By Lauren Foley.
The following is an extract from Lauren Foley‘s debut collection of short stories, Polluted Sex (Influx Press). Read a pdf version here.
Órla rocks on her heels tilting her uterus backwards in a toilet stall at Connolly Station. Puts a hand down her pants. Looks at her fingers. No red. Folds toilet paper into her knickers, thinks of how the fail-safe old-school way to stop most Irish fellas sleeping with you is to tell them you’re on your period. They choose to stay far away from the reality of that, can’t say they’ll pull out covered in ripe blood. There’s a certain kind of sanctity surrounding your menstrual flow, a hangover of old ilk connecting you to the tides and their transgenerational fears of moons and banshees. Most young fellas just won’t do freaky, knowingly or with forewarning, worried it’ll get out they’re riding at all when they could conceivably still be set for the priesthood or denying the child’s even theirs, ‘Ma, I’m still a virgin.’
And now Órla’s got herself an English boyfriend. An Englishman, fresh off the boat, they’re like heathens, they’d ride you ragged during your period, around the clock, have no shame about wanting to be inside you; but they won’t ever do it outside. Irish fellas love the kink of the outdoors. They’d get up on you in alleyways, fields, the back windowsill behind the pub. Lack of foreplay is the major attraction. The odd Irish fella is wise to the moontime game and if you tell them you’re on your yoke, they’ll just keep pushing it in regardless, thinking it’s your polite way of saying, ‘I’m chaste.’ When it’s not. So, then you do have to say, ‘The way you keep pushing your thing in is a bit painful like with the tampon already inside.’ They’d stop tip-raping you then and probably look for a blow job for their troubles. Or you might get caught out, they might be like, ‘Are you really?’ and then you’d have to say something small and feeble like, ‘Why would I lie?’ But maybe, maybe it’s just the almost-men Órla’s known. She washes then shakes her hands splashing the mirrored sink.
So, Órla got herself an English boyfriend, to piss her Da off. Specifically one who actively seeks to robustly discuss an Irish take on The Troubles, to piss her cousin, Senán, off. The English boyfriend dutifully tells his stock story about his earliest memory. The IRA bombings in London. In front of Republican friends. At family functions. And how he was with his parents and his father was pulling him by the right hand, really hard, and all he remembers to this day is the blood. It shuts everyone up. Blood on the newspapers, on the city centre pavement. Órla likes watching her Da squirm. And how red it was. Watching Senán’s colour rise. And how that is his earliest memory. They can’t deny an Englishman his own childhood. And how he’ll never forget it. She loves watching the Irishmen stuck, gulping their pints, in pregnant rage. Her fella’s story seems to Órla like an incredibly sexy earliest memory. Like, really, her fella’s actual earliest memory was playing with Lego or eating apple tart; but the London Bombings were just too fucking sexy to leave out of any given conversation.
And yeah, Órla’s well aware she’s a bit of a cunt too, herself like. Growing up, watching the main evening news and waiting for it: ‘A person was killed today, a Catholic.’ Then: ‘A person was killed today, a Protestant.’ That’s how you knew the news was over, the religious always died at the end.
She’s standing in the main concourse at Connolly Station. Órla approaches the platform display, trains heading both north and south, she grimaces passing beneath.
Funny how it was the English boyfriend who first told her that her own father had missed being blown up in the Dublin Monaghan bombings by only a few minutes. Wondering now if any of those Iarnród Éireann bomb threats of her youth were ever real bombs and never once thinking there was an actual bomb. Her warped immunity in the Republic of Ireland.
But now, now the Omagh bombing has hit her hard. Newsreel playing, brain cogs spinning. Safety concerns aren’t all the way up there anymore but down here and getting closer. Being haunted by the woman pregnant with twins. Twins. The Spanish woman. The schoolboys. Boys. Learning how people were corralled into the street for the boom. Blood on all the newsreels of Market Street pavements. And how red it was. All that death in her face blasting across the TV. Blaring from people’s mouths on all sides. And how the dead populate her short-term memory now. Like everyone else just seems to be able to get on with it while she spends her days freaking-the-fuck-out.
Órla’s walking north through Connolly Station to the Dublin–Belfast trainline, fluorescent underpass lights thrumming through her head, each and every footstep flooding her ears. Newsreel playing, brain cogs spinning. Clenching muscles tight and then releasing. Waiting on the blood. Toilet paper in her knickers. Thinking about the blood. Stemming the flow. Up and out to yellow paint scrawled across brickwork: Fan taobh thiar den líne seo.
