The Stomping Ground

 

The Stomping Ground

By Ciarán McNulty

Buses, Shane noted to himself, never really respected bladders. He was halfway to his hometown of Limebrook- a 90 minute journey from the city -and was already ready to spring a leak.

Shane typically planned for these things and would've had a scheduled toilet break before catching this bus, only for his manager reneging on the promise of an early finish.

Shane had requested an early finish of at 4 o'lock so he could both fit in a visit to his Uncle in Limebrook and be at the school reunion on time, but a freezer full of Cornettos and Magnums had other plans. His manager asked, fairly politely, if Shane could see out his full shift instead, and get the stock moved into the freezer in the back store while mopping up any spillage along the way. Somewhere between the occasional sip from a Fanta bottle as he went and the slushing, splatting mop on the tiles of Centra, Shane neglected to get to the bathroom before darting out the door at finish time for the bus.

Trying not to think about the need to go, he decided he'd concentrate instead on the friends he'd see and wounds he'd try to heal, once at the old stomping ground.

He did look forward to seeing Roddy, Grimes & Moran- his old partners in crime at St. Jude's Secondary- but also worried how they'd see him. Not that they'd scoff at the 38 year old with no wife and no kids who worked in a Centra, but rather that they'd not appreciate how much he'd actually changed. None of the three of them had ever credited Shane with an over-abundance of intelligence but had instead applauded his prowess as the muscle and boogeyman of their group.

Grimes in particular had avoided some well-deserved beatings merely by virtue of his enemies knowing Shane Moss would most likely be round the corner any second, like a dog looking for it's owner.

Shane grimaced to himself, suddenly back in memories from his teens- now not as a participant, but a viewer. And the viewer was so disappointed in that tall kid, getting in trouble with his eejit friends.

In the years since getting clean though, Shane had come to realise his sins weren't always just to please his gurning comrades but that he had been a bad bastard himself. The bus went over a pothole and Shane winced then breathed sharply a few times, trying to redirect his thoughts.

He'd like to see Siobhan Thorpe or Jacinta Mangin again, having perused their social media and seen them both single. His weight, in his late 30s, now practically matched his height but surely a glimmer of the bulldozer he was on the football pitch might still exist in their memory and trigger, in Siobhan's case, a desire to renew past acquaintances or in Jacinta's, explore what could have happened back then.

Maybe those thoughts were too much like the old Shane- the bollix who'd made Andrew Anderson's life a horror show.

On the Facebook event page organised by the school, Andrew had ticked 'Going' and Shane decided that he would use this chance to make amends to the lad.

In the last year or two, Shane's mouse had hovered over the Friend request button but knowing what Andrew's memory of him must've been, he somehow knew to just leave it.

Would a Facebook DM really appropriately cover the level of apology needed? Christ, it would probably only dredge up horrendous feelings for a guy who seemed to be doing well with career and family.

So it would be tonight. A handshake and an explanation between men. Andrew might respect that. A classier, cleverer gentleman than Shane ever was or had every been used to since, Andrew might even be impressed. Imagine if he became a friend. That would be nothing short of redemption.

Another pothole hit.

Shane's hands went instinctively down over his groin as the thoughts of urination returned. So unconscious was he of this, that he failed to noticed the horrified reaction of the lady sat across from him, moving herself closer to the window in fear of the giant man rubbing himself- but trying not to look like she was doing that.

He'd find the nearest hedge from the bus stop, then head to the reunion. Maybe a visit to his Uncle could be fit in tomorrow but that would be hard to say now.

Shane searched his memories of Limebrook's geography, scouting out his guerrilla urinal in his head before a memory was triggered of his Uncle. The memory fluttered in his consciousness for a second and Shane winced again, his eyes shutting hard for a full 2 seconds as he replaced the memory with the new concentration that he'd get a taxi to the reunion and not pee until he was at the school.

Like a gentleman.

. . .

“What kills me,” the chubby realtor yelled over the sound of DJ Ötzi rebounding around the St. Jude's gym, “is that we're expected to pay for it.”

Mark Finnegan had already had a few in this first hour of the reunion and was educating his old friend Andrew from the debate club, about the appalling upkeep of the roads around some country houses that, otherwise, might be quite desirable.

