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“Okay, it’s not what it looks like!”
How many times have I used that line over the years? The answer is hundreds. But this time it's different. This is not me tiptoeing up the stairs at six o'clock in the morning with my back all scratched and a hickie on my neck the size of a pomegranate. When I tell Sorcha, "It's not what it looks like!" she at least wants to believe me?
I have a feeling that Grievous Bodily Horm is going to be a tougher audience than my wife.
“Oh,” he goes, “Ine shewer there’s a peerfectly iddocent expladation as to why you’re leabon my wife’s hoteddle roowum with your shoort open. You’ve stiddle gorra birra lipstick there, by the way.”
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He points at my left cheek. I thank him and wipe it with my cuff.
“So let’s heerd it,” he goes. “But foorst let’s go somewayer a little mower proyvit.”
He indicates a door to his left, which leads to the fire stairs.
He’s like, “Somewayer with no secure doddy camer dodders.”
He pushes the door and I have no choice but to walk through it, into this just, like, concrete stairwell? At the same time, in my head, I’m going, “Think, brain – just think.”
“Hab you addy idea,” he goes, “how many people I’ve kiddled?”
I’m like, “I’d say it’s a fair few, Grievous – and that’s not me blowing smoke up your hole.”
He looks down the stairs. I'm guessing he's trying to, like, calculate how much damage he could do to me by pushing me down the first flight.
"Accorten to the Sunday Wurdled, it's fowurty."
“Forty? I’m going to have to say fair focks.”
“But let me ted you sometin, Rosser – thee doatunt know the bleaten half of it.”
He looks down the stairs. I’m guessing he’s trying to, like, calculate how much damage he could do to me by pushing me down the first flight.
I know! It sounds random, doesn't it? I'm a travelling make-up salesman, focussing mostly on Dublin hotels."
So I decide it's time to stort talking. "Yeah, no," I go, "the thing is, Grievous – and I know you're going to genuinely laugh at this – the entire thing is a hilarious, hilarious coincidence. Do you remember I mentioned to you that I was an estate agent? Well, that was basically a lie? What I actually do for a living is" – come on, brain, do something! – "I'm a . . . travelling make-up salesman."
“You’re a wha?”
"I know! It sounds random, doesn't it? I'm a travelling make-up salesman, focussing mostly on Dublin hotels. So how it works is I'll get a call from, say, this place – the Westbury – and they'll say, 'We've got an emergency! We have a woman in room 407 and she's looking for the right lipstick to go with a dress for, I don't know, a ball tonight!' And I'll get into the cor – foot to the floor – and arrive on the scene with a selection of lipsticks to choose from. And sometimes – yeah, no – I'll put the make-up on myself, just so the client can get a better idea of what it's going to look like? Which is the reason I had lippy on my face just there."
He stares at me for a long time, saying nothing. Then he suddenly bursts out laughing. His laughter echoes in the empty stairwell. Then I stort laughing along with him, thinking he might have actually bought my bullshit story.
I’m like, “Anyway, I better get going. There’s a woman in the Conrad who’s looking for a good eyeliner.”
He stops laughing then.
"Look, I know exactly what happened," he goes, his face all of a sudden serious. "My wife slepp with yooer young fedda, Ronan, in the back her keer that night in Estepona. He thought it was godda be a once-off, but she steerted rigging him up, all hours, tedding him she wanthed to see him again or else she'd ted me what happent between them. He was woodied. He's apposed to be getting maddied in a week or two. So you came hee-or tonight to throy to persuade her to back off. And when she said no, you offered yisser self to her. And she kissed you and she made you take your shoort off, then she pushed you out into the coddidor and sladdemed the doh-er in your face."
His face for some reason softens then? He goes, "I admoyer you, Rosser."
I’m thinking, I can’t do it. I can’t give up my son. I’d actually rather die, here in this stairwell.
I’m there, “I’m sticking with the travelling make-up salesman idea.”
His face for some reason softens then? He goes, "I admoyer you, Rosser."
I’m there, “Admire me? I didn’t know you were a rugby fan.”
“Has nuttin to do with rubby. I admoyer you because most feddas in yoo-er position would have gibbon their son up at this stage. That’s how skeered people are of me.”
“Father Fehily used to say that courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.”
“I like that quote.”
"I think he stole it from John Wayne. I just don't want you to hurt my son."
“Ronan woatunt be touched. You hab me woord. Melissa would nebber forgib me if I did athin to him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“But I hab to hab me rethribution, Rosser. I hab to hab me powunt of flesh – utterwise, me competitodders will think Ine gone soft. Do you get me?”
“I could give you money. My old man is good for it. Or I could cut out the middleman and just give you the code to his safe.”
“Do I look like I need muddy?”
He does look like he needs money. He dresses like shop security guard from the 1980s. But then he’s also one of Ireland’s richest drug dealers.
I’m like, “So what do you want from me?”
“I wanth to hit you,” he goes. “Just wooden punch.”
I nod. I’m like, “Okay, one punch – but not in the face. My looks are my living.”
No sooner have I said it than the punch arrives out of nowhere. It cracks me full on the bridge of the nose. My eyes stort watering, I can hear a bell ringing somewhere in the distance and I feel something hord hit my orse.
It turns out to be the ground.
It takes a few seconds for my head to clear. I know straight away that I’m going to have two black eyes for Ronan’s big day. Then a hand helps me up.
“Mon,” Grievous goes, “let’s go and hab a few thrinks and forget all abourrit.”