{"id":9920,"date":"2020-11-12T12:32:20","date_gmt":"2020-11-12T12:32:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=9920"},"modified":"2020-11-12T12:32:20","modified_gmt":"2020-11-12T12:32:20","slug":"niall","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2020\/11\/12\/niall\/","title":{"rendered":"Niall"},"content":{"rendered":"

Dublin, 2015<\/em><\/p>\n

Four hours after his head gets kicked in, he\u2019s wheeled into the A&E on a gurney. Splayed, supine, he looks like a crash test dummy; blood soils his tracksuit. Only the saliva oozing from his lower lip tells them he is human.<\/p>\n

His breathing is shallow but steady, hence why none of the nurses see him. They think he\u2019s sedated from the morphine. He is<\/em> still dazed, but resurfacing. He keeps his eyes shut and listens, sneaking the occasional glance around the room to which he\u2019s been brought. Best not draw any more attention, he tells himself.<\/p>\n

The corridor they leave him in reeks of piss. He reckons it always does. Dried pools of blood splatter the floor; someone has recently tried to haphazardly mop them up. Bodies and scarring lie in both directions; from outside, the wail of sirens say yet more will soon come crashing through the door, battered and gory as he. Wearing blood-speckled gloves, nurses ricochet between patients, administering drugs and wrapping bandages. He hears a shrill bleeping noise followed by a monotone voice crackle over the intercom: \u201cD reg to resus, please.\u201d Passing around packing gauze or tubes, orderlies and paramedics shout to one another. A girl lies on the gurney next to his, frayed mini-dress blanketing her fractured limbs and her face smeared in mascara. On the other side, a man is awake, his shirt torn off and draped in IV wiring, a white tube bandaged to his wrist; he looks as if he is doing his best not to scream. Opposite them are a pair of lads covered in blood; some aul\u2019 one wailing that she wants to go home, the drunk in the next stretcher making stifled gurgles, while a phlebotomist with panic in his eyes works hard on pumping his patient\u2019s stomach. Wailing fills the air as a senior doctor stands at the centre, clipboard in hand, under the laser-like arc lights.<\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t expect anyone to take much notice of him, because in the grand scheme of things, his injuries are minor. He\u2019s probably one in a thousand that night at St. James\u2019 Emergency Ward, and with a number like that, far more pressing concerns than his bloody mug go on around him. In rooms like this, blood is everything. It has to be preserved, or rinsed clean of whatever disease threatens to pollute it. And yet, for the nurses and medics, like antibiotics or stale coffee, it remains just another part of the job.<\/p>\n

He must\u2019ve been unconscious for hours. At first, he wonders what difference the initial injection makes. He is quiet, probably the only quiet patient in the entire ward. The pain, an insistent throbbing in his head, thuds at a low intensity, unlike before, when it had been the sun and the moon, the sum of all life, a rogue wave flooding his body, burrowing into every limb and pore, robbing him of even the sense to scream out. Or was that just his hangover, stinging vestiges of the cider he\u2019d skulled back at the hall? But to be able to breathe normally again was a relief.<\/p>\n

Niall Keane remembers nothing since he left the Dark Horse Pool Academy. He wasn\u2019t brought here in an ambulance; that\u2019s dead certain. Someone drove him here, in a van; someone whose face he can\u2019t quite recall. No one knows he\u2019d been out at the Dark Horse; not his ma or brother, nor even any of his mates. It might have been one of them who\u2019d driven him here, someone who bolted the second they pulled up. But he shrugs that thought off.<\/p>\n

The hospital personnel aren\u2019t worried about him dying. If they were, they\u2019d have seen him by now, wrapped his head in fresh bandages like a teenage mummy, and sent him home. That\u2019s a good sign. He thinks.<\/p>\n

He feels in his pocket; the solid square lump of his phone is a reassurance. Ma\u2019s going spare, he just knows it. He sees her compulsively dialing his number and, once it goes to voicemail, leaving nervy, sob-wrenched messages for him to call her. The sound of his voice will calm her down, but only for a sec; she\u2019ll bombard him with questions about where he is, and he\u2019s in no humour for that.<\/p>\n

All the same, as he takes the phone out, he curses under his breath: the black screen tells him the battery is gone. More so than letting ma know his whereabouts, he wonders again who dropped him off here in the first place.<\/p>\n

Unmoved by all the chaos whirling around her, the senior doctor flip through her clipboard,. She has her eye on him. And with one eyelid open, Niall watches her turn to stride out toward the waiting room. None of the nurses seem to notice her leave. His vision is blurred; everything is unclear, fog-bound. Maybe she didn\u2019t leave; maybe she hadn\u2019t been there at all. He looks around; though he\u2019s sure the noise in the room was close to operatic, he barely hears anything. Every agonized wail, every shout, every door-slam or slapping footfall from out in the corridor, amounts to a garbled drone in his ears.<\/p>\n

How the fuck did y\u2019end up here, Horsebox<\/em>? Who brought yeh<\/em>?<\/p>\n

His brain swirls. He can\u2019t concentrate; flares of light and sound, voices and faces he doesn\u2019t recognize, drift and tangle through his skull like kelp, before sinking back into the ghostly murk of his subconscious. He\u2019s unsure if he\u2019s thinking to himself or babbling aloud.<\/p>\n

Well, sure, in a place like this, does it really bleedin\u2019 matter<\/em>?<\/p>\n

Damo\u2019s voice rustles in his head. As it always does in moments of crisis.<\/p>\n

He wonders how many people in the ward will die tonight. No matter how hard the medics try, how much they inject or cut or bandage, he knows he\u2019s sharing a room with a few soon-to-be corpses. Perhaps the nurses and medics know who\u2019s doomed and who isn\u2019t before they even set to work on them.<\/p>\n

But we\u2019re <\/em>all soon-to-be corpses, Horsebox. No-one gets a pass from tha\u2019 queue.<\/em><\/p>\n

Rapid and fleeting, a shiver of panic, cuts through him: will he die as well? Can you die from a headwound that isn\u2019t a bullet?<\/p>\n

So I believe, Horse. Depends on how much blood you\u2019ve lost.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/em>How many others in the room have head wounds like his? Is he the worst to roll into the A&E that night? No, he couldn\u2019t be. At least he\u2019s sentient. He hasn\u2019t forgotten his name. He\u2019s not knocked out cold; the concussion didn\u2019t kill him. But he\u2019s going to vomit any second.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s then that he remembers how he ended up there.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

