The old man looks surprisingly well for a man who’s been banged up for, like, a week and a bit. I’m sitting in the visiting room when he walks in and he’s, like, deep in conversation with another, I want to say, inmate? It’s a good, like, five minutes before he saunters over to where I’m sitting.
He goes, “Sorry, Kicker! I was just giving Git some tax advice!”
I’m there, “Tax advice? You? Weren’t you in here before for avoiding tax?”
“Yes,” he goes, “that’s the flavour of the advice that he was after! It’s true what they say, Ross, these institutions really are like a university for criminality! A chap taught me how to hot-wire a cor this morning – a skill, I suspect, I’ll never need, but then one never knows what corkscrew turns one’s life can take! Who would have thought I’d ever end up back inside – quote-unquote!”
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I make no apologies for saying it, Honor. You are a danger to democracy’
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
I’m there, “Well, I’ve seen far too much of this place over the years, between you and the old dear. If they ever build a new wing, they’ll probably name it after our family.”
He has a good chuckle at that one.
I’m like, “I’m serious. All the, I don’t know, screws in here remember my name. The goy who took the shoelaces out of my Dubes asked me if I thought Owen Farrell was horshly treated.”
“All you have to do is tell the judge that you won’t shoot any more seagulls and you could be in Shanahan’s on the Green by eight o’clock tonight”
He goes, “How’s your mother?” because – yeah, no – she’s refusing to come in and see him.
I’m there, “Worried about you. She thinks you’re a focking dope as well. Which you are. Seventy-whatever years of age and you’re actually choosing to spend time in here.”
He’s like, “I’m in here because I’m a man of principle, Ross!”
I laugh in his actual face.
I’m there, “All you have to do is tell the judge that you won’t shoot any more seagulls and you could be in Shanahan’s on the Green by eight o’clock tonight.”
“And how would that look to my supporters?” he goes. “It would make me look weak!” and then after a few seconds of silence, he goes, “Are there many of them still out there?”
I’m there, “Fewer than there were last week. And there’ll be fewer again next week and the week after that. Until there’ll be no one out there with placards calling for your release and you’ll still be in here offering legal advice to a man named, what was it?”
He’s like, “The chap’s name is Git, Ross! And he’s in here for something he didn’t do!”
“Yeah, no, pay his taxes,” I go. “You mentioned.”
“I mean, the chap played for a team that called Ireland! They wore green jerseys with a bloody well shamrock on them! How dare these apparatchiks deny him what was rightly his for more than 50 years!”
There’s, like, silence between us for a minute, then I’m like, “Did you see Drico’s old man finally got his cap? For the two matches he played against Orgentina?”
He’s there, “About bloody well time too! The last time I saw him at the Aviva, I said to him, ‘Justice delayed is justice denied, Frank! Lex dilationes abhorret!’ I’m pretty sure he heard me as well!”
“The whole focking stadium heard you,” I go. “He was in the West Stand Lower and we were in the West Stand Upper. And poor Ross Byrne about to kick a conversion.”
“I mean, the chap played for a team that called Ireland!” he goes, his voice rising in pitch. “They wore green jerseys with a bloody well shamrock on them! How dare these apparatchiks – and I’m using that word, Kicker! – deny him what was rightly his for more than 50 years!”
He slams his hand down hord on the table. Yeah, no, I’ve definitely touched a nerve. A screw tells him to pipe the fock down.
I wait another, like, 30 seconds, then I go, “Of course, you’re up next.”
The old man looks at me, confused. He’s like, “What in the name of Hades are you talking about, Kicker?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, the two matches you played in – whatever year that happened to be.”
“Ninety-hundred-and-sixty-eight!” he goes.
I’m there, “Against Mexico and, I don’t know – was it Guantanamera?”
“It was Guatemala!” he goes. “For all the IRFU cares!”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, they’ve decided to finally recognise them as, like, full internationals?”
He goes silent for a good, I don’t know, 20 seconds, then he goes, “Justice for the Chilpancingo Fifteen!” at the very top of his voice. “Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
“You know, the cause to rid our streets of seagulls will be ill-served by its strongest proponent mortyring himself!”
I’m there, “I thought you’d be pleased. You’re like the proverbial dog with two mickeys there.”
He’s got – I shit you not – actual tears in his eyes?
He goes, “It’s been a long, long road, Kicker!”
I’m there, “Well, it’s over now. It was actually Gerry Thornley who told me the news. I ran into him after the England match.”
“Oh, Gerry!” he goes. “My Émile Zola! He championed our cause through the good offices of The Irish Times! Although I did rather badger him! I rang him on Christmas Day once! I’d probably had a bit too much to drink!”
I’m there, “So you’re going to get your two caps after all.”
He goes, “It’s very exciting news!” and then, across the visiting room, he shouts, “Git! Git! The IRFU have finally seen sense and they’re going to recognise me as an international rugby player!”
Yeah, no, he tells everyone the focking story.
I’m there, “So I’ll drop the caps into you. I’m sure they’ll look nice on the wall of your cell.”
“Wait a minute!” he goes. “There’s going to be no ceremony?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, there is. They’re giving them out before Ireland play Romania in Bordeaux. But of course you won’t be at the World Cup because you’re going to be in here.”
He stares into space for a good, like, 30 seconds, then he goes, “You know, the cause to rid our streets of seagulls will be ill-served by its strongest proponent mortyring himself!” he goes. “Will you ring Hennessy when you get out of here? Ask him to give that judge whatever assurances are required! And tell him to book Shanahan’s for eight!”
A man of so-called principle.
“Fifty-five years!” he goes. “And I never gave up hope, Git! And how wonderful it’s going to be to see all the chaps again!”
He says it’s the happiest he’s been since the case against Chorlie Haughey for obstructing the work of the McCracken tribunal was dropped. And – hand on hort? – I have to say that I feel a little bit guilty for lying to him.