Rachel’s waiting on platform seven, her train already in from Maynooth. They kiss, a peck, on the lips in broad daylight. Hug like girls hug girls. Hold hands like young women can and do. Rachel:
‘Text my Dad we’re on our way, I’ve no credit.’ Órla pulls her phone from her bag and turns it on, it beeps again and again and again… Six messages from Barry’s number:
U on ur way 2 d sticks?
HRH lookin u
HRH drinkin my coffffffeeeeee
HRH lookin fine in his boxers
HRH watchin cd:uk w/ me
HRH still here
In d flat like?
yeaaaah
tell him am gone home for wkend
U left him sleepin in bed. Cut him loose alrdy
go fuck urself Bar
wudn’t dat b a gr8 trick. Y u so mean 2 Duke of Windsor
w/ rachel. hes no invited
mind urself out dere. i hear dat’s were d wild things grow
wilder u know xx
Rachel is tender draped around Órla on the edge of the train tracks. Órla powers her phone back off. She knows two things. One: kissing girls is nicer than kissing boys. Tastes nicer, feels softer, more receptive, interactive. And the feeling builds. Like you’re really there with her, the girl. Like someone is kissing you and you are kissing them. You really know one another. Órla likes kissing girls. Órla likes kissing Rachel. Two: she’s not gay. Because you’d know if you were gay, like.
*
Slouched over Órla, both of them taking up four seats on the train, legs splayed over duffel bags, feet resting on seat rims opposite, Rachel’s demolishing a packet of crisps. Órla: ‘Healthy breakfast.’
‘It’s nearly lunchtime.’
‘The absolute stink of them.’
Rachel leans over, bites Órla’s earlobe.
‘Monster Munch.’
Órla laughs.
‘Would you fuck off.’
Rachel breathes onto Órla’s face.
‘Cow.’
Órla grabs the packet, jumps up and tussles with her, pretending to throw them out the window. Rachel’s right up in Órla’s space now and the train is going ckckck-ckckck-ckckck ckckck-ckckck-ckckck-ckckck-ckckck-ckckck. Thrumming noise and motion increasing. Ckckck-ckckck-ckckck. Clenching muscles tight and then releasing. Ckckck-ckckck-ckckck. Blood filled images spilling, spooling, haunting. Ckckck-ckckck ckckck. Light and dark spinning, flooding. Ckckck-ckckck-ckck—
Rocked by the Enterprise from Belfast hurtling in the other direction. Screeching, blasting, blaring bombards her skull. Tightness darts her chest. Sharp pains. Skipped heartbeats. Órla rocks backwards; then sits and tosses Rachel her crisps. Rachel:
‘What’s…’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘Is it the train thing?’
‘Yeh, I just, can’t…’
‘S’okay to be nervous sometimes, petal.’
‘I just, I…’
‘S’okay.’
Rachel turns on her discman, gives Órla one earbud, throws her coat over the two of them and they snuggle, heads resting on heads. Hands held under their makeshift blanket. Every time the bell sounds for a station announcement Órla gives a little jolt, then Rachel touches and presses Órla’s palm heart flesh with her thumb. They doze. Rachel shifts and kisses Órla on the collarbone. Órla:
‘Next stop?’
‘Next to nothing.’
It’s always funny, Órla always laughs. She stretches her arms out to touch her toes, yanks the earbud out of Rachel’s ear. Rachel:
‘Heya! Watch it.’
‘Hah.’
‘Are you coming to mine and on to the pub from there, or heading to yours first or what?’
‘Yours and pub. I’ll go home in the morning.’
‘Snaking about the town like you’re not from here.’
‘Pretty much… Sure would you look at your one who’s long finished in Maynooth and won’t move home talking; but like, it’s just too much hassle, we’d be dead late out.’
‘I have a job.’
‘Please. You’re no better than me.’
‘If you think so.’
Rachel rolls her eyes, lobs Órla her knapsack and hoots off the train. Órla puts one bag on each shoulder, bundles up their coats, chases after her. Catches Rachel by her rear pocket before she goes through the turnstile.
‘Thanks for being kind about the noise.’
Then Órla grabs Rachel in a headlock and kisses the parting in her hair with a resounding smack. Rachel’s dad beeps the car horn at them and they run over, both piling onto the back seat.
*
Rachel carries two cups of coffee—spiked with Tia Maria— and settles next to Órla on the bed. Rachel’s skin is still damp from her shower. Órla thinks it smells of Palmolive and sugar. Órla licks Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel kisses her full blown on the mouth, parting Órla’s lips with her tongue. Folding into her is sweetening, fast and still. The immediacy of wetness surprises. Órla backs up. Rachel:
‘What?’
‘I’m waiting on the blood. I think it just came.’
‘I’m glad something came.’
‘Get fucked.’
‘Again. Too easy.’