The usual shite of a Wednesday evening kicks off, but in a different place this time. The place being the Dark Horse, the time being after dark. It\u2019s one of those pubs tourist manuals make a point of ignoring. Every county in Ireland has at least twenty of them. The boozers that time forgot.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s a kip, an ancient kip. Despite the smoking ban, a tang of stale nicotine still ghosts it. Niall\u2019s been inside three times already. It huddles at the end of Talbot Lane, an unwashed relic refusing to die well into the new millennium. Walking through its doors is like entering a filthier end of recent history, when people were masters at being skint and cheerless. The same five or six aged pissheads sit slumped over their pints, on any given night, with only the ticking of a clock for company. Des, the place\u2019s lone, unsmiling barman, eyes all newcomers like he\u2019s a hawk. The Clancy Brothers or Wolfe Tones or something similarly lachrymose blare harshly from the antique jukebox. Beams of dusty, slender light ooze through the lace-curtain window. The cigarette machine by the jacks glimmers for a euro. Cracked photos of everyone from Connolly and Pearse, Michael Collins, JFK, Archbishop McQuaide and Yeats, along with grainy, archival shots of Dublin from the early twentieth century, clog the wall like a hall of withered fame. There\u2019s no cash register; an old jam jar half-full with coins and rumpled banknotes, placed beside the beer taps, waits for the night\u2019s earnings.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It doesn\u2019t even have that aura of dangerous glamour that such places reputedly have; it\u2019s just a kip. \u2018Strictly over 21s!\u2019 reads the sign above the entrance, but no-one\u2019s ever bothered asking for his ID. One look inside tells him that things like late licenses and IDs aren\u2019t a major priority in the Dark Horse.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The more Niall is warned against going in there, the more his curiosity grows. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s the pub\u2019s poolroom, below in the converted basement, that gets him. It\u2019s where the younger crowd goes; it\u2019s where the billiards and dartboard are. They stay here after hours. They congregate at the table, arrange the red and yellow balls in a perfect triangle under the lamp.\u00a0 Once the cue clacks off the white ball to scatter them, the game starts in earnest. Of curlicues, ricochets and pensive maneuvers, scores are vigilantly kept. Like sharks in a tank, you and the lad you\u2019re playing against circle each other, choosing your targets, knowing the others will watch your every move. Every time you sink a ball or miss a shot, roars of approval or mockery bounce off the walls like a war-cry. But pool isn\u2019t a yob\u2019s game \u2013 you need to have a plan. The games usually go on long after midnight, closing time is never too strictly enforced, and there are usually girls around.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 No girls tonight, sadly. On a Wednesday, there never are. Felt most keenly by the lads, their unaddressed absence is an overwrought dearth that sinks into each boy\u2019s bones, sullying the air like the cigarette smoke they exhale. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Niall\u2019s surprised there is no Garda van parked out across the way. Though he\u2019d never admit it, the lads intimidate him with their pugnacity, their arch and profane banter, their predatory laughter at seeing him in their zone. They\u2019re not unlike the lads at school; but these are men. Lords of the late hours, afraid of nothing and no-one. They make most of the cunts he has to call peers look like choirboys. Under their words seethes real danger, and he wants to join in. Finally, he dares himself to head out there, slipping down the laneway like a man going undercover.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 On a crisp March evening, bag sagging off one shoulder and resolve in his eyes, he stalls it into town on a DART. He gets off at Tara Street and shapes across the river to the northside, cutting down the side street which winds past Marlborough Lane, gulping from a can of Karpackie. Sporting his hoodie and Reeboks, he looks as dodgy and feral as any seventeen-year-old with no street smarts can hope to, in that part of the city. His phone\u2019s switched off and no-one knows he\u2019s here. The few mates he does have probably think he\u2019s at home, spliffing it up by himself. His ma thinks he\u2019s at evening study; she\u2019s better off being left in the dark.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 In a week\u2019s time, he\u2019ll be sitting the first of his mock exams for the Leaving Cert; he\u2019s done fuck-all study, and has fuck-all intention of starting. The life\u2019s being slowly but surely sucked out of him with each day he spends hunched over one of the flaked and graffiti-slathered desks, trying to get his head around maths, geography or whatever they advise he fills his brain up with, in order to pass the year. Evening study, past papers, CAO applications; his head is wrecked by it all.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Mainly, he does it for his ma,; to keep her happy and off his case. But if he were honest with her, in a way he knows he never can or will be, he\u2019d say he wants out, that school\u2019s a waste of time, that he\u2019d just love to get hold of an Uzi and several pipe bombs and detonate the place, teachers and students alike, out of existence. He loves his ma, but since Damo fucked off to Australia, he\u2019s now the centre of her world. All her hopes and dreams rest on his shoulders.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cWhen you\u2019re older, son,\u201d she\u2019ll say, eyes proudly glazed, \u201cyou\u2019re goin\u2019 to be huge. Brains to burn, so y\u2019have.\u201d And the way she says it, elated and satisfied, as if she\u2019s witness to a heaven-sent miracle, really gets on his wick. Like it\u2019s a sure thing, done and dusted. If he\u2019s heard her say it once, he\u2019ll hear her say it until his ears bled. These past two years, she\u2019s been like an Antichrist about the whole thing.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Her thinking is, he\u2019ll go on to pass his Leaving Cert, then get into college and earn a degree guaranteed to land him a good job, with generous wage packets and a good pension at the end of it. If this happens, he\u2019ll be the first in the family to ever go to college. What he\u2019ll actually study when he gets there, he hasn\u2019t a clue, and nor does she. English or Art or History, maybe, because they\u2019re the only subjects he\u2019s ever been any good at; they\u2019re also the three most useless degrees he can hope to pursue. Or so Damo always tells him. Better off doing Engineering, or Computer Science; at least they\u2019ll get him somewhere job-wise.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 But Niall doesn\u2019t want a job. Or good marks, or a decent Leaving, or prospects, or any of that shite adults keep insisting he should want and have. He\u2019s a different future lined up for himself. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He isn\u2019t like his brother Damo, who left school in fifth year and immediately went to Sydney for work. Ma had high hopes for him, too; but Damo was too thrill-seeking, too hungry for adventure to\u00a0 remain in Ireland and was always more outgoing, more eager to throw himself into the scrum of life than Niall had ever been. He probably laughed to himself when the recession hit; the only man in Ireland to do so. It gave him the perfect excuse to get out. Most of his mates expected him to leave soon; and Niall was no different. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 After overstaying his visa, Damo was living illegally in Sydney for two years; he\u2019d ended up doing three years on FIFO work in Perth. A few of his mates had already been arrested and flown back to Ireland when their own visas were overstayed.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Most of this he told Niall late at night over Zoom; Niall\u2019d watch the fuzzy image of his brother on the laptop, the day-glo sheen of Damo\u2019s work-jacket stinging his eye. At the other end of the world, his brother is just up and getting ready for work. The conversation always ends with him having to leave. Damo treats these sessions like he\u2019s a Delphian master-guru, sacred and sage, and Niall is a pilgrim seeking his counsel.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t wanna come back, man. It\u2019s buzzin\u2019 down under,\u201d he\u2019d declare, in the cheerfully defensive tone he took when trying to avoid explaining himself. \u201cI\u2019m free out here. And sure look, you\u2019re wasted on the aul\u2019 9-to-5. \u2019Course, the aul\u2019 9-to-5 doesn\u2019t even <\/em>exist anymore, but how and ever. Y\u2019aren\u2019t meant to be bolted up in some shithole office, firin\u2019 emails back and forth all fuckin\u2019 day. That\u2019s just the dead end, man. No, you\u2019re better and smarter\u2019n tha\u2019. Smarter than me, you. Better off bein\u2019 your own man. There\u2019s fuck-all else y\u2019can ever be.