Andrew Anderson didn't mind the shit talk. He hadn't seen this man in 19 years and was delighted by the sheer novelty of seeing him, in this animated mode anyway, now turned into a near-clone of Mr. Finnegan Sr. when he'd caught Andrew and Mark watching the Television X Previews.

2021 Mark wasn't impressing Andrew much. But it didn't matter. Andrew himself had a mild, cosy buzz on.

Halfway through his 2^nd Heineken and enjoying the comradery and reminiscing with his friends, this 'challenge' he'd set himself was going better than he'd thought. Although he'd so far only bumped into 1 of the old faces that had so menaced his youth, he was content that he'd meet them all and depower each one silently in his head as Andrew Anderson, father of two and content editor for a classical music radio station, stood tall in their presence. All 5ft 6 of him anyway.

“Ah man, but that debate club,” Mark said, suddenly slowing down for a second to return to lighter matters. “That was gas craic.”

“It was. Great days. And taught us loads about dealing with people.”

“Like the wives!” Mark blurted out, with a guffaw.

Andrew was struck by how this guy didn't seem like one of their little gang of self-confessed-losers from years ago. There was an unattractive swagger about him, especially when women were mentioned. Earlier, Andrew had felt his skin crawl as there were mentions of being alone with women for house viewings and what Mrs. Finnegan would allow and/or know about. Jesus, Mark.

“Well, obviously not enough for me,” Andrew countered. “Split with my Mrs. 2 years now.”

“Ah shite, Andy. That's desperate.” Mark said, tilting his head and dropping his jaw in an expression of what seemed like genuine disappointment. “Do you see the kids much?”

Andrew noticed an expectant look in Mark's eyes, like he was looking to be teed up for something.

Andrew cautiously replied. “Not as much as I'd like.”

“See, that's why I 'm glad me and Janette don't have kids. I know if she got...”, and with that Mark was off on Planet Mark again.

Andrew nodded along and swirled his beer in his glass, while looking around in the hope someone else would spot him and want to catch up. He saw a tall figure over amongst the old teachers and felt a slight wobble. No, it wasn't Mossy. It seemed doubtful he'd be here, not if there was any truth to what Andrew had heard about how that monster's life had deservedly spiralled downward.

The wobble annoyed Andrew though. That flutter of fear for a second over some lowlife who, along with the brain trust of Roddy, Grimes & Moran, had enjoyed his brief peak as a teenager.

Surely, none of Moss's bullying merited that feeling Andrew just had at having merely thought he'd spotted him. Ultimately, Andrew thought, his pathetic violence and stunts only ever amounted to short-term emotional wounds. Save for the shed incident, maybe.

Mark didn't even notice Andrew's eyes go a bit glassy as his old debate club pal pretended to listen to hm.

Andrew stood on the spot and finished his beer without realising as he recalled Mossy wedging him between the bike shed and the rear wall of the school and forcing him to show his penis to not only that braintrust but to the girls that were with them too.

The joke was Andrew's manhood, you see. Or boyhood back then. Many laughs were had by Roddy, Grimes & Moran at their widely spread suggestion that young Andrew Anderson had no penis. Hilarious stuff that was freshly fuelled almost daily at school. And one day their trained ape propped him up like a doll and made him whip it out to settle the debate.

Somehow, in the years since, with all of his activities- any woman he'd bedded, the son and daughter he'd fathered- occasionally in the back of his mind, during it all, he felt some childlike vindication of manhood. Like being made show it behind the bike shed hadn't been enough, but he'd had to prove it also worked in the 2 decades since. And somehow none of it's accomplishments could stop it now from ever so slightly shrivelling as the chill of the memory touched it.

Mark's shit talk got interrupted as both he and Andrew got engulfed in a friendly pair of arms that slapped them on their backs.

Phil Moran was greeting the 2 guys like they had all been great pals back in school. Andrew straightened his back and wished he had another beer as the conversation began and Missy Elliott got her freak on in the sound waves around them.

Phil now ran his own building providers company in town and had done well for himself. His demeanour was warm and even charming. He was complimentary to Andrew and Mark in what they'd done with their lives since school and even somehow managed to bring up positive memories that they all shared from school without them even being lies.

