66
nothing but a smile, to buy a carry-out ‘for the oul fella’; of course, I’d been chased off the premises, forcing me to resort to Plan B. I was already feeling the flat of my father’s hand across my head. I hoped the thrashing would be worth it. ‘Good man yourself,’ grinned Paudie. ‘Jesus, I can’t wait for this.’ We neared the top of the road. Just another hundred yards or so, and we’d be there. Already, the glow of a campfire called down to us, and the bulk of the Monument loomed out of the light like a demon standing up out of Hell. ‘There’ll be girls here, and everything,’ he added, in a voice that sounded strangled. I thought, then, of all the shoes my mother and me had found, over the years. The height of them, the straps and buckles. The undoing of laces and buttons. The stretching out of toes. ‘Come on, will ya,’ I said, gasping as the hill took a bite out of my muscles. ‘It’s freezing.’ I shot ahead, Paudie skittering in my wake.
My throat felt fat as we drew near. The plastic bag whished and crackled at my knee, and the cans inside it thunked dully, one against the other. I felt like I was wearing the wrong clothes, the wrong hair. I heard a girl laugh, and my nerve buckled. Paudie wasn’t having it. ‘Will you give up?’ he hissed. ‘We’re here, now. We have drink. It’ll be grand.’ Still, we hovered on the edge of the light-pool, our toes aglow, just watching. Then, one of the girls spotted us. ‘Josie?’ she shouted, her voice unsteady. ‘Is that you?’ Paudie grabbed a painful, careless handful of my jacket and shoved me forward. I almost fell, the bag of cans swinging like a pendulum from my sweaty fist. Swearing, and laughter, greeted me. ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked a voice. I shielded my eyes against the light, but everything was still a blur. ‘I – I’ve cans…’ I began. theincubatorjournal.com
Issue 1