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cLemme ask yeh somethin\u2019, Horse,\u201d he says, lacing up his work boots. \u201cYou\u2019re a big boy now. Have y\u2019no plans for yourself, no? No job lined up for the summer, even?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAh, man, don\u2019t start this again, I\u2019m not in the humour,\u201d Niall wants to snarl, but even over the crackly monitor, Damo\u2019s stare commands a response.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 He says, \u201cDunno what I want to do. Maybe head out there and join yeh. Lookit, I\u2019m just tryin\u2019 to keep Ma happy. It\u2019s not like she\u2019s got anyone else. I\u2019m goin\u2019 for the grant to get in as well \u2013\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cY\u2019are in yer bollocks,\u201d Damo cuts him off. \u201cMa lives in a fuckin\u2019 dream world, man. They\u2019re only exams, like. They won\u2019t get yeh anywhere, not anymore. I know they tell yis all this, that yis need to get by in life. Believe you me, they fed us the exact same shite in school, but lookit. I\u2019d no Leavin\u2019 comin\u2019 out here, but here I am, workin\u2019 away in the sun with any number of mots to ride on any night of the week. Spendin\u2019 cash like a mad thing, me. Would y\u2019not join me, Horse?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Niall peers at the screen. \u201cY\u2019know I would, man. But Ma needs me around.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cY\u2019need to break free of her. For yourself, like.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAh, but I am. I\u2019ll be headin\u2019 off to college, sure. It\u2019s what I want to do.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cIs it, though? Or has Ma just been drillin\u2019 into your head all these years that it\u2019s what y\u2019want?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall\u2019s teeth clamp. Deep down, there\u2019s a germ of truth to what Damo says. But Niall won\u2019t give him the satisfaction of staying quiet. He tries to keep his voice even and low, so as not to wake his Ma in the next room.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s far better than fuckin\u2019 off to Australia when things get rough.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHere, I\u2019m glad I fucked off! I\u2019m after makin\u2019 a shaggin\u2019 life for meself, Horsebox. What was I at before this? Beyond pissin\u2019 about on the streets of Dublin? No cash. No future and no fuckin\u2019 prospects. You tell me what\u2019s worse, yeah? Gettin\u2019 the fuck out \u2019cos there\u2019s nothin\u2019 to live for, \u2019cept waste away on the dole, maybe?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 His breathing crackles over the monitor. Niall gives him a moment. \u201cSo why\u2019d y\u2019leave?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cTo improve, why\u2019d y\u2019think? For the fuckin\u2019 scenery?\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cWell, no, but – \u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cEveryone I was in school with either fucked off like me, or else stayed back there to rot. Hopelessness, man, it\u2019s a disease. Bad as the fuckin\u2019 cancer. I was browned off in Dublin; I felt like an eejit with no life. I <\/em>was an eejit with no life. And I wasn\u2019t alone, believe you me. People act surprised that the suicide rate\u2019s goin\u2019 up. Doesn\u2019t surprise me at all. Y\u2019lose hope, so y\u2019do. Ma\u2019s kitchen knife starts to look like the right answer when y\u2019can\u2019t see nothin\u2019 ahead. But not me. I didn\u2019t want to rot at home, hopin\u2019 things\u2019ll get better, \u2019cause we both know they won\u2019t. I\u2019ve more experience now. And you should start doin\u2019 the same.\u201d Then, before signing out, he flashes a gleeful little smirk and asks: \u201cSo, \u2019mere to me, Horse: how\u2019s the oul\u2019 LC gettin\u2019 on? Studyin\u2019 hard, yeh?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 This time, Niall decides to cut him off. He leans forward and says, casually as he can: \u201cTell us, d\u2019you know where I can find Oren Collins?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The smirk disappears. \u201cWhajusay?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cWhere\u2019s he? I\u2019ve a thing I\u2019d like to run by him -\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cHere, you\u2019re not to be hangin\u2019 ou\u2019 with him. He\u2019s a fuckin\u2019 dirtbird, tha\u2019 chap!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cI thought he was yer mate.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cYeah, <\/em>was me mate! \u2019Til I got wise to him. Man, look, stay away from the likesa him. He\u2019s not worth the shite on your boot heel!\u201d\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 It\u2019s at that point that Niall hits the \u2018end call\u2019 button and logs out.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cD\u2019yeh know who he is?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Never seen him before. He\u2019s just some kid\u2019s after ambled in. Shouldn\u2019t\u2019ve even been there, like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut y\u2019brought him here in the van.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCourse I did. Coulda been my<\/em> kid, man. Or yours, or anyone\u2019s. Couldn\u2019t just leave him there to bleed, like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, true enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut man, every night in tha\u2019 fuckin\u2019 place, a few digs do be always gettin\u2019 dished out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho else was there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOren fuckin\u2019 Collins. He did this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, of course he<\/em> was, and of course, he<\/em> did. Holdin\u2019 court, as per fuckin\u2019 usual.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd sure, when is he not? Only the king of tha\u2019 kip, so he is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot after tonight, he won\u2019t be.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe’s been in a bad way recently, from what I\u2019ve seen. Ever since his brother died.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMmm. Heard abou\u2019 tha\u2019. Topped himself, didn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe did, yeah. And it was Oren who found the body.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHard thing to do. To bury someone tha\u2019 young, I mean. Wouldn\u2019t wish it on anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t excuse any of this, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJaysus, no.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGas thing is, he says he\u2019d be doin\u2019 fine, though, tryin\u2019 to just get on with it, y\u2019know? Not that I\u2019d ever ask him about it, mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was how long ago now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe funeral was only a few months back. He wasn\u2019t at it, I heard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck. And how was he tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, sure, y\u2019know Oren. Full of piss and vinegar. Givin\u2019 it loads tonight, so he was. More\u2019n usual, if I\u2019m bein\u2019 honest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, he was playin\u2019 against Niall, and he must have missed a shot, \u2019co Niall started takin\u2019 the piss out of him. Only havin\u2019 a laugh like, anyone could see tha\u2019. But, before y\u2019know it, he gets a dig in the head with the bottle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck. Are y\u2019serious?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeh.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s just not on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. Oren\u2019s after goin\u2019 too shaggin\u2019 far this time. He was always well able to look after himself, but it\u2019s not a man he\u2019s after bottlin\u2019 here. It\u2019s a kid, man! And that kid\u2019s now lyin\u2019 in that A&E over there, with his head in fuckin\u2019 bits.”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His arms shake in tiny, fitful jolts. He can\u2019t stop or still them \u2013 they move on their own, mutinying against the rest of him. Niall\u2019s blinks are rapid, in an attempt to clear his vision. Again, his skull has begun to boil and, as if in time to his ever-quickening heart, that\u00a0 scar on his cranium throbs threatenening to unsew the crumbly, discoloured stitching that like a track-mark, trails down his face. Along with his body, the gurney\u2019s rocking slightly as his fingers quicken and curl into claws.<\/p>\n