Moran beckoned the two men over to the temporary bar the school had paid some local catering company to set up in the gym and insisted on buying them shots. As the second Tequila went down and Moran laughed his ass off at his jokes, Andrew was convinced that his 20 years of living, working and growing had turned him into the sort of chap that even his secondary school bullies would warm to.

With that, now officially sliding into the drunken portion of the night, Andrew rested his elbows against the bar and leaned back like a man who'd left a pariah and returned a champion. It was just as he was high on these fumes that he saw Jacinta Mangin across the gym.

St. Jude's was an all boys school but back in Andrew's day, it had temporarily allowed female students, looking to repeat their Leaving Cert, into it's Sixth Year classes. This ended in Andrew's graduating year, due to the sheer mayhem caused, primarily by Siobhan Thorpe, but it lasted long enough for his crush on Jacinta to take hold.

She looked amazing tonight. Her late 30s agreed with her more than anyone else in the room and Andrew couldn't help but find a difference in her movement, in her air. Like a softer, kinder quality.

“My god, I was nuts about her,” Andrew blurted out, without thinking.

“I don't even need to look,” Moran said as he gratefully picked up a pint that Mark slid towards him on the bar. “Jacinta was always some girl, hey.”

“Do ya know, is she married or what, these days?”

“Separated, mate. Go for it.” Moran turned and gave a cheeky, encouraging grin to Andrew.

Ten minutes later, Andrew was storming towards the gents toilets, embarrassed and pissed off. He had just reverted to his 18 year old self in front of Jacinta. She tried to be nice but she also failed to stifle a laugh at his expense. As he pushed open the door to the toilets and made a beeline for the stall so he could hide and take a piss, he tried reminding himself how beating himself up over it and getting angry at the world is exactly the kind of thing an 18 year old would do, that a 38 year old shouldn't. Maybe the kind of thing his ex-wife would've noticed and been repulsed by. She'd been charmed by the boyishness of his crooked teeth that had never known the touch of braces but sadly, that had been the limit of that particular novelty for her.

On this thought, he stopped at the stall door and looked back towards the urinal. Andrew wasn't a teenage victim anymore, nor a timid tinkler. He'd use the urinal.

For a second, Andrew laughed ironically in the empty bathroom as it seemed as though the pee wouldn't come. Then it did and he shook his head with a bemused grin before leaning a forearm against the wall and relaxing over the urinal. That's right, he thought, as the gentle trickling sounded out to his delight, you better work now.

As he heard the main door to the bathroom open loudly, he self-consciously took his arm off the wall and stood straight as the other person took up the stall next to him.

This made Andrew pretty uncomfortable as there was another stall down the other end that this guy could've used. The guy in question filled the right hand side of Andrew's peripheral vision, such was his height and frame. Urinal etiquette and sheer social anxiety both dictated that he not turn to see who it was but the thunderous hosing that the porcelain got- like this guy was pissing with a showerhead on it's most concentrated power spray- did somewhat chill Andrew to his core.

The practically inhuman pissing sound was accompanied by a loud “Aaaaaagggghhhh.......” of relief. It was the kind of involuntary noise only the simplest and least disciplined of people would make in polite society. Then the same voice followed with “Holy shit! Andy!”

. . .

This little fella was steaming. How many had he had?
Shane heard the slur in Andrew's speech as he described how radio jingles would get selected for airtime. Shane tried to pay attention but wished he hadn't gone to shake Andrew's hand at the urinal. The look he'd gotten for that- what a terrible start.

Upon Shane's polite insistence, the pair had since found a table so they could catch up. The high table with no chairs was quickly the home for Andrew's next pint which seemed like a condition for the hang-out to go ahead, so an eager Shane had paid for it.

Andrew leaned both hands on the table for support as Heineken helped him answer all of Shane's questions about his job and family. He seemed happy-go-lucky, which delighted Shane and made it feel like what he had to say might just get brushed aside by Andrew as perhaps welcome but unnecessary.

“...But what about yourself?” Andrew blurted out, seeming to only half-ask the question as he scanned the room and bobbed his head to Teenage Dirtbag.

“Em...retail. Just pluggin' away, ya know yerself.” Shane tried to say without seeming like his answer embarrassed him. “No glamour in it but keeps me honest. Keeps me fed.”.