Rachel pulls a tampon from the bedside drawer and sips the now lukewarm poor woman’s Irish coffee, lets her bath towel fall and Órla stares at her flawless in the lamplight in her pelt. Órla:
‘I have to go the loo.’
‘I’m giving you my towel.’
*
There’s no toilet roll and Órla rocks on her heels tilting her uterus backwards. Puts her hand down her pants, looks at her fingers. No red. Opens the linen cupboard, tears then folds kitchen paper into her knickers and washes her hands in the bathroom sink with Fairy Liquid. Órla crosses back the hall, squinting in at Rachel through a gap in the door. Órla murmurs:
‘There’s nothing to wash with in the bathroom.’
‘My dad can’t shop for shite on his own. Hang on.’ They go into the bathroom, Rachel motions to the bar of soap and Órla says: ‘False alarm.’
Rachel turns on the shower:
‘Okay.’
Órla strips off and nods at the tampon:
‘No, false alarm.’
‘I can’t get in with you.’
‘You can watch me though.’
Órla uses a hotel-sized shampoo, starts washing her pubic hair. Rachel laughs:
‘Are you going to condition?’
‘It’s hair, why would you use soap?’
Órla lathers her body in Palmolive, rinses it all off. Takes the showerhead from its cradle and starts soaking upwards between her legs. Rachel groans and touches herself. Órla: ‘Come in.’
‘No.’
Rachel sits on the closed toilet seat.
‘Come in here with me.’
‘No.’
The water pressure is waning, Órla adjusts the nozzle for a harder flow. She positions herself on the inner rim of the bathtub directly facing Rachel. Órla puts one hand behind herself on the wall tile and tilts her pelvis forward giving Rachel more of a view. Rachel stays seated, wanking. Órla bends her head, face to collarbone, stifling a scream. They both continue wanking. Flushed and wet she looks up at Rachel, who is smiling at her, happy and spent. The light flickers on and off.
‘There’ll be no hot water left. I’ve to shave for Saturday night Mass.’
‘I was doing Órla’s hair, Dad.’
They burst out laughing.
‘We’re finished now.’
Rachel wraps Órla in her towel.
‘Turn the immersion back on for twenty minutes. I’m not made of money.’ He chuckles and walks away.
*
Rachel: ‘I’ll nuke our coffees. Get fucking dressed. Or we’ll be here ‘til closing.’
Órla throws on an old denim shirt of Rachel’s, ties it with a red silk scarf to make a waist and rummages through a laundry basket. Rachel:
‘Do you’ve no clothes of your own?’
‘I was going to ask for your big hoop earrings too.’ ‘Headwrecker.’
‘I don’t need a tampon but do you’ve any liners?’
‘Yeah, here. Is it tights you’re after?’
‘Tights, and a sickly condensed milk kiss.’
‘Top of the range that Tia Maria coffee, top of the range that.’ Rachel pulls a navy jumper dress from Órla’s duffel bag. And they kiss there then, each in one another’s clothes.
*
They head down to the beach car park with a six-pack and twenty Marlboro Lights, sit up on the boulders flicking lit matches into the night sky, watching them fall. Órla: ‘You think we’re getting too old for this?’
‘I hope not.’
‘Everyone else goes out for dinner and heads straight to the pub after.’
‘But, they have job jobs and money to burn.’
‘Credit cards, more like.’
‘If we did that with them so little of the night would be just us together.’
‘It’d be shite.’
‘They talk about mortgages now, and Credit Union loans.’
‘You really should start thinking about your career, you could get onto the property ladder with your qualifications.’
‘And you wasting money on rent in town when you could be living back home saving for a deposit.’
‘And her working in the offices in Maynooth but not doing a HDip, waste of a year.’
‘Waste of four years.’
‘Wastes of space.’
‘Like we’re twenty-six, not forty-six.’
‘And we’re all going skiing after Christmas, youse should come.’
‘Skiing!’
‘Who from round here has ever gone skiing before now.’
‘But we buy the suits in Penneys.’
‘No, Guineys. They’re like rompers for kids but we just get the largest size.’
‘It’s a bit of a contortionists’ holiday.’
‘Like magicians we stick it on the Visa.’
‘At least they never make us pay for rounds.’
‘The weekdays are so long without you.’
‘Mine too.’
*
The pub is throng-full of people. Din.
Órla looks startled at first and motions she’s heading straight outside, ‘breathe’ mouths Rachel and wrestles in between people five-deep at the bar. Órla is pushed along by bodies. Shouldered from one to another. Elbowed in the ribs.
Thrum.
Thrum thrum-thrum-thrumming.
The buzz of the human crowd sounds unnaturally like the thrumming of houseflies and dragonflies, mixed together, in flight.
