Free Other Stories And Nothing But Time by Gerard Brennan Page A

late for anybody else to get in, but too early for the lightweight drunks to be kicked out. As usual, we're smoking and chatting. Same old same.
    “So I told her to get off her arse and get a job if she wants gold chains and nights out. It's been salad all week. That's passive aggressive behaviour that is.”
    Sammy's conclusion to his most recent marital spat. He's modern enough to tout phrases like passive-aggressive and suggest the woman of the house earn a crust. Still Stone Age enough to be frightened of the microwave. But we nod our appreciation for his woes. I'm up next.
    “How's your Sean?” Sammy asks.
    “Ach, I don't know. He's a mystery to me.”
    “He going to go to Queen's, like?”
    Paranoid, I weigh up the tone he uses when he says Queen's. Nothing in it, of course. Sammy knows Sean's gay, but he's not one of the judgemental Freebie-types. Not sure what kind of protestant he is, but he's quite relaxed about the gay thing.
    “No. He changed his mind. Says he wants to be a hairdresser.”
    “Hairdresser?” This from the new boy. Twenty-year-old Jimmy. Cock-of-the-walk in his wee mind. Prick to everyone else. “What is he, a fruit?”
    I square up. “Yes, my son's gay. That bother you, wee fellah?”
    “No, Paddy. Sorry. I didn't know.”
    He says sorry like he's offering condolences. I want to bite his ear off. But that would be out of order. Let him call me next time his back's to the wall, though. Might take me a little longer to respond than usual.
    I turn back to Sammy. “He doesn't talk to me, you know?”
    “Kids, what?” Sammy says.
    “Aye.” What else can you say, like?
    Spide-boy comes along pretty soon after that. He's on his own, which surprises me a bit, but carrying a Stanley knife, which doesn't surprise me at all. He waves it around and I make placatory gestures for the sake of the cameras. Meanwhile I'm calling him all the names of the day in a cheery voice. I'm looking to wreck this wee bastard and he's given me all the reason I need. Jimmy shits it, though.
    “Paddy, Paddy! He's tooled up!”
    “I'm not blind, son. Stay cool, all right?”
    But he decides he wants to play the hero. He darts forward, eyes on the knife and the spide panics. He slashes upwards and opens up the dimple on Jimmy's chin. Jesus. Close one. Of course, blood's flying everywhere and Jimmy's screaming like he's dying. Spide-boy's gone all pale, waiting for Jimmy to bleed to death or something. Sammy goes to Jimmy, leaving me the gift of demolishing the spide. I go a lot harder than necessary, but with Jimmy cut and all of it on camera, nobody's going to give me any grief.
    I leave bloody footprints on his clothes. Serves him right.
    Waiting for the ambulance and talking to the peelers passes a bit of time. Paramedics reckon Jimmy needs stitches so he's off for the rest of the night to get his first battle-scar taken care of. I hope he's learned his lesson.
    I get home at the same time as our Sean. That happens a lot. Takes me a while to close up, takes him forever to catch a taxi. Tonight he gets out of a PSNI car though. He's been slapped about a bit by some kids. The cops reckon they were hoods from Sandy Row, but they always say that when something happens on the Golden Mile. Could have been anyone, so although I'm boiling inside, I've no plans to go down there. I might call a few friends on the doors tomorrow, though. See if I can pick up a lead.
    I'm nodding and half-listening to the cop who's about a year older than our Sean and probably as catholic too. But I'm watching my son. He's sat down on the doorstep trying hard not to cry. My heart's broke and I wish to God this baby peeler would get out of my face and let me talk to my son. I arrange a time to bring Sean for a less garbled statement and see them off.
    “Come on inside, son. I'll make you a coffee.”
    “I'm sorry, daddy. I should have listened to you.”
    And I swear to God, I'm almost crying. I want to tell him I was wrong. He should be