The word honest had made Andrew look at him for half a second before quickly resuming his gawking around at everything but Shane.

Andrew shifted his weight on the table as he now leaned on it with one hand to grab his pint, little knowing that Shane was keeping his foot on the base of the table's centre leg in case inebriation and imbalance got the better of either man or furniture.

Andrew took a glug of his pint and, seeming to look a bit annoyed at himself, then nodded to the empty patch of table in front of Shane.

“What are ya having, mate?”

Shane smiled at the sudden effort from a man who clearly never called anyone 'mate'.

“I'm grand. I 'll get a wee water in a bit.”

Andrew nodded in an exaggerated fashion, before clearly displaying the look of someone who had run out of things to say and was about to excuse himself. That meant it was time, Shane felt.

“Listen Andy, lad....I am so sorry for how I was.”

Andrew's body language didn't change much, except to resume rocking his head gently to the music. Or nodding again. Shane wasn't sure.

“I was a messed up wee lad and...” As he said this, Shane saw Andrew's eyes widen in almost amused anger and surprise. “Okay, big lad, I suppose. And I was taking out a lot of things on the world.”

Shane's words went unanswered as Andrew seemed to stew. If only Shane had arrived before the drinking was done and spoken to a sober Andrew. This was a mistake.

“You.....” Andrew began to say in a casual tone before staring down at his feet and stiffening his arms against the table. He looked up at Shane. “You were a fucking monster.”

That shouldn't have shocked Shane but it did. There they were. Exactly the feelings and words Shane was worried he'd created in the heart of this young man, coming frothing to the surface. He could see Andrew somewhat embarrassed to be saying what he was saying, but going on with it anyway.

“You did damage, Moss. And I don't care if you were a kid. Yeah...I mean the other lads were bullying little toerags too- Fuck, that Roddy prick would drive around in his Dad's Beemer, egging half of us, and people seem to think the three of them were your...masters or something. But I remember, Moss. I remember the incidents when they weren't there. When there was no audience to impress. When I had the misfortune of crossing your path on the way home from school, or in a corridor, when I'd be on my own and it was done just for your satisfaction.”

“Jesus, lad, I am so sorr...”

“Why me? What about me summoned up so much fucking hatred in you?”

Shane shook his head, looking for words. Looking for the answer Andrew wanted but that he knew he couldn't give. A now genuinely riled-up Andrew leaned forward over the table and Shane put more weight on the base to keep it upright as Andrew followed the question with an interrogative “Hhhm?!”

Shane could see a tremble and a rapidly heaving chest, showing the mix of fear and bravery this anger was cooking up and couldn't help but think, Good for you, lad. I deserve it.

Andrew then let him off the hook for an answer by continuing with the charges in instead-

“Coz it wasn't just 'picking on the nerd'. It was 'hurting the kid'. Even when I literally tried to fight back with niceness, or pay a complim....Remember Castle Harps?!”

Shane was puzzled and had no clue what this was.

“When you scored the brace against them in the semi, I was as happy as anyone in this school.” Andrew explained, almost forcing a little smile of realisation on Shane's face.

“I mean, even though our lot were used to yiz picking us last for 5-a-side in PE- at least when the teachers made yiz even include us, but it was our class that made banners with your fucking name on them. And on the Monday after the match, I made the stupid mistake of congratulating you,” Andrew's voice turned in to a near-hiss now, with every consonant spat and vowel exhaled like fire. “And your only thought was to call me a faggot and next time you made a point of not picking me for 5-a-side, ya told me to go and get my 'glitter and glue'.”

Andrew finished his point and his pint, his eyes glaring intensely at Shane.

Shane nodded soberly and said “You've wanted to say a lot of that for a long time.”

Andrew reared up at the prospect of getting mocked and Shane held up defensive hands as he continued. “No, no. And you're right to. We both needed to hear that out loud, Andy. I actually wanna understand how I made ya feel. I don't think it would be a proper apology unless I know fully what I did. Coz lad, I'm not gonna lie. I've blank spots in a few years of me life.”

“Ah, I'm so glad I can be part of this healing journey with you, Moss.” Andrew scornfully muttered, shaking his head. “...Sake.”

