LOVE, REX

by
Allan Guthrie

I once pissed on a priest. I was four years old, sitting on Father Donachie�s knee. I remember my parents laughing about it afterwards. It�s one of my earliest memories.

When I was ten I knew that when I grew up I wanted to travel the world. Wasn�t until much later that I decided I wanted to get paid for it too.

Mostly, I went where the money was. Sometimes there wasn�t too much of it and, besides, there was rarely any choice.

Last week I was snorting coke off the top of a urinal in a public toilet in Serbia. Day before yesterday I was watching Scotland scrape a draw against a country that can�t even afford street lighting.

Today I was in Dublin for the first time. I�d avoided it for years. All I knew was that my father was from this fair city, and that the girls were supposed to be pretty.

In fact, the two whores in my bed right now were nothing to write home about. Didn�t matter. Had they been supermodels, I doubt the show they were putting on would have had any greater effect. I was dead downstairs. Christ, the way I was feeling, not even the thought of a blow-job from Jennifer Connelly would have caused a stir.

I sat back in my chair, naked, let them get on with it, my mind drifting.

Biologically I was half Irish, on account of my dad. The other half was Scottish. My mum was Glaswegian, born in the old Gorbals. When I came along she�d moved up in the world and was living on social security with my dad on an estate in Cambuslang. A pokey, dingy one-bedroom affair. All the usual depressing shite that goes with urban decay, but a vast improvement on the �dampies� where she�d grown up.

I was spared the obligatory Catholic army of brothers or sisters. Didn�t have any siblings, in fact. I was my parents� single pride and joy.

No, not true.

Dad�s prized possession was a hurley he kept on the sitting room wall. Took it down from time to time, ran his hand over the wood, showed my mum and me how to use it.

�Take you to a game, Rex,� he�d say. �One day.�

He didn�t. He fucked off when I was ten. Mum said he died in a car accident.

�If he�s dead,� I kept asking her for days afterwards, �then when�s the funeral?�

Eventually she owned up to the lie. She said, �He left us for another woman.�

Not, �he left me,� but us.

My dad�s a shitbag, I thought.

He�d left in a hurry. Like a coward.

I saw him one day about a year later. He was with a woman I didn�t recognise. They were strutting down the street away from me, his arm around her waist, his hand on the top of her buttock. There was the man who�d left us. Left us for her. He had his back to me all the time, but I knew it was him. Can�t fail to spot your own father, can you? They seemed happy. Or drunk. Maybe both.

They were pushing a double buggy.

I tried to cut him out of my mind. So did Mum. She found it hard.

She helped me snap his hurley into a dozen pieces. We stuffed the pieces inside a carrier bag, took a bus to Ibrox and shoved the bag in a bin. My idea. She thought it was great. It would really piss him off to know where his hurley had ended up.

For years, I concentrated on not being him. Whatever decisions I made, I asked myself what Dad would do, and I�d do the opposite. He never travelled. Hated it. Didn�t help that he was scared of planes. Got on one for the first time when he left Ireland to live in Scotland. I heard he�d got on another when he went back. Between, he�d stayed within a two-mile radius of home.

He got drunk a lot. I never touched a drop.

But I got into fights. Couldn�t help myself. Borstal was inevitable. Didn�t get wise till I was seventeen. Realised then that I could make some money if I wanted. And I did want.

Didn�t want a woman, though. Couldn�t bear the thought of her dissecting my childhood. Couldn�t bear the thought of all that sympathy. If you don�t want a relationship and you�re not gay, you have two choices: become a rapist or become a punter. I made the right choice. Whatever people might think, I�m a very moral kind of guy.

But tonight�s pair of tarts were a waste of money.

�Get dressed,� I said. �Go.�

They didn�t argue. No professional pride. But what was it to them whether I got a boner or not? I�d paid them already. I wasn�t local. I wouldn�t be back for seconds any time soon, if at all. Hell, they were no doubt delighted with the way the evening had turned out. They put their clothes on, left without so much as a goodbye or a last glance at my crotch.

I stared at the rumpled bedclothes for almost an hour.

When the phone rang it made me jump. I gave the caller my hotel room number, told him I was ready.

***

Two guys this time. Different kind of show. For one thing, they were both fully clothed. One was even wearing glasses, which was quaint. Not enough chairs in my room, so they were sitting on the unmade bed, briefcase upright between them � I think they were worried their legs might touch.

