Murder on the Hill ….

by Conor Galvin

Part 1: Love & Hate

“Can’t wait to put them Kerry Bastards out of their misery …. sure the bleedin Antrim gobshites nearly tore them to shreds the last day ….. should have bate them hands down ….. Imagine what the Brogans and Dermo fuckin Connolly will do to them….”

Shero gripped his John Player Blue in the perfect ‘O’ shape as he slid his cigarette between all four fingers and thumb. He reversed the lit end towards his palm …. the perfect claw grip. One of the many martial arts garnered from growing up in the Five Lamps. He wheezed upon each drag as his lungs and liver prepared for another savage assault. Last night had been another rough one. Another exercise in self-loathing. Twenty-five of them had been made redundant from the yard the previous Thursday and continued to drink themselves into oblivion. The Celtic Tiger had bitten back. Sheros recession had become a depression. He left with a cheque for €5,400 and no prospects. A drink and gambling addiction to feed…. Hard times ….

Damo sat across from him on the bonnet of green Fiat Punto and nodded in agreement.

“You’re fuckin right Shero …. sure Longford and fuckin Sligo had them by the bollix …. just couldn’t finish them off …. Wait till we get them in the wide-open spaces of Croke Park …. “

Damo took a drag of his cigarette which was quickly followed by a bite of his chicken curry pie from the local Spar. A rare feat of multi-tasking. He exhaled loudly and joyfully spat the entrails of the pie around the pavement.

“Will ye watch me fuckin jeans ye dopey bollix ye!”

Shero recoiled as a few clusters of pie made landfall on his blue jeans. Damo put up his hand in conciliatory gesture. As much to say let’s get back to business….

“And thank fuck Whacker came good with the tickets …. like hens bleedin teeth …. Sure we haven’t beaten those bleedin farmers since Jimmy Keaveney was in his hay day ….!”

Damo picked up his pint bottle of Bulmers and washed down the remnants of the pie and nicotine. They walked back towards the Sunset House as two big units in Kerry jerseys crossed their path.

Shero decided to get in their faces.

“Some smell of cow shite ….!? Hope yiz didn’t park yer tractor anywhere around here …. “

Shero leaned forwards looking for any sort of contact in pursuit of a bit of pandemonium …. safe in the knowledge that he had a full boozer of hardened criminals and psychopaths behind him if that spark ignited.

“Yerra …. not at all now…. We’re just up here to watch this great Dubs team beat us out the gate….”

Their demeanour was relaxed and non-confrontational. No prospect of a row.

“Ye better fuckin believe it!” roared Shero.

“Kerry for the fuckin holidays …. Dubs for the bleedin Sam! G’wan off back to the cattle mart yiz slurryhead gobshites! ”

He shoved one of the Kerry lads in the back as they strided off down Ballybough Road. Neither batted an eyelid at the provocation.

“Thems Kerry fucks are very relaxed ….. a bit too bleedin relaxed if ye ask me” interjected Damo.

Shero postured himself upright again.

“Ah fuck them …. Smug fuckers have had their day. That team is a beaten docket.”

He paused briefly. The Kerry fuckers did look a bit too smug. He stared into space as he felt a bout of dizziness coming on. Maybe …. just maybe the Dubs were walking into an ambush. He took his betting stub out of his pocket …. Five grand on the Dubs to win! It was all or nothing. Lose this and he was back pedaling gear on street corners….

They reclaimed their place back at the bar. Shero shook off his anxiety and regained his bravado.

“Time to put them bastards out of their misery …. For once and for all!”

The doors opened behind them and in strolled Whacker.

“Story Gobshites!?” he bellowed.

His hoarseness was personified by the previous nights mayhem. His eyes were bloodshot and his face contorted with dehydration, for all the world he looked like a Saint Bernard dog. He was decked out in blue jeans and a faded Dubs supporters jersey which had purchased back in his slimmer days. His giant gut now stretched every fibre of the fabric. His belly button became visible anytime he leaned back to pour a pint down his gullet. Nonetheless he was undeterred by his current environment. The Sunset house had all the charm of a reptile swamp. Whacker had dished out plenty of hidings over the years and he wasn’t a man to be diced with. His giant fists were decorated with giant rounded sovereign rings with ‘Hate” and “Love” tattooed into right and left knuckles respectively. He had served time in Mountjoy for mostly violent crimes and battery. A real pearl of the Five Lamps.

Maggie behind the bar had seen him coming in and stuck him on a pint of Carlsberg. By the time Whacker reclined his elbow on the counter the pint was placed in front of him. He gave Maggie a half-hearted salute whilst avoiding eye contact for fear she might try strike up a conversation. He had always had his way with Maggie over the years, particularly when he was pissed drunk. She was vulnerable and he preyed on the weak …. She liked him but had held out for something more. Such feelings were always unrequited. Maggie had spent her life being a doormat ….

He took the two Hill 16 tickets out of his pocket and slammed them on the counter.

“Now me auld flowers ….. the two best seats in the house ….”

He took a long draft of Carlsberg and belched loudly.

“And I hear Shero you’re back on the labour …. You’ll no doubt be coming back to me looking for some work when ye drown again in your gambling debt …. Plenty of scum out there need their daily fixes.”

He took another large gulp of his pint and wiped the spillage from his stubbled chin.

“As I’ve always said it’s a basic economic theory of supply and demand!”

Maggie shot him a glance and feigned a smile but something caught her attention over his shoulder. The blood drained from her face …. there was no going back now ….

To be continued ….