Now unglued, Niall swims\u00a0 in and out of an ether where colour and noise bubble and erupt at him. If he was even able to scream out, in fear, more than any kind of pain, he\u00a0 doubts it\u2019d make any difference.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 Say that again, y\u2019little shitebag. I fuckin\u2019 dare yeh. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/em>He knows that voice, and never wants to hear it again, least of all in his head. Reaching\u00a0 up, he\u00a0 runs a shaky finger over the wound where his flesh was punctured. Beneath the gauze, he feels the dried crust and somehow, the bandage has come undone so that the blood is soaking through. Life is seeping out of me<\/em>, he thinks. Like bilge from a ship, torrents of vitality ooze down his jaw, in oily teardrop, and with every heartbeat, another wave of it leaves him.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve no problem breakin\u2019 your skull, pal.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>\u00a0Fighting isn\u2019t his bag, and, he reckons, never will be.\u00a0 He\u2019s always known better than to fire his gob off. Enough lads in his year have gotten their heads kicked in for less. He keeps to himself. For the full six years he\u2019s been there, school is still a jungle. The lads rule the tarmac roost, smoking out in the lane and getting their pick of the girls. During lunch, when they\u2019re all off playing football on the waste patch behind the prefabs, he retreats to the library, barricading himself among the shelves and dust-gathering spines where he knows no-one\u2019ll find him. A will to survive drives him to do this, hammered into him by years of taunts, threats and clenched fists. He knows what an easy target he is, what ripened prey he makes for the hounds. He\u2019s sick to his back molars of being afraid, of walking the gauntlet formed by their stinging tongues and casual cruelty, of always falling for whatever wind-up they drop. He\u2019s determined to demonstrate, if only to himself, that he can run with the lions. The real hard men, the ones that even his schoolyard tormentors fear. Any funny looks and they\u2019d gladly dance on your head. All of them sound as a pound one minute, raring to hit you a box the next. Too much hassle hanging out with them, his mates\u2019d say. Fuck them all, he thought. Half of them\u2019ll be locked up or dead before they reach thirty.<\/p>\n

