Free After the Lockout by Darran McCann Page B

make me say it. They usually do, women. They push you all the way. As if they actually want to hear you say I wanted you last night but I don’t want you now. And then you’re the devil for saying such a thing. Why is that so terrible anyway? There was a snooty south-side girl I knew one time who said I was only after one thing, and it was true, but so was she. She wanted a husband. I only wanted her for one night, she wanted me for a lifetime; but I was the selfish one? Ida drags long and deep from her cigarette, exhales down her nostrils, runs her tongue along her lips. They’re red as rosebuds. ‘You love the schoolteacher,’ she says.
    â€˜Ida, promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.’
    She gets up, lets the blanket fall to the ground, and she stands naked, shockingly, offensively naked in the morning chill, the shape of a cello, brazen as sin. Colour comes to her milky skin for the first time: murderous purple. She spits but it falls short at my feet. She lifts one of my boots and flings it at me. ‘Victor fucking Lennon, the big fucken socialist hero, is too much of a snob to be seen with me, isn’t that right?’ she shrieks. ‘Get out ofhere, you miserable bastard.’ Happy to comply. I run out the door and out of earshot quick as I can.
    Back outside again, I discover that Ida lives in the last house in the row at the top of the town; the end houses have bigger yards than the others and large sheds beside them. I have to walk past nearly every door in Madden, and I hope to God nobody sees me. Beside Ida’s is Quinn’s General Stores, Charlie’s business and home. Directly across the street from Ida’s is Moriarty’s. Next to Moriarty’s is the National School but it’s not open yet. It’s still very early, few people will be up, thank God. There won’t have been anyone there late last night either. Nausea rises up in me at the thought of meeting Maggie now. Is there anything incriminating about my appearance? The suitcase and uniform show I haven’t been home, but that doesn’t prove anything.
    As I walk down the muddy street between the houses, breathing deep, with each step I feel better. Nobody knows how I marked my first night home. The only ones who might are the lads, and I don’t mind them knowing. Turlough and Sean are men of the world. So is Charlie. He’s been in the war, for God’s sake. Even if they do know anything, they’ll keep their mouths shut. Deep breaths. I’d forgotten what the air without smog tastes like. I know I should be ashamed but I’m not. As long as no-one finds out, I’ve no regrets. My hurried clip slows to a stroll and I take the old place in. It hasn’t changed. Only the red flags and bunting hung out in my honour tell me it isn’t nineteen-ought-seven any more. But it feels different all the same. That’s perspective, I suppose. I try and remember the names of the families who live behind each door as I pass by. Sweeney. The Fenian Roche. Kelly the gambler. Vallely. McCabe. Campbell. O’Kane. The other Murphys. McCann the baker. McKenna.Gamble. Johnny Morrissey the drunk. Murphy. McDonagh the tinker. McGrath’s post office. My mother used to remark on how the paint had been flaking off that door for years (‘You’d think Sheila McGrath would get him to do something about it, it’s showing up the whole street’) and it seemed Jerry had finally gotten around to painting it a nice, bright red. Gallagher’s, with the window that was always slightly open because Mrs Gallagher was forever complaining of being too warm, whether rain or shine, summer or winter, night or day. TP McGahan. Kate and John McDermott. I’m pleased with myself that I still know them all. I’m near the chapel, with its neatly tended graveyard and its limestone steeple spiralling skywards. Directly across is the Parochial Hall. Its doors are shut