I�d dressed by the time they arrived. I was wearing underpants and a Bruins t-shirt. Air conditioning keeping the temperature as cool as my apartment in Cambridge, MA. Fucked if I could stand being hot. I could never get cool enough. When she dumped me, an Australian girlfriend (yeah, I�ve had a couple of relationships, despite my better intentions � total failures, of course) once told me my body temperature balanced my emotional temperature almost exactly. Damn pretty feet she had. I spent hours sucking her toes. Remember thinking when she left that that�s what I was going to miss most. Wasn�t going to miss the pseudo-psychology half as much as I was going to miss her big toes.

My visitors were getting restless. When one of them cleared his throat, I realised he�d been making the same noise for a while.

His throat-clearing was his way of asking if we could get on with it. I waited a bit longer, then nodded. He dragged the briefcase out from between him and his colleague and his mate moved an inch or two away, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The first guy laid the case across his thighs and started fiddling with the combination lock. Seconds later, he snapped the case open, held it up for my inspection.

�Nice looking piece,� I said. I removed the gun and silencer from the case, laid them on the table, dug out my wallet, paid the hoods in cash. Added a two-hundred euro tip. �Tell me this,� I said as they were about to leave. �Why two of you?�

They looked at each other.

�It ain�t that heavy.� I indicated the empty briefcase they were taking away with them. �Even with the gun in it.�

�Declan can�t drive,� said the one with the glasses.

Aha. For fuck�s sake.

***

That evening I went to see a movie. Tom Cruise, grey-haired, playing a hit man. He was supposed to have been in the business for six years. I wondered just who the fuck he thought he was kidding.

I went to a pub, sat by myself in a snug. I sipped coffee and tried not to pick up the book someone had left behind on the dark-wood table. One of those popular psychology efforts my ex-girlfriend would have loved. After ten minutes or so, I flipped it open, started to read:

It�s part of our nature to desire. Once we lose our desire, our lives are meaningless. That�s why it�s incredibly dangerous for our dreams to come true.

Must have been written by a Brit, cause no self-respecting American would have written that.

Turned to the inside back page. Her bio claimed the author was originally from Denmark, but had lived most of her life in South Africa.

The only time I�d ever had food poisoning was in Copenhagen. Bad eggs. Felt like I was tripping.

In South Africa they have gun lockers at night clubs. At the same time you check in your coat, you check in your Astra Pistol or Norinco or Lorcin or CZ or Vektor. If you�re a heavyweight, you check in your AK47 too. Some of the heavyweights are barely teenagers.

Last time I was over there, a kid, a member of a gang known as the Amagents, bragged to me about killing someone on a robbery.

�Something go wrong?� I asked him.

He looked at me, said, �Went right, doos.� Showed me a picture his nine-year-old cousin had drawn. A partly clad woman tied to a tree, a white man trying to kiss her. Another white man holding a gun to her head.

�One of these two the guy you killed?�

He shrugged. �Pop all the fuckers, maybe I get him, hey?�

Yeah, kill all the white men, kid.

At least Dublin hadn�t lost its innocence. Not yet.

I got out my mobile, called ahead. A voice answered on the third ring, said �Hello�. I hung up, shivering.

I stayed in the pub for an hour, had four refills. When I left, I took the bullshit psychology book with me and chucked it in the nearest bin.

Then I hailed a taxi.

The driver was a woman of about fifty who looked like an angry poodle. �Scottish, eh?� she said when she heard me speak. �Bright lot. Inventors. Not like us Irish. We�re all as thick as horse-shite in a bottle.�

I grinned. How could I not?

�You allergic to dogs?� she asked.

I shook my head.

She said, �Say hello to Oscar.�

Oscar was a German Shepherd who was curled up on the front passenger seat. On hearing his name, he sat up and growled.

�Never go anywhere without him,� she said. �He�s a feckin eejit of a dog, but he�ll rip the bollocks off anybody who looks at me the wrong way.�

�I�ll try not to do that,� I said. �Tell me if my eyes step out of line.�

I must have kept my gaze within acceptable limits, cause Oscar was quiet throughout the drive.

Unlike Fionnoula.

She could speak about everything. And did.

After a while, she asked me if I was happy.

�Why do you ask?�

�You don�t look it.�

�Happiness is an easy virtue,� I said. �I prefer a challenge.�

She said, �You�re a thinker. Thinkers are always sad feckin bastards. At least you�re not a dreamer, though.�

�You don�t have a dream?�

�In me arse. Dreams are for when you�re asleep.�

I sat back and let her talk. I was tempted to ask her if she�d considered writing a popular psychology book. I�d have bought it.