Thrum.
Breaths stop and start. This racket. Thrum thrum. The noise commotion makes before it kills you. Breath. Stop. Yips and yells. Breath. Start. Thrum thrum. Breath. Thrum thrum. Stop. Start.
Thrumming. Thrum thrum thrum-thrum-thrumming thrum-thrum-thrumming thrum-thrum-thrumming. Ramping up. Clenching muscles tight and then releasing. Breath. Start. Thrum thrum. Breath. Stop. Arms and shoulders and elbows. Breath. Start. Thrum thrum. Breath. Stop. Start. Thrumming. Dismembered limbs twitching. Breath. Start. Thrumming. Breath. Stop. Fingers and hands and wrists touching. Breath. Start. Thrum Thrumming. Breath. Stop. Muscled forwards. Breath. Start. Thrum thrum-thrum thrumming. Breath. Stopping.
Din in in in in in in in in.
Órla propels herself into the beer garden, rocks and rests against the wall. Drinking air.
There are several old wooden barrels decorating the back. The courtyard is like a country and western set trying and failing not to look kitsch. Órla sees a spot near the space heater they could stand and have a shelf for their drinks. She jumps when a hand claps her on the shoulder—it’s her cousin, Senán:
‘There you are, back in the fold.’
‘Hi.’
He passes her a joint.
‘Home to see the mammy.’
‘Just for the night, you know yourself.’
‘Have you seen the brother, been wondering when he’ll get here.’
‘I’m with Rachel.’
‘When are you not? Inhale on that, you’re looking a bit shook.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping much the past weeks.’
‘Bar work would have you like that.’
‘No, I temp during the week now, I just do like functions the odd weekend.’
‘I’d say it’s good money.’
‘It is what it is.’
‘Are you okay, Órla? You look peaky.’
‘I’m just not one for the crowds anymore, it does be like bedlam.’
‘You’d prefer a quiet pint in Dublin.’
‘Is a seat really too much to ask for?’
‘No, you’re dead right, dead right, it’s not. Here, you keep hold of that, I’ll nip to the bog, tell himself where I’m at.’ This is the village as a town now, joints flying around the back of the pub, Jägerbombs, rounds and rounds of double vodkas with Berocca and Red Bull, lines of coke in the toilets on weekend nights; flaunting the wealth. A schoolfriend hands her two pints and says:
‘For you and Rachel.’
She turns to thank them properly and they’re off encouraging a kid to scale the godawful-looking pergola. Rachel’s waving over at her trapped in the doorway by some head talking shite.
And then Barry, Órla’s flatmate Barry, pushes out from behind them.
‘What the actual?’
‘Órla, quick, His Royal Nibs is with me, he’s getting a round in.’
‘Here? Now?’
Órla feels faint.
‘Yes.’
‘God Almighty.’
Órla puts her fingers to her eyelids.
‘No, no. Keep it together. Keep it together, pal.’
‘Why? How?’
‘He wouldn’t arse off.’
‘Ah! Fuck.’
‘It’ll be okay.’
‘Will it, Barry? Will it be okay?’
‘It will, it will.’
‘I don’t want this. I can’t…’
Órla gulps air in. Barry lowers his face to hers and talks into her ear:
‘Yeah, look, we played Nintendo for a few hours, he wasn’t leaving the flat in case you came back, then he got bored or whatever and cajoled me to go for pints in some Republican pub near Smithfield, you know the way he’s mad for all that, after those rounds I dare-made him go for a swift one in The George, and then he says, we’d get the train out here, there was no dissuading him, so I had to fucking come along; and he’s fluthered. I’ve been ringing you all evening.’
‘Mother of fucketyfuckfuck. Him and Rachel don’t get along.’
‘Ever wonder why?’
Órla bulges her eyes.
‘Fuck.’
‘Just drink your pint, you’ll be grand.’
‘If I don’t fucking kill myself.’
‘Grand, you’ll be grand, grand, we’ll be grand. Grand. Grand. It’s all grand.’
‘Stop it! Stop. Are you fucking high?’
Barry glances down.
‘We did a bit on the train.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Bar.’
Órla dances in a temper. Rachel arrives and pulls the three of them together in a group hug, kisses Barry’s cheek.
‘My two favourite people.’
She puts two double vodkas and a can of Coke on the ledge, dumps ice into an empty pint glass. Starts pouring. Leaves a third of the vodka in the one glass, adds some Coke, swishes the rest of the Coke into the other glass, and somehow manages to pour half of its contents back inside the can; smiles, handing the Coke can to Barry. Rachel:
‘Years of practice. Trapped by that eejit from my estate for a decade there, asking me about his sister’s points for the Leaving. Like I’m the fucking CAO or something.’
