Free Ghosts and Lightning by Trevor Byrne Page A

white away kit, a big number 7 on the back with CUNZER above it.
    —Wha are we walkin through their game for?
    —Fuck them, says Maggit. —It’s a public park.
    —We could o walked round just as easy.
    A clump o wet muck, little blades o grass stickin out of it, sails through the air and lands on Maggit’s shoulder.
    Maggit turns round.
    —Who the fuck threw that?
    None o the kids answer. Maggit grabs up a handful o muck and hurls it indiscriminately at the group o kids. They part ranks and the muckball splats in the middle o one o the goals.
    —Gunner eye, says Cunzer.
    —Wha did you say?
    —Spanner eye, says a different kid.
    Maggit looks livid, like he’s gonna lose it completely.
    —Calm the fuck down you, will yeh? I say. I put me hand on his elbow. —They’re only kids yeh fuckin lunatic.
    Maggit shrugs me off and runs back a few feet. The kids scarper all over the place, stoppin when they’re safely out o range o Maggit’s temporary madness. Maggit stands there, fists balled, soakin up their taunts:
    —I’ll get me da after you!
    —Big ears!
    —Wanker!
    —Giz a chase!
    Fuck this.
    I turn and start walkin. He’s a mental fuckin bastard, Maggit is. I know he’s a mate but he’s mad as fuck and he wrecks me head sometimes. I head for the gate at the bottom o the park, the one straight across from where me nanny Cullen used to live. The steel’s bent and rusty. I squeeze through the half-fucked turnstile and turn back on the other side o the railins. Maggit’s a hundred feet or so behind me. The kids are standin in a bunch, hurlin abuse and muckballs at him. I wanna wait for him but yeh have to draw the fuckin line. Need a drink man, too fuckin right. I’ll give Maggit a buzz when I get to the pub. I’ll get the drinks in like, so no fuckin change there. It’s still too cold for Bulmers so it’s two pints o Guinness and the rickety table by the window. Fuck, when did things get this predictable? Need a change, man. Need fuckin somethin, yeh know?

THE STILETTO IN THE GHETTO
    The anointed day. Stupid fuckin séance, like. Why I’m goin along with this I don’t fuckin know. We’re standin underneath the Spire. Another one o Bertie’s deadly ideas. What a fuckin waste o money. I mean, I’m all for culture and that but, given Dublin’s troubles with heroin, spendin millions on somethin that looks exactly like a four hundred foot tall syringe in the middle of O’Connell Street is a bit fuckin thick. And I don’t think Bertie and his mates are streetwise enough for it to have been ironic.
    —I’ll meet yiz here at six, yeah? I say. —Don’t be late. Pajo wants to get started by about eight.
    —The stiffy by the Liffey, says Maggit, pattin the Spire and winkin.
    —The nail in the Pale, says Ned.
    —Yeah. The poker near Croker, I say.
    Ned and Maggit laugh. —Never heard that one, says Ned. —Ever hear that one, Maggit?
    —Nah.
    Maggit and Ned don’t seem bothered about the séance at all. Although there’s no reason they should be, really -I’m the one who has to live with the consequences. I still think Paula would be better off just givin up the drink fora while, gettin her head together. But at the same time the whole situation still bothers me; it kind o gnaws away at me. Ghosts and drink and madness. Which causes which, like? In what order do they come? Gives me the creeps.
    I take out me mobile and have a look. It’s ten to five. Loads o time. We cross O’Connell Street to the GPO. There’s two women and an oulfella standin to our left, a table in front o them covered with leaflets and forms. There’s a load o posters behind them, stuck to the wall o the GPO. Horrible pictures o slimy dead foetuses. They look like tiny, semi-translucent aliens. I fuckin hate that — people pushin their beliefs onto yeh, tryin to shock yeh into submission.
    —Make sure yeh get a proper bunch, Maggit, I say.
    —Fresh.
    Maggit nods.
    —Make sure, I say.
    —Yeah, fuck sake. I