She dropped me off somewhere in the Marino district, where I picked up a second taxi. The new driver was quiet, spent the short journey listening to an Irish radio station. I pegged him for a dreamer straight away. Probably had visions of one day owning his own fleet of limousines catering to the rich and famous. He drove me to within walking distance of my destination and let me out next to a handful of shops which were closed up for the night.

The day had been warm. Too warm for me. The late evening temperature was just right. Didn�t really need my jacket, but it helped hide the gun.

Turned a corner. Strolled past a restaurant as a couple came out. Caught a whiff of roast meat and was suddenly so hungry my stomach cramped. Kept walking. Just a little bit further and I was there. Journey�s end. Well, almost.

Didn�t usually get emotional. Then again, I never usually had anything to get emotional about.

Stood outside the house for a minute, stomach full of acid. Maybe all that coffee hadn�t been the best idea in the world.

Ground floor. Easy entry. Break in any number of ways. But there was no need.

I rang the bell. Swear to God my hand was shaking a bit.

***

He looked different. Not just older. Fatter in the face. Softer. I�d have walked past him on the street without realising who he was. �Yes?� he asked.

Likewise, he had no idea. Looked at me like I was a total stranger. As if he expected me to launch into a sales pitch. Question on his mind was probably whether I was going to try selling him encyclopaedias or religion.

I wondered whether I should tell him who I was. I�d already decided, but face-to-face I had to decide again. Fucking hell. I was bottling it. I came to the same conclusion. Yeah, he should know.

I said, �Hello, Dad.�

For a second or two, he peered at me. Then he shook his head. Mainly grey hairs, but he hadn�t gone bald. A muscle in his jaw started to twitch and he leaned backwards as if I�d shoved my face into his. His hand clutched his left breast. Slapped it a couple of times.

For a minute I thought he was about to have a heart attack. But he was just surprised. And a bit flustered. He opened his mouth, didn�t say a word. His lips flapped. Then: �My God,� he said. Said it again. Then, �Rex?�

I stepped inside, closed the door behind me. �Got something for you, Dad.�

�I can�t believe it,� he said. His fat face was beaming. �It�s � it�s fantastic to see you. Oh, Jesus. Oh, my. I don�t � come in, come in.� He dabbed at his eyes with his knuckles. �You look � �

�Grown-up?�

�Grown-up,� he said and smiled.

�I have a birthday present to deliver,� I said, unbuttoning my coat.

�It�s not my birthday.�

I took the gun out.

He froze, whispered, �Now, son ��

Yeah, now, Dad. I wanted to hear him beg. I stared at him.

He didn�t get the message. �Look at you,� he said. �The boy who pissed on Father Donachie. All grown up now. With a gun and everything. You know what, though? You still look like you�re about to piss your pants. My boys � my real sons � would skin you alive.�

�Actually, the twins took quite a shine to me,� I said. �Must have recognised a kindred spirit or something. We did some coke together before I sent them on their way to meet their mother.�

His tongue flicked over his lips. �Bollix,� he said. �I�d have heard.�

�I hid the bodies. Probably be a while before they�re found. Anyway, a couple of out-of-work Irish mercenaries go missing, who gives a shit?�

He said, �You�re full of it. Put the gun away.�

�Within a year of dumping you their mother had re-married and moved to Johannesburg,� I said. �Got shot when her house was burgled.�

He said nothing.

�Johannesburg was very hot that summer,� I told him.

�You�re making this up,� he said. �Trying to scare me. You�re pathetic.�

I wondered what I could do to show him I was serious.

Not a fucking lot.

I shot him in the chest.

There.

Pain, incredulity, sadness, anger � who knows? � stretched his flabby face into something ridiculous.

He leaned against the wall, gasping. �You,� he said, �piece of,� he said, �shit.�

I shot him in the mouth. He collapsed with a thud. I bent over him and did what I should have done first: I put a bullet in his forehead.

***

At the end of the block I dug my phone out of my pocket, dialled. After a bit, she answered.

�How�s the party?� I asked her.

�I really wanted you to be here,� Mum said. �It�s such a shame you couldn�t make it. I wanted this to be special.�

�It is, Mum,� I told her. Pity I couldn�t tell her why.

� Allan Guthrie
Reproduced with permission

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