“I didn't even know ya were that into football, to be fair, Andy”

“The fuck do you care?!” Andrew returned before thinking for a second and begrudgingly offering the information Shane was prodding for. “I've always loved football, just can't kick a ball to save my life.”

“Was it the lack of practice from cunts like me leaving ya out?” Shane asked, seeing the loosening up of Andrew's shoulders at this.

“No....no, I'm just dyspraxic.”

A genuinely horrified Shane put his hand over his mouth, “Oh my god, Andy. I'm sorry.”

Andrew stared at him with a furrowed and condescending brow, replying “Dyspraxia doesn't mean whatever you think it means.”

“Oh, thank god,” said Shane, breathing easy. “We should have a kick about, then.”

Andrew gave a scoffing exhalation.

“Nah, there's a ball out at the door of the gym,” Shane explained.

“Fuck off, Moss.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I wanna play football?”

“The craic! And we never got to do it back then.”

“You got to do it plenty.”

“But look lad, you've just said you felt left out in them days so...”

“That's not what I......So two drunk guys kicking a ball in the dark's gonna fix it?”

“I'm not actually......I mean....I just....wouldn't hurt, would it?”

Shane saw Andrew take his hands off the table to steady himself on his feet and for a moment thought the lad might just up and leave. Shane offered one last invite-

“Mon Andy, be grand, just...”.

“Shush,” Andrew said authoritatively. “I'm thinking.”

. . .

The blood had pumped so quickly from Andrew's lip that he thought innards were coming out. What made up the innards of a lip, Andrew didn't know and, perhaps if sober, he might've had a clearer idea of how traumatic lip injuries work but in his current tired and emotional state, he had felt for sure he'd end up entering his 40s with a flappy, empty flesh sack were his upper lip used to be.

He was fumbling essentially blind back into the gym, keeping his head tilted in case the nose was gushing too. He had help of course, but this ape next to him was the one who had just busted his face and was still managing to walk him into things and people in an effort to guide Andrew to the bathroom.

“I'm sorry, Andy! Fuck, I'm so sorry!”

“Ah, you're fucking flying with apologies tonight, aren't you?!”

“Shit....this way, mate.” Shane intoned as he directed him to the left, towards the door of the gents. Head tilted up, but eyes down, Andrew caught a glimpse of Grimes and Moran at the bar. In the quick glimpse, he didn't see Moran's expression but Grimes looked so unimpressed, unsympathetic and ever so slightly amused. Great, there's someone else who thinks Andrew Anderson's the same whiney little string of nothing now that he was in secondary school.

There was a whoosh of wind as the big guy acting as Andrew's eyes(and part of his legs) kicked open the door of the bathroom to guide the injured man in. Shane led him to the sink and said “Tilt your head.”

“I think that's nose bleeds.”

“Is your nose not bleeding?!” Shane asked, clearly trying to play that off as a silver lining.

Shane ran to a stall and unfurled a wad of toilet roll before depositing it on the sink counter.

“I don't know what happened, lad.”

“Ya kicked a football into my fucking skull!”

“I was trying to flip it over ya. Used to do it all the time in school. A chip. Pretty sure I woulda done it to you in PE- ya musta gotten taller, did ya?”

Taking a momentary break from sopping up blood with bog roll, Andrew gave Shane a look to tell him was overdoing it and there went those defensive jazz hands from Shane again and he nodded apologetically.

Staring at the mirror, Andrew lifted the tissue away from his face to see that not only did he still have a top lip, but that all that blood- and there was a lot- had come from a tiny little gash on the inside of the lip. His examination was interrupted as he saw now also reflected the slack-jawed mug of his on-pitch-opponent over his shoulder. Shane grimaced morbidly.

“How'd ya cut it with the ball hittin ya?”

“Crooked front tooth. Acted like a razor.”

Nursing a Jameson with ice, Andrew watched the dying embers of the reunion. It occurred to him an Irish crowd of 30-somethings will tend to party on later than most but still the call of kith and kin will call them home where their teenage counterparts would keep going.

Andrew didn't have that tonight. With his two living with their Mam, he had the freedom of an empty hotel room waiting for him tonight. That made it occur to him about this giant moronic shadow he'd picked up-

“Moss, you staying with your folks tonight?”

