Skimmin' Stones by Nicholas P Murray

Author:Nicholas P Murray
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: skimming, stones, murray, nicholas
Publisher: MasterPublishing

Mr Butterfield crossed the road. He was going inte the monastery beside the church with a plastic bag full of meat for the Christian Brothers. Pinky looked at his watch. It’s one a those new ones. There’s no hands or a winder; it’s digital. All ye have te do is press a button and a light comes on te tell ye the time. I didn’t know that they made bulbs that small.

‘I’ve got te go,’ he says. ‘Me ma told me te be home early. Te help me da in the bar.’ He picked up his bike. The back mudguard was rubbing against the wheel and the chain came off. Pinky wheeled it across the grass; he couldn’t be arsed te fix it. His Pumas looked deadly, jet black with yellow stripes. ‘See ye at the bus stop tomorrow,’ shouts Mucky. Pinky just raised his hand without even turning around.

‘Jasis! It’s gonna be great crack,’ says Mucky. I didn’t think so. ‘Don’t look so worried. Shur it’s only a day off school. It’s not as if ye murdered someone. It’ll be great!’ ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘Shur we might even meet someone famous!’ ‘Yeah. Dublin,’ says Mucky. ‘Are ye right?’ says I. ‘Hold on a sec.’ Mucky was organising himself for a skim. He flicked out the stone. One, straight under. ‘Bollix,’ he says. ‘I thought I had it, ye know—the knack.’ I laughed. I thought I had it, too.

We jumped up and over the bridge wall onte the footpath. The woman who works the petrol-pumps up past the church got a terrible fright. ‘Sorry, missus. Howya, Anne?' Mucky knew them. Anne smiled at him. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ says the woman. ‘Just be careful.’ ‘Right, missus. Bye, Anne.’ The petrol-pump woman pulled Anne by the hood of her duffle coat and off they went. ‘Does she go te the Teck?’ I asked. ‘Yeah, she’s in my class.’ Mucky kept smiling at her. ‘Is she riding?’ Mucky looked at me and winked. ‘That’s for me te know and you te find out.’ Somehow or other, I don’t think I ever will.

We walked up the main street of the town, past the many pubs and shops. We looked in doorways and windows, hoping for an opportunity to see something or do something or take something. We passed Butterfields, the butcher’s shop. The other Mr Butterfield was in there behind the counter, chopping away at a side of beef. Someone told me that he’d killed his wife, chopped her up, and sold her as spare ribs and chops. Mucky stuck his head in the open door. ‘Hey mister, could ye give us a half-pound a whale meat? Could ye throw in the head for the cat?’ Mr Butterfield was over the counter in a flash. We legged it up the road, ducking down laneways. We were running and laughing at the same time. We fell out onte the backstreet near Abbin’s shop. Old Josie was standing there, staring out of the window. Her cats were climbing over everything in the shop, dozens of them, meowing all over the place.

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