Do yourself a favour, son. Don\u2019t slag off a fella y\u2019don\u2019t bleedin\u2019 know. <\/em><\/p>\n

What the fuck did he say to set him off? Had to have been something. Niall knew he wasn\u2019t being cheeky; he hadn\u2019t been trying to make a show of Oren, he was only having a laugh. Oren had a temper, but he wasn\u2019t a headcase. At least, not before tonight he wasn\u2019t. Niall knows none of the lads really like Oren very much, but Des lets him hang around the Dark Horse because he keeps them in line. Des is a decent skin. No way would he have let Niall lie there and bleed.<\/p>\n

By now, the ether is rolling over him. The nurses don\u2019t notice him drift off. He wonders if Oren even said half the things he remembers him saying.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

More than anything, he could do with a spliff. His brother\u2019s words thud through his skull. He clears his throat.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cFuck up, Damo,\u201d he says aloud.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 His nerves crackle steadily; he wishes he\u2019d a few cans more. The Karepckie wasn\u2019t enough. He suddenly remembers to slow his footsteps, let his arms hang more freely by his sides, and loosen his schoolbag\u2019s buckle. Even with the gargle in his veins, he doesn\u2019t feel any braver. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Down the lane, the Dark Horse looks like it\u2019s waiting for him. A red-gold neon shimmer bleeds from the doorway, flanked by garish signs of \u2018Strictly Over 21s!\u2019 and \u2018BYOB\u2019. Niall is glad no smokers huddle outside. His eye is drawn to a battered Honda 600, padlocked to a nearby pole. He knows that bike; knows better than to go near it.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The hand painted sign tacked to the entrance grabs his eye: a horse\u2019s silhouetted head against a burnt-gold background, flanked by two pool cues crossing one another, and the place\u2019s name stenciled in bulky, Germanic lettering: Dark Horse Pool Academy. The low pulse of grind music throbs in his ears, like a heartbeat. It gives him little spur to linger.\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Niall glances up and down the lane, alert for anyone. He makes for the door, aware that somewhere above him, a security camera is monitoring and storing away his face, his clothes, his shuffling movements, before he stops in his tracks. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He finds himself standing there for a long time. He keeps his eye off the bike. Once or twice, someone walks down the opposite direction; seeing him on his own, in the soiled flicker of the hall\u2019s entrance, and they pause, before carrying hurriedly on. Each time, he tries to catch their eye and hold it; they glance warily at him before quickening their pace. A junkie shambles past and eyes him for a second before shuffling back off into the nighttime crowds. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He\u2019s prepared for tonight. As Damo\u2019d say, \u201cNever go anywhere without a plan.\u201d There\u2019s only one way to get in with Oren \u2013 shoot a nifty game of pool. Niall knows he couldn\u2019t play pool or hit the rails for shite, but that\u2019ll soon change. With more dedication and enterprise than he\u2019d ever shown in his life, he gave himself a month to hone his skills. Then he\u2019d seek out Oren.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 The excuse he spins his Ma is, he\u2019s either still at evening study, or else staying over at his mate Dalty\u2019s gaff. During that full month he claims to be studying for his mocks, he\u2019s trawled the halls, every evening and weekend\u00a0 well spent sharpening his skills. A quick google search tells him where all the best tables are to be found. He\u2019s played pool in Ryan\u2019s, Fibbers, and even the Hideout \u2013 but the Dark Horse is where the real action is. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He keeps an eye on his phone, so he can get home in time without arousing suspicion. Away from her prying eye, he\u2019d wander in and see who he could get. The money she gives him for food ends up going on a game or a practice session \u2013 if there were any takers to his offer. He just hopes she doesn\u2019t get worried and ring up the school to see where he is \u2013 that\u2019ll be the end of him. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Both games and practice are vital. He found he enjoyed pool; took to it more naturally than anything else in his life. Most of the lads he played against were men, with jobs and lives and experience, some of them just in for a quick after-work gargle and a game. He ran balls, sussed out which tables were good for a hustle. At the very least, it was better than being trapped in evening study or gurning over Facebook at 3am.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The owners realized he wasn\u2019t looking to get served or even cause hassle, just to shoot a good game; they left him to it, mostly. Niall didn\u2019t drink when out there \u2013 he knew better than to expose himself. Kept himself confined to Cokes or Fantas. He had to, especially in the Hideout. The men who played there took full advantage of the BYOB policy, downing several cans to his single coke. Niall noticed this made them less steady on their feet, and no matter what their billiards skill was, less capable of pocketing balls with quite the same level of dexterity. He knew better than to feel shame if he lost \u2013 everyone likes a graceful loser, after all \u2013 and it wasn\u2019t as if they were playing for champion-hood. If anyone got suspicious, he could run for cover elsewhere. Better off if he stayed quiet.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Gradually, Niall began playing a better game. His natural reticence allowed him to sharpen his eye to an opponent\u2019s skills: his means of maneuver with a cue, the speed of his hits, how he handled defeat or the fact that he was losing to a kid. Soon he was playing as many as five, six or seven games a night, and winning most, if not all, of them. They were quiet games, and he knew better than to bet with cash he didn\u2019t have or to shoot his gob without being able to back up his claims. He learned and memorised both the written and unwritten rules of 8-ball and 9, one-pocket or bank. The glare of overhead lamps. 9-foot-tables. A ball that isn\u2019t struck by a cue tip meant a foul. Feel free to shark if you want your head kicked in. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He wasn\u2019t aiming to be champion \u2013 it was just a means to an end.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Still, Niall knew staying quiet meant they\u2019d distrust him \u2013 the fact that he looked younger than he was, not even shaving yet, still made them write him off. Anywhere else, this would have melted his head \u2013 but in poolrooms, it could be underestimated and used to his best advantage. Once or twice some hothead he\u2019d just bet hauled him off the floor by his shirt-front, and others rushed to his defence.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Finally, he pours the dregs of his can into a drain, throws his shoulders back, and heads inside.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 There\u2019s no-one behind the bar. The pissheads don\u2019t look up; he trundles past them to the door at the far end, down the narrow stairway leading to the poolroom, Reeboks clumping on each steel-edged step. Music rises to meet him, Dropkick Murphys blaring raucously from a jukebox somewhere. He pushes open the door.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Standing in the doorway, carrying a tray loaded with empty pint glasses, is Des. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Niall halts.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Des the barman doesn\u2019t even blink as he takes him in. Of everyone there, he doesn\u2019t look like he belongs. Niall expects any employee of the Dark Horse to be a tattooed, anabolic-fuelled gouger at the very least, with a hurley stick at the ready for anyone who dares order a white Russian, not this lean, balding fella of nearly sixty, wearing a black work shirt with the hall\u2019s logo stenciled on the breast, who strains a little under the weight of his tray and stares hard at him and his schoolbag. Des\u2019s specs make him look more like a scholar of Jesuitical philosophy than the night manager of a northside shithole; half-moon, they catch the dim light. Just over his shoulder, Niall sees the place\u2019s logo again, the silhouetted horse and crossed cues, framed and nailed to the far wall. A pool table stands in the centre of the room, like an altar. Suspended above it is a low-hanging lamp, spilling a harsh radiance over its green, faded cloth. A cluster of lads are gathered at it, talking, laughing, sculling pints. Two are engrossed at the baize, several rounds in. Their abrasive chatter eddies in a cavernous, nonstop clamour.