‘Rachel, he’s here, he came with Barry.’
‘Who? Not…’
‘Yup, yup, him, HRH—I came up with that one, isn’t it gas?’
‘Barry. Shut up!’
‘Ah now.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
Órla’s cousin Senán and her English boyfriend, Mark, stagger across the back to them. Senán has about twenty drinks on a tray. Barry spots a vacant barrel with more space, motions to it. The lads bag it. Rachel, Órla and Barry walk over to them. Senán passes them shots:
‘I found this West Brit at the bar.’
‘Thoroughbred.’
Everyone laughs and downs the drinks. Mark clamps a hand on Órla’s shoulder.
‘I was missing you. You look lovely. New dress?’ ‘It’s Rachel’s.’
‘Oh, yes, hello.’
Rachel, deadpan:
‘Hiya.’
Senán is stacking the empties to one side. ‘I was saying before youse all got here, Órla looks a bit out of sorts.’
‘It’s just my period, okay.’
‘Jesus, didn’t know we were talking about rags down the pub. In fairness. Órla, we’re family but we’re not that close.’
Barry shouts: ‘Enough. Let’s drink!’
And they all do another shot. Mark still has his right hand clamped on Órla’s shoulder and she doesn’t know if it’s to steady himself or to claim possession. Rachel’s smiling at Barry—who’s mock playing the drums—while at the same time she looks pure sad. Mark starts in:
‘As a matter of fact…’
Rachel coughs:
‘Oh here we go.’
‘As a matter of fact, Órla’s been a bit out of sorts since the bombing.’
‘That is not pub conversation.’ Rachel eyes Mark. ‘It’s something I noted. She hasn’t been sleeping.’
‘Is that true Órla?’ Senán asks.
‘Lookit, I’d rather talk about something else.’
‘Something other than The Cause. Something more important.’
‘I definitely didn’t say that.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to hear something like that coming from a cousin of mine.’
‘I didn’t, I did not say it wasn’t important, it’s just like Rachel said, it’s not pub conversation.’
Rachel smiles, properly this time. Mark keeps pushing: ‘I’ve been trying to gather thoughts on it and no one has one, not one, one word to say.’
‘Tell me you’re not really MI6.’ Barry is hopping about, doing 007 moves.
Senán nods at Barry, half-laughs; turns to eyeball Mark and states:
‘When you come from a family like mine and Órla’s you see the world differently. The Troubles are not separate. Not when you have skin in the game.’
Mark keeps pushing in regardless:
‘Is that how you see it, Órla?’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ Rachel mutters.
‘Noted.’
Barry’s jigging about on the spot; he goes:
‘A drink for you, a drink for you, a drink for you, and you, and me.’
Órla’s never loved him more than in this moment. Everyone’s looking at her. Panic. Rising. Órla: ‘It has had me upset. It’s fair to have said that.’
‘A little bit too real on the island?’ Mark quips. Rachel:
‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘Again. Noted.’
Senán barks a cough, then says in a low whisper: ‘You’re not taking the other side, Órla. We’ll have words.’
‘Sexually transmitted colonialism would be gas,’ Barry snorts.
Órla slams her glass down onto the barrel.
‘No. Stop. Stop. Everyone stop!’ Órla breathes. Continues:
‘It is upsetting when people die. Are killed.’
Mark raises his eyebrows, dryly: ‘Upsetting?’
‘I’m not finished!… But that is war, Mark, that is the harsh reality of war.’
Órla puts her fingers to her eyelids, exhales, then starts tapping at her pockets searching for cigarettes. Her cousin passes her one. Rachel leans in to light it. Órla closes her eyes, sucks on the cigarette in gulps, creases then bows her forehead. Rachel openly glares at Mark, snaps:
‘She’s answered you now. You done.’
‘Noted, I said.’
Órla shifts from under Mark’s grasp.
‘Don’t talk to her like that.’
‘Is that how it is, is it?’
‘Ah here, mind yourselves, no need to get messy now,’ Órla’s cousin waves to some friends, who sidle over. Barry and one of the friends start mock ballet dancing in between everyone. Rachel turns to Senán:
‘Fuck this for a Saturday night. You coming the jacks?’
‘Yeah, yes, good idea. Look, you two, sort it out. It’s everybody’s weekend.’
Órla tries to catch Rachel by the cuff of her jumper dress. Misses. Rachel turns. Órla mouths, ‘Don’t,’ Rachel shakes her head no. They go off to the toilets. Barry is dancing with a new partner now and old schoolfriends are jostling, curtseying and pirouetting. Everyone is having a flying night. Órla faces Mark.
