man had thick white hair and old thick framed glasses. The man looked like he must have been in his eighties.
Charlie stopped and stared. He knew the man—how could he not. It was Father Declan.
“Father?”
The old man looked up and let a small smile form on his crinkled face, “Charlie.”
Charlie sat down on the bench next to the old priest. “Father, what are you doing here?”
“Busman’s holiday,” the priest smiled. “I try and get back here every so often. And—Mr O’Neil—often enough to know that the church has not been seeing you much these days.”
Charlie looked down at his hands. A slow tremor started to run down his left arm to his hand. He briefly tried to move his body to shield the tremor from the old man, but the priest was already inspecting it grimly.
“Would you like to take confession Charlie?” Father Declan asked.
Charlie sat uncomfortably in the small confessional booth. It had been a long-time since he had had this experience, but to his surprise, a feeling of relief began to sweep over his body and he could already feel some of the weight leave his shoulders.
“My son, what would you like to confess?” the priest said, speaking from the other side of the booth.
“Father, there is so much I want to say,” O’Neil replied nervously.
“When was your last confession my son?” Declan asked.
“I don’t remember Father. I feel… ” Charlie said—he had to stop himself, as he could feel the emotion flooding over him. “I think I’m paying for my sins.”
“You are never completely lost from the Lord, Charlie. He is always near your side.”
Charlie wasn’t sure how to reply. He grabbed his left hand with the other to stop it shaking. “Charlie the Lord will forgive you for your sins,” Declan said.
“Really? I don’t think I could have travelled further away from the Lord, Father,” Charlie said, gripping his left hand tighter.
He suddenly wished he hadn’t come. How could this help? What could this old man do to make him feel better? All he was doing was putting Father Declan in a situation where he had to keep his terrible deeds quiet.
“I have spent my whole life as a criminal, Father. I make money out of other people’s misery, and, on occasion, I’ve had to even kill people, Father. How can I ask God to forgive me that?”
Charlie waited for the priest to say something, but no reply came.
“I can’t complain about how my life is turning out,” Charlie continued. “I have earned my retribution. But Jackie—why Jackie Father? She hasn’t doesn’t anything to anyone!”
“I’m sorry my son. I was planning to go and visit her as soon as I could,” Declan replied.
“I would give everything up if it made her better Father,” Charlie said, disturbed by the emotion in his voice.
“I know you would, my son,” Declan said solemnly. “But you can't. People depend on you.”
“No they don’t, Father,” Charlie said shaking his head. “They
die
because of me. Once I wouldn’t have let anyone touch my crew. But now—now I have no fight left in me. I have nothing left Father. This is my retribution for my actions; everything is being taken from me.”
“You think you’re the devil?” Declan asked.
Charlie didn’t know how to reply; he was aware that some people thought he was.
“You think a priest would spend time talking to the devil?”
“Robert’s dead Father, they killed Robert, and now they’re coming for me,” Charlie said, his voice quieter than ever. “And I’m not even sure if I care anymore.”
“Did you know I came here on the same boat as your father, Charlie?” Declan asked.
“Yes, that’s half the reason my dad never moved us away from here. He always had to stay close to the church,” Charlie replied.
“I know all this Father…”
“Do you know that the only job your poor father could get at that time was on a building site—despite the fact that he was a qualified man,” the priest said, raising his voice. “He worked every hour of daylight, but never missed a day’s mass. And he always made sure you were in the finest clothes money could attain. I never even heard him moan; he never questioned what life had given him!”
Charlie straightened on the bench; he’d never heard Declan raise his voice in all the years he had known him.
“I know, my father was a better man than me…”
“The only thing he would ask of the Lord—” the priest continued, ignoring Charlie’s words, “—was that you would not live the life that he had to; that the Lord would give you a path to something better! To give you a different life!”
“Father, I don’t think this is what my dad meant…”
“Your dad wouldn’t have cared. He would have been proud of you, Charlie. And as for our Father, he has a plan for us all, Charlie, and believe my words when I say, your father would thank the Lord every day for all that you have,” Father Declan said, his voice quiet but intense.
“But my life recently has been just as hard Father,” Charlie said, knowing he sounded pathetic. “Every day I’m on my guard, making sure that none of my guys step out of line or that no one else is making a move.”
The priest didn’t reply.
“I think my penance has started, Father, and it’s overdue. Jackie is—” Charlie said, a tear falling down his face. “—And Robert, they killed Robert!”
“I watched your Da in tears one day; all he had was a loaf of bread to feed the three of you for a week!” the priest said, his voice full of anger. “That is a hard life Charlie; working all day and night and having a loaf of bread to show for it!”
Charlie sat quietly, not sure what to say, or if he should even say anything at all.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Charlie O’Neil,” Father Declan continued, anger resounding in his voice. “Your father was a gentle man but I will tell you, he would have fought anyone who tried to take something from his family. And if someone had dared to touch a hair on you or your mother’s head—”
“But Father, I don’t think I have any energy left,” Charlie said, hearing the self-pity in his own words.
“So you are going to let someone take everything from you? Without even a fight or…” Father Declan snapped. “You know what your mother said on the day you were christened?”
“No?” Charlie replied quietly.
“Your mother said she was here to christen her boy the name of her husband—” The priest’s voice was now hoarse, as a result of the loud words he had spoken, “—because he has the heart of a lion and the strength of ten bears.”
Something burned in Charlie’s stomach. It was something he hadn’t felt for some time. It was anger. It was pure anger. They had killed Robert; they were going to ruin Jackie’s party.
“She said that this boy, this boy will become the Charles O’Neil my husband could have been. He will have everything this world has to offer,” the priest said, his voice now almost a growl. “He will have everything me and his Da have ever dreamed of; and he will never have to take an instruction from anyone.”
Charlie could almost hear his mother’s voice; they were words of the type that had been repeated to him, time and time again, when he was young.
“You think you’ve become the devil my son? You are just a product of the world our Lord created.”
Something felt different in Charlie. He suddenly felt like the most feared kid in the playground once more, the man that could have whatever he wanted, the man that would crush anyone that opposed him. They were going to try and ruin his Jackie’s party. They were going to try to take everything from him.
The priest waited for a moment before continuing. “Would you like me to give you prayers for your absolution my son?”
There was no reply from Charlie’s booth.
“My son, are you still there?” Father Declan asked.
“Thank you Father,” Charlie replied. His voice now sounded different. Deeper, stronger.
Father Declan cleared his throat. “Five Ave Marias and ten of Our Lord’s Prayer… Ok, I understand, you may not be ready for absolution, just yet.”
O’Neil nodded and stood up.
“Be aware though, Charlie O’Neil, I believe the devil may well be knocking on your door,” the priest continued.
“I can make the devil quake, Father,” Charlie said with a smile.
He nodded to the priest and strode out of the church. His body felt strong again. There was no tremor in his hands, just anger, anger and strength.
Pete was waiting for Charlie outside the church and nodded a greeting as he approached.
“Where to boss?” Pete asked.
“The office—I’ll drive,” Charlie said firmly.
Pete stared back at Charlie for a moment, a little shocked by the response and tossed him the car keys.
“How you feeling?” Pete asked.
Charlie ignored him and got in his car. There was no time for talk; he had to be ready for his next visitor.