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHere, what\u2019re you at?\u201d Des barks.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cI\u2026 I\u2019m just here for a game,\u201d Niall replies.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cNo games for y\u2019tonight, kid. G\u2019wan home to yer mammy.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall looks at him, hating the feeble, snivelling quality his voice has taken on. \u201cHere man, I only want to have a game, like. Could y\u2019not gis a chance, no?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Des jerks his head with a sage click of the tongue. \u201cY\u2019shouldn\u2019t be down here. There\u2019s nothin\u2019 for you, kid. \u2019Mon, out.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAh, man, are y\u2019serious?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cOut, now! I won\u2019t tell y\u2019again.\u201d The sudden ferocity with which the bald, spindly man speaks is quite jarring.\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Before he can answer, Niall hears the squelched gurgle of a toilet flushing, as one of the lads skulks out of the jacks, wiping his hands on his trousers. He clocks Des at the door and pauses. He sees Niall, narrows his eyes.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHere, are you not Damo Keane\u2019s brother? Fuck me, y\u2019are! How\u2019re y\u2019keepin, kid?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall looks up at the newcomer. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAlrigh\u2019, Oren. Whatsa crack?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He doesn\u2019t notice Des\u2019 head whip back to Oren, nor does he see his look of concern as Oren approaches Niall, pumps his hand up and down in a single grasping shake.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cJaysus, man, lookat ye. All grown up since I seen y\u2019last.\u201d Oren\u2019s teeth flash. \u201cYer a right little hard man now, wha\u2019? Last time I saw yeh, y\u2019were barely outta yer nappies. Niall, isn\u2019t it?\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cIt is, yeah.\u201d Though he\u2019d never admit it, a flicker of pride that Oren remembers his name hits Niall. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cNice one, kid, fair fucks. Great t\u2019see y\u2019doin\u2019 your brother proud. So what\u2019sa story anyway? What has y\u2019down these parts?\u201d \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cWell, thing is, I was lookin\u2019 to head down and just, y\u2019know, have a few games. Don\u2019t think yerman over there wants me in, though.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Oren stares at him for a second and then at Des, who\u2019s watching with stern-faced discontent, and smirks: \u201cDon\u2019t mind him, man, y\u2019can have mine, sure. And anyway, no better place for a game than here. I\u2019ll be shootin\u2019 a few balls meself with onea them tossers now in a sec. \u2019Mon over, sure, let\u2019s get mouldy.\u201d He turns to Des: \u201cHere, Dessie, bring us down two pints there, will yeh?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s a command and not a question. Des walks upstairs, shaking his head.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThere\u2019ll be some craic had tonigh\u2019 kid, donchu worry.\u201d Oren steps in, prowling for the table. Niall scuttles after, nearly tripping over a loose shoelace as he goes. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cGis a shot of yer cue there,\u201d Oren barks at no-one in particular. One of the lads promptly hands him the one he was using. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what happened after?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Oren stood over him, breathin\u2019 hard like he was after runnin\u2019 a marathon. He stared at all of us, and at Des. Next thing y\u2019know, without a word, he drops the glass and legs it outta there like a hot snot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYis were all reelin\u2019, I\u2019d say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMan, no joke, I kept askin\u2019 meself, did he just do that? I mean, it just happened so fuckin\u2019 fast, like. And lookit, I\u2019ve seen Oren do damage before, but this is diff\u2019rent.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Des, fair play to him, was the first to snap out of it. He checked Niall\u2019s pulse and then he told me to put him in the van and bring him out here. No time to call an ambulance. Your man\u2019s pumpin\u2019 blood out\u2019ve him like a mad thing. I was too in shock to say no. And anyway, if Des gives y\u2019an order, y\u2019 don\u2019t be askin\u2019 questions, y\u2019just work away and do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, fair balls for mindin\u2019 him. And y\u2019didn\u2019t just fuck off after y\u2019left him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, how could I, man? I\u2019ve to make a statement of some description soon enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill the guards be in, d\u2019yeh think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey will, yeah, for all the fuckin\u2019 good they\u2019ll be. They\u2019re great for the aul\u2019 secrets in that kip. I know I won\u2019t be sayin\u2019 a word to them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill y\u2019be here for much longer, d\u2019yeh think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve to make a statement. For when the guards arrive, like. And it\u2019ll take a while. I just know it, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck\u2019s sake\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Oren slips a twenty-cent coin into the table\u2019s side-slot and presses it. There\u2019s a hollow rumble as the balls slide up to the return box from the collection chamber. Rollie tucked behind his ear, Oren reaches gently inside, the leather stitching on his forearm twisting as he draws the balls out in twos and threes, like plucked fruit. As he racks them up, Niall can\u2019t help but notice he\u2019s grinning at him, a whetted incisor jutting over his lower lip. In the lamp\u2019s buttery glare, Oren looks like a leering, unshaven prince.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSo tellus, how\u2019s yer bro? Been fuckin\u2019 yonks since I seen him last.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s sound,\u201d says Niall.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHe still down under?\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHe is, yeah. Fucked off to work out in Sydney. Might end up havin\u2019 to follow him out there someday soon. Leave this fuckin\u2019 kip behind.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBut he\u2019s never been back since, no?\u201d says Oren, frowning. \u201cNot even to visit, like?\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIf he has, no-one told me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHe still bummin\u2019 lads?\u201d Oren peers at him and grins, but a nasty crease tugs at his mouth. He snorts. \u201c\u2019Monly messin,\u2019 Soldier. He\u2019s sound, your brother. Always was.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cSo I believe.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAnd so, c\u2019mere, it\u2019s just you and him, yeah? You\u2019ve no other brothers, sure y\u2019don\u2019t?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t, no. Just me and Damo flyin\u2019 the flag.\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Oren smirks. \u201cGood man. And c\u2019mere, how long\u2019s it been since I see y\u2019last?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cFew years now, it\u2019s been.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201c\u2019Wan outta tha\u2019.\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Oren is on the reds, and he\u2019s soundly beating Darren, the fella whose cue he took, who now leans on his own, keeping watch. Oren stoops warily over the top rail, elbow drawn back as he readies his shot. The cue strikes the ball in a clean, straight hit; there\u2019s a clack and the ball rolls from the left cleanly into the corner pocket. Oren throws his arms wide messiah-style. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAh, fuckin\u2019 whopper!\u201d he howls.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cNice one, Oren, fair play to yeh,\u201d Darren, beaten, says timidly.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cSkills, bud. They can\u2019t be bought,\u201d Oren replies, moon-dancing back and forth. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cYeah, good man, Oren,\u201d Niall tries calling out, but no-one\u2019s listening. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The others give various approving grunts and mumbles as Des returns with Oren\u2019s round. Oren hands him a folded-up tenner as he places two frothing pints on the rail.