‘Can you never just leave it for one minute?’
Mark props himself up against the wall.
‘I’m interested in current events.’
Órla takes one step towards him. Waits.
Mark:
‘Sue me.’
Órla looks at him. Disgusted.
‘We are not a fucking ethnographical study.’
Mark blinks. Fast.
‘I’m interested in you.’
He tries to touch her face. Órla backs away.
‘It’s not okay. Following me. Bossing me in public.’ Mark downs the end of someone’s flat pint, says: ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Can we just…’
He’s reaching, trying to grab Órla’s hands but he keeps missing. So he’s just grabbing at her. Órla pushes him back up to standing height against the wall, leans into his ear, pleads: ‘Mark, she’s my best friend.’
‘Is that what she is. Is she?’
The house lights go on inside.
Almost the entire pub is congregating out the back now. The first bars of Amhrán na bhFiann start up through the loudspeakers.
Órla chokes:
‘It’s fucking suffocating here.’
She walks away.
A widening circle is forming.
Barry takes her by the waist, stretches his arm out, Órla clasps his hand and he dances her along the inner edge. They are standing at the cigarette machine next to the back door while the last few stragglers head outside to take part in the upcoming rounds of rebel songs.
When the national anthem is over, Barry starts emptying his pockets into the slot, Órla hands him what’s left of her loose change. He hits every button until they end up with a packet of Benson & Hedges. They stand in the doorway, looking at the congregation, enveloped in harsh-tasting tar and regrets.
Barry works on rolling some mini-joints for later. Órla says: ‘Do you ever see music, like the notes appearing above people’s heads, while a song is being sung, and how they might drift off or break away when there is an echo of discord, dissonance, and you fix your eyes on it, willing it to stop drifting, sending it some kind of energy, to forget the slip, to just float back down, rejoin the chorus, but it can’t; it’s happened, there’s this brokenness, a jagged bit, that’ll always be outside of the circle. And you, you both know this, but you keep fixed on it, willing it, to fit back in.’
Barry takes her lit cigarette with a mile of ash balanced off its end, carefully, then flicks the underside of it with his middle finger. The ash falls onto the courtyard. ‘You’ll have to choose.’
He tilts her face, he kisses her temple. Órla:
‘I have to be just one thing.’
‘This, you know this…’ Barry gestures, ‘it’s, it’s not kind.’ Órla doubles over, and he can tell she is crying. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
*
Standing at the sink Órla knows she should probably make herself throw up, but she also thinks about what a desperate waste of money that would be, so doesn’t. She slides her hand into her pants, feels for the blood, nothing, rocks backwards on her heels and rests her head against the tiled wall. She considers having a wank, because anything, literally anything, would be better than this. There’s squeaking and scraping coming from the other side. She knocks, four taps. Someone knocks four taps back. She knocks six taps. Someone knocks six taps back. She knocks again. Someone knocks back, waits, another, waits, then another, waits, then another, waits, then another, until there’s just palms banging and banging on the wall. She walks out and opens the door to a storeroom. Senán and Rachel are standing there drumming their fingers, slapping and chasing each other’s hands up the walls. Walls that are covered in game upon game of Xs and Os, game upon game upon game of Xs and Os decorate the storeroom walls. Órla:
‘What the— what in the actual name of fuck are youse two doing?’
‘We found a pen,’ Órla’s cousin laughs. Rachel: ‘It started with best of three.’
They break their shits laughing. Órla shakes her head at them.
‘We’ll never be let in here again.’
Rachel looks at her.
‘Unlikely,’ she scoffs.
Senán shrugs: ‘They’ve started cleaning the front bar, so we thought we’d hide in here to do a bit.’
‘A lot.’
‘A lot of a bit.’
‘Of a bit of a lot.’
Órla is visibly pissed off. ‘Drinking up time’s almost over. Come on, let’s go.’ Rachel:
‘But we can’t remember who’s winning.’
Órla, half to herself:
‘Time. Time is always fucking winning.’
Órla pulls them both out of the storeroom and hands them a mini-joint from the inner lining of her handbag.
‘Here, get started on some of this, then we’ll go. Absolute state of youse two.’
She’s that kind of angry-sad where you don’t know if someone is fuming or near devastated. Senán: ‘She’s getting very judgemental in her old age.’ Rachel shakes her head, ‘Very very judgemental.’ Órla spits at her cousin:
‘Inhale. You look a bit shook.’
‘Trying to be funny there cos I said that to her earlier.’
‘Funny,’ Rachel snickers.
‘Funny,’ Senán smirks.
‘Funny,’ Órla tuts.
‘Where are we heading to after?’