“Ah no, they're not around.”

“Shit, I'm sor...”

“No, no, no. Me Uncle still lives in town but nah, I'll be at a hostel. Be grand.” as Shane said this, he reacted to something and Andrew found himself double-taking between Shane and whatever it was he was looking at.

“What?” asked Andrew.

“Jacinta Mangin.”

“Aw, don't remind me.”

“Wha'? Ya not a fan?”

“I was always a fan. But I made an eejit of myself with her earlier on. And that's before she probably saw me coming, in crying about my face.”

“How'd ya make an eejit of yourself?”

“Just shit talk. I swear it was like we were back in school.”

“Ah, she probably found it, whatcha call it, endearin'.”

“Ah, I think she was laughing at me.”

“Now here, lad. You're one of the most successful people in this room, with brains to burn. How could she be laughin' at ya? Go over and give it another go.”

“Absolutely not. Have you not noticed the mound of blood-soaked toilet roll sitting on this barstool beside me? I doubt she wants to shift an open wound!”

“You don't know what she's into. Sure, the lip thing can be your opener. Good funny story.”

“No man, I'm tired and gonna finish this drink and head.”

“I'll get her over here.”

“No, Shane! Jesus.”

“Be grand. I'll just talk to her for ya.”

“And say what? 'Will ya shift me friend?' We're grown men, Shane!”

“She hasn't been talkin' to me. I'll come over for a catch-up and mention in passin'- 'Ja hear what happened to young Andy?' Wait to ya see, check me out. I'll big ya up big time, lad. Mon. Why not? Gimme a good reason why not.”

“Jesus, I'm thinking, okay?”

Shane began to walk over as Andrew was forced to muffle his cries of protest in half-whispers/half-shouts. “Moss...! No..! Fuck's sake...!”

Shane buried his head in his hands in humiliation, then peaked out between the fingers to see Shane over chatting to Jacinta.

To be fair to the guy, he had her all smiles. So perhaps he could get her to come over.

Andrew straightened up a bit and dabbed his fingers on his face to check for blood, in case she was about to look over. This was so embarrassing but Andrew was now also content that it was sort of exciting, maybe a funny story to tell at least. It was a quick switch in attitude which proved to him he really hadn't been as against this teenage-style wing man idea, even when he thought he was.

Whatever Shane was saying, he had Jacinta in stitches. Andrew now noticed Shane point in his direction. Here it comes, he thought. Just under the sounds of Afroman, he could make out Shane's booming voice saying “Member Andy Anderson...?”

Despite this, Jacinta didn't take her eyes off Shane. She grabbed his hand and Shane looked a bit confused. Andrew was confused too, but maybe a little less so, as a familiar feeling slowly came over him.

Andrew watched as Jacinta played with Shane's tie, with Shane still pointing over here, as he looked more and more nervous, before Jacinta finally took a step backwards with a grip on Shane's hand to lead him away.

“Mother,” Andrew said out loud, shaking his head. “Fucker.”

The taxi was going to be a while. Aside from the typical business of a Limebrook night, he was also probably going to have to wait his turn behind a few at the reunion who rang the rank before him. Sat on the curb outside the school, Andrew just hoped it wouldn't be some minibus situation where he'd have to sit amongst a crowd of folks just as drunk as him but much happier. He heard the heavy footsteps come up behind him and knew who it was immediately.

“Are you after ridin' Jacinta Mangin?”

“Nah, nah,” Shane's voice was innocently casual and dismissive.

Shane stepped forward and sat on the curb beside Andrew.

“Just some hand stuff.” Shane said as Andrew dropped his head into his hands.

“I...really can't apologise enough, Andrew.” Shane said, somewhat in disbelief himself.

“Yup! Well, thanks Shane. Thanks for including me in your wee project tonight. Your mission to help me fulfil all my teenage dreams really left a mark.”

“Yeah, I didn't really do gangbusters with it, did I” Shane said, in complete earnestness.

“Is...is it genetic or something?” Andrew asked, holding his hands out as if asking a question of the universe. Shane instinctively looked up, like there was someone there.

“Are you just pre-destined to kick my ass in all areas of life, even when you're trying not to?”

“So, you can see I was trying not to?” asked Shane, encouraged and somewhat missing Andrew's point.

