for Gaelic football, ya stupid oul soak,’ PP shouts out while he pulls his monks and trousers back up in one rapid movement.
I’m amazed we haven’t been booted out of the taxi, but our driver has ignored us all the way towards the Donegall Road. Maybe he is still scared of PP’s da, maybe he is scared of PP – and if he isn’t yet then he really should be.
When PP signals for the driver to halt just before St James he reminds us that there is still plenty of time before kick-off to get more drugs and drink ahead of our trek down to Windsor. I’m left to pay the fare while PP is having a last word with the cabbie.
‘You keep quiet about my da now, comrade. I probably shouldn’t have told you where he is hiding out these days in case the Brits ask the Yanks to send him back.’
‘No worries, son. No worries. You can trust me. See that oul boy by the way.’
‘Aye, what about him? Pain in the arse.’
‘I never charge him. Wanna know why?’
‘Aye, why?’
‘He was picked up eventually in 1971 and never recovered over what the British did to him. He couldn’t hold a pint glass straight, even back then, let alone shoot straight with a rifle. He was just the first person the Brits picked up that day and they decided to do a number on him after one of their squaddies got killed near the Falls Park. Next time you see him in the back of a black hack or walking the road, don’t give him such a hard time, son.’
‘I will stand and salute him instead,’ Padre Pio promised as he gave a military-style farewell to our driver.
3
THE KINGDOM OF TROUT
28 April 1979
At first it seems no one in the house has remembered to take down the Christmas crib in the front window. However, on closer inspection, there are no multicoloured lights, sheep, shepherds, Mary, Joseph or baby Jesus in the manger. Instead, there is a naked, cockless, bearded Action Man waving out to the street from the inside of a clipped together Airfix stronghold that’s been smeared with splashes of brown paint. He is sitting on a white-framed Sindy doll bed, but the giant ‘S’ on the headboard has been painted over and replaced with ‘H’ in the same smudged scrawl as the streaks slashed over the plastic walls.
I look over to Padre Pio and expect him to burst his ballicks laughing at the sight of it, but instead he’s gone all scary. He has that same weird expression on his bake, the one normally deployed when his face starts flaming, his teeth crunch and grind, and just before some poor sap gets a dropkick to the balls or a butt in the head.
‘That’s there for his big brother – my cousin. He’s a fucking hero so he is!’ PP says, turning to me in what is threatening to be a sudden burst of angry-head. ‘Welcome to the Kingdom of Trout.’
We dander into the house without knocking or ringing the bell. There is a whiff of burning dope wafting from the kitchen.
‘I’m in here, dickhead, and close the big door behind yiz,’ somebody yells out.
Rex Mundi and I follow PP into the kitchen where a black-and-white portrait of a dark-haired woman in a polo neck is hanging up over the back wall; the word ‘Mord’ is written underneath it.
‘Who’s that oul boot?’ Padre Pio asks, pointing up at the austere face.
A man in his early twenties, with liver lips and petrol-flecked thumbs, is skinning up joints and fiddling with roaches. He stops his work and glares up at PP.
‘That, you ignorant fucker, is Comrade Ulrike Meinhof, who was murdered by the neo-fascist West German state. She was a political prisoner just like your cousin in H-Block, Long Kesh.’
Rex Mundi plants himself down on a chair facing our host. He is greedily casting his eyes over the strips of Lebanese Gold lying on tinfoil beside the yellow and red remains of breakfast slashed across a plain white plate. He zips down his biker jacket and reveals his latest T-shirt. It is Britain with a visored helmet on top of where Scotland should be, wielding a baton over a ragged, bear-shaped Ireland. The blood-red splats on white cotton are accompanied with the words, ‘Troops Out’.
‘Like yer T-shirt, mate,’ our host says sticking his hand across the kitchen table. ‘I’m Trout. Welcome to the kingdom.’
Rex Mundi nods and asks, ‘How did you get a name like that, matey?’
Trout ignores the question and returns the serve with one of his own. ‘So, have we a Brit in our midst? Are you one of them toy town Trots that MI5 occasionally sends over to spy on us by any chance?’
‘No, mate. He’s Belfast born and bred. He was burnt out by the Orangemen in ’72 and had ta get the boat ta England,’ I say, intervening on my cousin’s behalf after an elbow in the ribs from Padre Pio.
Returning to his meticulous rolling, carefully sprinkling little grains of dope through the tobacco along each and every one of the joints, Trout doesn’t even look up when he asks, ‘So why did the snouts target you and your family then?’
‘It was my brother they were after. He was on remand at the time in Crumlin Road jail. It was in the papers. They put a picket on our house one day and then that night they arrived with petrol bombs,’ Rex explains.
‘So … what happened next?’ Trout asks in half-belief.
‘Ruin’s dad is my uncle. He saved us. He got certain people to go over to the east and sort it out.’
Trout switches his glare to me. ‘His da? McManus? Are you fuckin’ takin’ the piss? Sure he ran away from the struggle in the same year. What did he do? Did he hit one of the Orangemen over the head with a typewriter?’
Padre Pio sniggers while my cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment. For a second I think my cousin is about to leap across the table and smack Trout one in the bake.
‘His dad brought over Big Joe McCann. You might have heard of him. With a couple of his lads and a .45 pistol, which one of them put to the head of one of the loyalists outside our door. The cowardly cunts just scattered after that,’ Rex Mundi says.
He and Trout stare each other out for a few moments.
‘Sorry comrade, no harm meant. I’m Trout. Didn’t catch your name,’ Trout says and extends his hand once more towards Rex Mundi.
‘Aidan McManus, but everyone calls me Rex Mundi,’ my cousin replies.
‘Let’s just say, Rex Mundi, that I have a mild disagreement over strategy with your uncle and his friends. His oul boy will still be talkin’ about class politics and workers unity when we’ve sent the last of the Orange Boers back on the boat over ta Scotland. Anyway, I really like your T-shirt,’ Trout continues, all the while looking slyly at me.
When he hands out a fat spliff, he offers it to me first – probably as a peace offering. We all take turns for a blast, fling our heads back on the chairs and talk shite about the impending final.
‘Hey Trout, what has Action Man ever done to you?’ Rex Mundi asks, after enjoying a few tokes.
Trout takes a deep draw from