‘I’d say that’s getting decided now. Will you go check?’ Órla asks Senán. Senán:
‘Did you sort it out? Is the row over?’
‘It is what it is.’
‘Órla, look, I’ll say this to you because we’re family and please, I’m being dead serious now, so don’t get me wrong; it’s not just because he’s English. And I mean that. I really do. But, Órla, he is dry as shite.’
Rachel raises her right hand and Senán gives her a high five, then he walks off.
Órla:
‘Rachel, can we please go?’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere, let’s go.’
‘And Barry, and Mark?’
‘They made their way here easy enough, am sure they’ll find their way back.’
‘What if they don’t?’
‘They’ll find a sofa, you know what Barry’s like, they’ll be grand. I want to be where you are.’
‘It’s that simple?’
‘Please.’
‘You don’t want to go back out there?’
‘Yes. No.’
*
After getting let out the front way, where Rachel buys a selection of miniatures from behind the bar and puts them into Órla’s bag, they start making their way home across the beach. Rachel takes the small bottles of spirits out one at a time, slipping them between their mouths, taking a swig each; blowing hot alcohol breath onto their hands, their ears, their necks, their mouths, stooping to kiss at the end of each taste, hands in hair, hands in pants; their hands in and out of everywhere, touching, pressing, kneading, feeling for some recourse, and stooping and stopping now and again to drink and kiss, and pushing and straining and stooping and stopping to hold each other up.
*
Rachel takes the double duvet off the single bed and spreads it on the floor, places pillows on top, and scatters throws and blankets. Órla takes off Rachel’s tights and shirt she’s been wearing and burrows underneath, lies there fiddling with the hoop earrings trying to undo them without lifting her head. Rachel slides in next to her.
‘I’m too cold.’
Órla hooks the earrings together and passes them behind her onto the dresser.
‘You’re coming down.’
‘I think I’m just cold.’
‘Okay.’
Órla nests Rachel into her and pulls another blanket over them. Kisses the parting of her hair. Rachel:
‘Why are you with him?’
[inaudible]
‘Why?’
‘I don’t not like him.’
‘You don’t adore him.’
‘I’ve never got that whole girls fawning over their boyfriend thing.’
‘He’s no match for you.’
[quiet]
‘I know.’
[pause]
‘So why then?’
‘I mostly like having sex with him.’
‘Mostly…’
Rachel laughs into Órla’s chest.
[silence]
‘I’ll tell you this okay… it’s the longest time I’m not judging him…’
‘Explain.’
[quiet]
‘Why did he say that? Why did he stand there in that way? Why did he wear those clothes together? Why did he make that unattractive face? Why does he talk down to people? Why does he take up so much space? Why doesn’t he take better care of his skin? Why is he so often so near, clingy? Why is he so mean sometimes?’
‘Some list.’
Órla rubs both her hands up and down her face: ‘Because I’m not a good person?’
‘You are my very best person.’ Rachel smiles.
‘I don’t not like having sex with him, I feel I should make that clear.’
‘Clear as mud.’
‘I mostly like it, or I like most of it, I dunno.’
‘Which bits don’t you like?’
‘Right, he, he never asks can he come in my mouth. He just does it.’
‘How unmannerly.’
‘Hah… And you know when you move, expecting, indicating to the other person how they should move, he doesn’t pick up on that.’
‘Not everyone’s really themselves in the moment, petal. It’s a kind of selfishness in bed a lot of fellas can have,’ Órla moves closer to her. Rachel:
‘Well you should know, you’ve done a thorough survey.’
‘Feck off.’
‘You have though, like, you’re well known; sometimes I think you’re just trying them on for size.’
‘Yeah, maybe, you have a point. Yeah.’ Órla looks up at the ceiling.
‘Are you going to break up?’
‘I’ll, sorry but, I’ll have to talk to him about it.’
‘Okay… and Órla, you don’t have to do things in bed with men you don’t like. Tell them when you don’t like it.’ [quiet]
‘How? Oh like you know those hundred times you came in my mouth, well I’d prefer you’d asked me first, yeah I only told you this now to make you feel tiny and like you’re a horrible person. Will we go the pictures tonight?’ Órla claps her hands together.
‘Very droll. I imagine, with my extremely limited experience of men, you’d have to start as you mean to go on.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
Órla: ‘You didn’t like it then? The penis sex?’
‘I always missed the breasts, and penises are manky ugly.’
Órla laughs: ‘They really are.’
‘Erect they’re so angry looking, and dumb.’
‘They are really dumb. Simplistic.’
‘I’ve never got wet thinking of a penis.’
Órla laughs again. Thinks on it, then says: ‘I have seen some remarkable ones. I’d go them again.’