“Yes Shane, I can see you were trying not to. Thing is, I think I could've walked in on yiz and not been scarred. I think I could've had this happen at 18 and not be that affected by it. Coz it's nothing compared to the other stuff.”

Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seated position on the curb, preparing himself for round 2 somewhat. He wished this had gone better ; that he hadn't tried that chip over Andrew's head ; that Shaggy hadn't been singing 'It Wasn't Me' as he was getting the Hand Shandy from Jacinta.

He now felt that all he could do was explain himself.

“I know, bud. I know. I was just hopin' that tonight I could make it up to ya. Genuinely show ya I'm a different man. You're one of a few I've carried a lot of guilt about for a few years. Certain incidents, I think, I only looked back on in the last few years and copped on how.....how awful they were.”

Andrew stared at the ground and asked “Like the bike shed?”

“The bike shed?”

“Utterly taking away my pride and my....fucking manhood in front of your mates and making me display myself like...I don't know what. Do ya remember that?”

Shane nearly shuddered at hearing this.

“I don't, to be honest, lad.” Shane said with a deep shame and sympathy in his voice. “I did shit like that to a few people. Probably you more than most but...I think I thought so little of it at the time that it didn't sink in with me.”

“And on your wee quest tonight, you expected to learn and understand how I felt suffering that shit from you, when you can't even remember doing it to me.”

Taxis were starting to pull up and some of their old classmates were walking past and wishing them good night. Shane politely nodded to them all but didn't even react to the excited shouts of “Goodnight, Councillor Roddy”, content instead to let that shithawk carry on not being in his life anymore.

Andrew sat in still silence, drunk and melancholy, as Shane seemed to take a breath and prepare himself for something. It was a big deep breath, that heaved his chest out. Andrew nearly flinched at this but tried to stay still and show nothing.

“I remember how it felt when my Uncle Frank did shit just like it to me,” Shane finally said, seeing Andrew now look at him from he corner of his eye. “You know I was raised by me Uncle, yeah?”

Shane took a good look at Andrew now to read his reaction but couldn't.

“No, I didn't know that, Shane.”

“Yeah,” Shane was nearly whispering and his eyes moved away from Andrew, away from this spot outside their old school and off somewhere else. “Nothing that'd get him locked up or anything...I think. But not a gentleman, by any means. He just didn't have parentin' in him. I think these days a kid like me would be diagnosed with something. But back then, adults...adults like Frank at least, they only knew to beat it or humiliate it outta ya.”

Both men were now silent before Shane snapped around to follow up on this with “That's not an excuse now, Andrew.”

This time, he could read the expression. Andrew had sympathy in his eyes.

“I know it's not an excuse, mate,” Andrew said like someone who'd been using the word 'mate' his whole life. “But it's a pretty solid explanation.”

. . .

“It's just so embarrassing, Dad.”

Andrew's 9 year old, Denise, was looking at her 39 year old Dad wearing a set of braces on his teeth. “Even I don't wear braces.”

“Hey, be nice. It's better late than never,” he told the kid, dismissing her protests as hopefully not being that genuine.

Denise got up from the living room couch in her Dad's flat and headed through to the kitchen where her little brother was doing his homework. Andrew could hear the pair of them continuing their appraisal of their Dad's new look as he sat back on the couch and hired the volume on Sky Sports.

Jeff Stelling's score updates were short-lived however, as Andrew's phone went off.

An unrecognized number, Andrew muted the TV and then answered with a cautious “Hello, who's calling?”

“Andrew, lad,” came the booming voice on the other end.

“Yes...?” Andrew asked, not quite placing who it was.

“It's Shane. Shane Moss.....from school.”

“Oh! Jesus, Shane. How's things? Didn't know ya had my number.”

“Yiv it in your details on Facebook, lad.”

“Have I? Fuck.”

“Here Andrew, fancy goin' to the Boh's match?”

“Oh, that's right. I forgot you're near there. Emmm...no though, Shane. I've the kids for the weekend. So I won't be about.”

“Ah, it's a Monday night game though, buddy.”

“Oh...well.....”

“Come on....”

“Em....”

“Mon da fuck, what's stoppin' ya?”

“Hey....I'm thinking, okay?”

. . . .