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201c\u2019Man, Des, you\u2019re a star,\u201d he says. \u201cDig in, Young fella.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall takes his pint with both hands, ignoring Des\u2019s owlish glance. So far no-one\u2019s said a word to him, or even made anything of his presence, but Niall\u2019s fully confident that, from now on, getting served in here should be a doddle. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The poolroom smells of disinfectant, with the residual reek of BO hovering in the air. Des keeps the place in good nick. Every square inch is scrubbed and polished to the point of sparkling. From doorway to table rail to \u2018Exit\u2019 sign, there\u2019s no dust or spillage, not a hint of a stain anywhere. Even the scuffed floorboards are well-swept. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Niall sips his pint, grimacing at the creamy flow of wheat on his tongue. One or two lads, he notices, look his own age, which boosts his confidence a bit, but not too much. He listens to scraps of conversation: one of them loudly boasting about some Estonian bird he claims to have shagged in a hostel down in Kerry, another talking bollocks about joining the Foreign Legion, hardest bastards in Europe, maybe the world, while his mate scoffs and tells him to fuck off with himself.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 They shoot pool like they\u2019re born for it. Some for cash, others for pride or thrills; there\u2019s no sole reigning champion. Anyone might wear the crown. And if girls are there, which may well be the case later on, the stakes are acutely higher for everyone. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Niall keeps an eye out, but especially on Oren. He\u2019s dangerous, his own man. Always has been, ever since he hung out with Damo in school. Oren was in Damo\u2019s year, but got expelled long before he even did his Junior Cert. Ma never liked him.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Them and their mates used to get gee-eyed on cans up in Damo\u2019s room. Niall remembers lurking out in the hallway, feeling puny and inane, wishing he could join in, the scent of hash and the sound of lads\u2019 stoned grunts seeping from under the door as they played Xbox to the hammering boom of Tupac or NWA or The Game, or else madouaveh in the field behind the estate.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 Oren owns the Honda parked outside, but Niall remembers him tearing up and down that field on his old scrambler, a mucky roostertail spurting up from the grass behind him, its abrasive buzz echoing for miles. Now, it seems, he\u2019s graduated on to even louder, shittier things.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Oren was a mad cunt, even then; in the breadth of a spark, things\u2019d go from grand to haywire whenever he was around. There were lads four, five, six years older scared of him. The few times Niall met him, he always seemed to have a new black eye. Once, he saw Oren headbutt one of his mates just for asking if he\u2019d a spare smoke. He didn\u2019t know if it was the lads\u2019 tense laughter, or the blood jetting from your man\u2019s nose when he finally picked himself up off the floor, that shook him more. The last Niall saw of him was at Deco\u2019s going-away piss-up before he left for Australia, three years back; he ended up getting barred from the pub they were in, for hitting the bouncer a dig. A few months ago, Niall friended him on Facebook, purely, he\u2019d told himself later, on a whim. That was how he first heard of the Dark Horse.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Most lads in Damo and Oren\u2019s year ended up either on the dole or jabbing their veins full of gear; Damo got out by going to Sydney; Oren somehow avoided it. Throwing shapes and headed nowhere fast, he couldn\u2019t give a single flying fuck. In fact, right now, he\u2019s sucking diesel. When in the Hall, he always is, but everyone knows not to set him off. The lads surround him while he hogs the table and banter, scabbing smokes or coins and always at the top of his lungs. He\u2019s the closest the place has to a bouncer. Even when standing still, he\u2019s either tapping his foot or darting his eyes around the room. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Whatever deformed home life he comes from, he makes sure only his most trusted mates know. No Leaving Cert, no qualifications. He works part-time as a bike courier for one of the smaller city-centre firms, whenever he\u2019s not happily pissing away his dole on mots, pints or the Dark Horse.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 And he\u2019s only just in from work now: his biker jacket still clings to his torso like armour, even though the Hall\u2019s roasting; his helmet rests on a stool.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall takes a longer sip. He gasps and splutters, grips the bar to steady himself. Oren suddenly notices and eyes him with malign glee.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHere you, Youngfella, d\u2019yeh fancy a game?\u201d \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 All conversation dies down; it\u2019s as if the volume of the place has been suddenly shut off.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cYeah, no bother,\u201d Niall says, doing his best to sound nonchalant.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cFuckin\u2019 whopper,\u201d replies Oren, handing him a cue. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cDarren, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoc, howiya. \u2019S he alrigh\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe is alive, fortunately -\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, thanks be to fuck.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c- but I\u2019m afraid he\u2019s still falling in and out of consciousness. We\u2019ve notified his mother and she\u2019s on her way down here now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, Jaysus. D\u2019you know when he might wake up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid there\u2019s no telling with this kind of trauma. He took a fairly hard blow to the head.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, sure. Wasn\u2019t it me who brought him here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, yes, of course. Anyway, I just want to inform you that you\u2019re not yet free to go. I have a few forms I need you to fill out first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill the guards be along, d\u2019yeh reckon?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey usually are, in cases like this. They\u2019ll want a statement off you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, here. They\u2019ll be a long time waitin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was just told to bring him here. I saw fuck-all with what happened him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut weren\u2019t you on the premises when it happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was, yeah. But I was in the jacks. I saw nothin\u2019 after tha.\u2019 I swear.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cAlrigh\u2019 Ginger, how\u2019s tricks?\u201d one of the lads slurs in his direction as he pockets a yellow ball.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cGrand, y\u2019mad cunt, and yourself?\u201d he hears himself holler back. The words just slip from his lips, clean and blunt and natural, as if he\u2019s been one of them all his life. He doesn\u2019t bother waiting on the surly reply; he\u2019s not going to prance in and fire his gob off right away.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Meanwhile, Oren\u2019s giving it loads, his concentration divided between the game and the row he\u2019s having with Darren about recent Irish history. He\u2019s switched from Guinness to cider, and talking faster and louder. Niall chalks his cue, waiting for his shot. His own half-drunk pint, gone flat, lingers on a nearby counter. So far, Oren\u2019s barely acknowledged him throughout the game, instead addressing the entire room.\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cThe Irish brought terrorism to the fuckin\u2019 table, boys. Invented it, we did. There\u2019s ragheads out in the middle of the desert right now usin\u2019 Irish methods of blowin\u2019 shite up.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cYeah, themselves,\u201d some other cunt says and they all laugh.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cFuck up, you. Here, it\u2019s my shot.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Oren takes his measure. He shoots well, with the cheery confidence of a victor. He\u2019s impossible to shark. Knows every trick, and how to counter them. Even when arguing with Darren, he sinks balls with a fluid, crackshot ease. For his part, Niall reckons he isn\u2019t doing too badly himself. Still and all, he\u2019s happy to let Oren win. If only this once.