‘Okay.’
[quiet]
‘Rachel, do you still be with girls in Maynooth?’
‘It’s harder cos I’m staff now. But yes, I do.’
‘Jesus, you’re not getting off with young ones, are you?’
‘Ugh no. Women.’
‘Are their fannies gorgeous and intelligent?’
‘All fannies are smart gorgeous.’
‘All?’
‘All.’
‘Is mine the fairest in the land?’
‘Yours is just my favourite.’
‘That’s nicer than it sounds.’
‘I meant it to be nice.’
‘It is.’
[quiet]
‘Órla, petal, I’m pretty much done with here.’
[inaudible]
‘I’ve applied for some jobs, away.’
[silence]
‘We could emigrate. Live together in Camden. Be a cliché.’
‘I don’t know yet what I want, Rachel.’
[quiet]
‘I know.’
‘You don’t hate me?’
‘Never. I could never hate you. Not for very long.’
‘That’s nicer than it sounds.’
‘I meant it to be nice.’
‘I could never really be me without you.’
‘I know, petal. Me too.’
‘Me too.’
‘Me too.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too. Let’s sleep now.’
‘Sleep sounds nice.’
Soon enough they sleep.
*
‘Your dad’s car’s not here.’
‘He’s probably gone to nine o’clock Mass—if he wakes up early on a Sunday he goes again.’
‘Jesus.’
‘—is right.’
‘Ba boom cha. I made us tea and toast.’
‘I’m fucking starving.’
‘Coke’ll do that to you.’
‘Enough. I’m not apologising.’
‘Ah, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll have to head home soon, poke my head in, with the cousin seeing me out there’ll be ructions if I don’t.’
‘Be added to the parish bulletin this morning.’
‘Yeah, that Ryan young one is a dirty stop-out.’
‘Who isn’t in this town.’
‘You’re really over it then? Here?’
‘I just can’t, like, keep working part-time cutting and pasting and answering the phone. I just can’t.’ ‘What’ll you do in London?’
‘Anything but this.’
‘That is such an Irish sentiment.’
‘We all have our moments.’
‘When might you go?’
Rachel screams into her pillow. Órla lets her scream, waits for her to finish, rolls her onto her back and slides down her, pushes up her T-shirt and starts taking off her knickers.
‘Órla.’
‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘Never, Órla, I never want you to stop.’
Órla kisses Rachel along her hairline, the crease of her thigh, bites at the soft flesh, runs her fingers inside, teasing, tucks herself down further and exposes Rachel completely, looks at the pure exquisiteness of her, studies her folds, touches her skin, closes her eyes and breathes her in deep, opens her out with her tongue, eats her with her whole wet mouth, eats her and eats her and eats her, she macerates her, and she tastes so very, very good and right and beautiful. Their sex is beautiful.
*
Órla stands on top of the stone wall on the coast road, heading home. The salt spray sands her face, granules rub at her skin. She can see an outline of another inlet quite a ways away. It’s all part of this one long undulating curve that follows the flow of the island. Dribbles of blood sloping out to sea. Órla rocks back and forth. Willing the blood. Rocks back and forth. Hoping for the blood. Rocks back and forth. Waiting on the blood. Rocks back and forth. Tilting her uterus. Battened. Rocks back and forth. All those almost men who’ve come inside her. Rocks back and forth, thinking: ‘You’re going to break your high heeled shoes.’ Rocks back and forth. ‘You’re going to break your high-heeled shoes.’ Rocks back and forth. ‘You’re going to break your high-heeled shoes.’ Rocks back and forth. ‘You’re going to break your high-heeled shoes.’ Rocks back and forth. ‘You’re going to break your high-heeled shoes.’ Rocks back and forth. ‘You’re going to break your high-heeled shoes.’ Like a country music song jammed on repeat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lauren Foley is Irish/Australian and bisexual. Her stories are published internationally. She has Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE) and is disabled; the majority of her writing is dictated. In 2016, her story ‘K-K-K’ won the inaugural Neilma Sidney Short Story Prize with Overland Literary Journal and was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Short Story of the Year. She was shortlisted for the Hennessy New Irish Writer of the Year in 2017, and nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Lauren was awarded a prestigious Next Generation Artist’s Award in Literature from the Arts Council of Ireland in 2018, and subsequent Artist’s bursaries. She is the recipient of two Varuna Fellowships, two Tyrone Guthrie Residencies and a Cill Rialaig Residency. Her work ‘I Don’t’ is published in, The Art of the Glimpse, 100 Irish Short Stories, edited by Sinéad Gleeson. She won The Los Angeles Review 2021 Literary Award in Creative Non-Fiction with ‘Mammy Mary Says’.