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTwo shots to you, soldier,\u201d Oren says grudgingly, as his shot misses. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall steps over, sees a stray yellow ball that lies over the right. He knows to keep his eye on it, but he\u2019s more aware of Oren circling nearby, about to abruptly laugh or whistle or break into harsh, tuneless song. He leans in and cuts it. The ball reels in a slow, steady arc, somehow doesn\u2019t collide with any of the others, and plunges headlong into the right side pocket. He gives himself a second before leaning back, his face calm. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cGood one, man,\u201d says Darren.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cYeah, fair play to yeh,\u201d one of the others says.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He doesn\u2019t know if they\u2019re acknowledging a decent shot or muting their approval, but he does his best not to grin. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Then he hears his own voice, reedy and alien in his ears, say: \u201cThe mighty Oren Collins, gettin\u2019 his arse handed to him by a kid. Never thought I\u2019d see the fuckin\u2019 day.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 There\u2019s a split second of silence. Oren\u2019s jaw hardens. And then, out of nowhere, the others break their shites laughing.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cThis the beginnin\u2019 of the end, boys?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cDidn\u2019t see tha\u2019 comin\u2019.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cWon\u2019t be showin\u2019 his face in here again, that\u2019s for sure,\u201d giggles a fat lad seated at the table\u2019s far end.\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cShuddup you, y\u2019thick,\u201d Oren spits. \u201cSure y\u2019can\u2019t even hit off that shaggin\u2019 rail, never mind get the hole!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cOh, d\u2019yeh mean like when y\u2019got your hole with tha\u2019 fat bird outside the Czech Inn? Lovely big tits on her, and tha\u2019 was it. Must\u2019ve been like ridin\u2019 a fuckin\u2019 whale, man!\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201c\u2019Least I got me hole that night. Couldn\u2019t get yer hole in a room full of halves, you!\u201d \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The others laugh, but Oren\u2019s eyes shimmer dangerously. Then, out of nowhere, he smiles.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s righ\u2019, though, boys. Even great generals have their defeats. Must be losin\u2019 me touch after all, wha.\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He turns to Niall, who stays quiet. Darren\u2019s eyes dart between them, and round the back, Des stops whatever he\u2019s doing and paces warily out from behind the bar, his mouth tight. The laughter dies down.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 But all Oren does is grin, and hit Niall a dig in the shoulder, a little too hard. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cNice shot, Soldier,\u201d is all he says, and angles his cue back over the rail. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall stays quiet. He\u2019s resolved to keep his mouth shut from now on. But he might be accepted, almost like one of them. He just doesn\u2019t hear Darren\u2019s sharp exhale of relief, or see Des upend one of the fake leather stools over the bar and fix one of its fractured legs with wood-glue, eyes narrowed to the task. He does it freely; no more pints \u2019til the game ends.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Oren\u2019s gone back to laughing and slagging, but his eyes are still lit.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Des disappears down to the cellar to change kegs. Now that he\u2019s gone, the lads\u2019 voices grow louder than they had been, their banter more urgent. Last call isn\u2019t far off; a crackle of resolve sizzles in the air. One or two have since left in order to catch the last bus or LUAS home; but most stay, eager for whoever and whatever the night might bring. The Guinness and cider roil through his belly, and all Niall wants to do is gulp down more. Wherever the boys are heading off to next, he\u2019s determined to follow.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 AC\/DC\u2019s \u2018Hells Bells\u2019 plays; its snarling riff twitches at his muscle memory. He jerks his head back and forth in rhythmic, mesmerized bobs. Oren just sips generously from his Bulmers, mouthing the words. The final shot\u2019s now in sight. He draws his right arm back in a triangle, his left stays even and parallel to the cue. Once more he leans over and sends the white rolling to strike the last red. It misses by an inch and recoils back towards the centre. Oren grits his teeth. Niall avoids his eye. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cListen, c\u2019mere to me,\u201d Oren says, out of nowhere. \u201cBe thankful for Damo, yeah? Be thankful he was there. We don\u2019t all have brothers. And yours was a decent skin. D\u2019yeh know what I\u2019m sayin\u2019, like?\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 It occurs to him that Oren is far drunker than he realized. He wears a feral expression, eyes radiant and bulging and locked on Niall, and his knuckles have paled as he grips the table\u2019s upper rail. He breathes heavily, grunting almost, as if working himself up for something.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Niall realizes he\u2019s waiting for an answer, and tries to conjure up a quick reply.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cCheers, man, thanks. That means a lot. Really, it does.\u201d\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cYeah, no bother,\u201d Oren slurs, softly. His eyes drop to the floor.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 The others ignore them. Oren is the only man speaking softly amidst a sea of shite-talk and invective. And right now, Niall\u2019s in no humour for solemnity. He doesn\u2019t know what\u2019s come over him, but he suddenly takes a step forward, throws a laddish arm around Oren\u2019s shoulder and cackles in his face:\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cAnd, sure look, Damo always said y\u2019were a shite pool player, anyway.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 He turns away and sees Des, who has since re-emerged from the cellar, gawp in sudden alarm, his half-moon specs glinting as he sees something beyond Niall\u2019s shoulder.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 But Niall doesn\u2019t turn around in time, and he doesn\u2019t see the others freeze in shock, or Daly\u2019s head snap up in confusion from his phone. All he hears is glass shattering and boots thumping clumsily as Oren cracks his Bulmers over the table and charges. He hears the brief interim of silence as \u2018Hells Bells\u2019 finishes and \u2018Unforgiven\u2019 by Metallica starts up. He doesn\u2019t see Oren, broken pint glass in one hand and a mouth full of venom, roaring at him to say what he just said again. The glass clouts off bone, Darren blurts out the single word \u201cJaysus!\u201d and silence wafts like mist through the Dark Horse Pool Academy. All Niall sees is a brief, blinding starburst of light as he hits the floor.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n

Image used by kind permission of Graeme Coughlan (graemecoughlan@yahoo.co.uk<\/a>)<\/strong><\/em>
\nwww.graemecphotography.com<\/a><\/strong><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Dublin, 2015 Four hours after his head gets kicked in, he\u2019s wheeled into the A&E on a gurney. Splayed, supine, he looks like a crash test dummy; blood soils his tracksuit. Only the saliva oozing from his lower lip tells them he is human. His breathing is shallow but steady, hence why none of the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":136,"featured_media":9922,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[2178,2180,2188,2189,2709,3274,6518,6564,7385],"class_list":["post-9920","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-daniel-wade-cassandra-voices","tag-daniel-wade-fiction","tag-daniel-wade-story-niall","tag-daniel-wade","tag-dublin-pool-hall-in-fiction","tag-fiction-set-in-contemporary-dublin","tag-new-fiction-about-dublin","tag-niall-by-daniel-wade","tag-pool-halls-in-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9920","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/136"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9920"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9920\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9920"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9920"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9920"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}