The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3) by Hansen Gerald

Author:Hansen, Gerald [Hansen, Gerald]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Colin Quinn, Irish fiction, black humor, dysfunctional family, Ireland, northern ireland, women's fiction
Publisher: Mint Books
Published: 2017-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 37

RORY WAS INDEED WEARING the black track suit with the white stripes and sat hidden in a nook. Dymphna was glad as it would give them the privacy she needed. At first, he complained of a headache that might cause him to end the night early, but then the trips through the cleavage and elbows to the bar began. Pints of lager were downed. And Maureen’s twenty quid paid for the shots of whiskey. Dymphna finally explained the mix-up at the lockups, Rory apologized for doubting her and for his mother’s behavior, Rory asked how his son was faring, Dymphna asked how his courses were going. Then they discussed the latest housemate evicted from Big Brother and Derry FC’s chances for the League of Ireland finals. As speech grew slurred and movements clumsy and trips to the loo more frequent, Dymphna told him how lonely she felt in bed, and asked if he felt the same. It seemed he did.

Dymphna couldn’t bring herself to ask about his special relationship with his father, his mother and his granny. She didn’t want to show herself up or ruin the mood, and she was sure Bridie had made it up as she was a jealous cow.

It was interesting, then, that four hours later, Bridie was the one shoving two drunken idiots clutching aluminum containers of Kebabalicious curry chips into a mini-cab. Perhaps it was the power of the drink.

“Get yerselves home,” Bridie roared with drunken glee. “And don’t forget youse’ve made that dinner date for the morrow! Och, it gladdens me heart to see the two of youse at it like dogs on the street!”

Dymphna slobbered all over his neck, her fingers scrabbling around in the darkness, the radio blaring the Spice Girls, the driver’s eyes glaring at them from the rear view mirror.

“Lemme at it!” Dymphna begged, tugging at his belt, his zipper, her fingers desperate for his manhood.

He needed Bridie’s octopus arms to fend her off.

“Come back to mine!” she begged. “I want to ravage the arse offa ye the night!”

“There be’s loads of people cooped up in that house of yers, but!”

“Och, ye can have me in the back garden, sure. We’ve a shed there.”

“I kyanny,” he slurred. “We’ve wer dinner date for the morrow anyroad. Make sure, you, we’ve the house to werselves.”

The mini-cab pulled up to 5 Murphy, and Dymphna spilled out onto the pavement, her tights a mess of ladders, eyeliner blackening the lower half of her face, booze glowing in her startled eyes, one bra strap hanging. She couldn’t locate her keys in her curry-spattered handbag She pounded on the letter box.

“Lemme in!” she begged, then turned, wanting to smile seductively and wave and perhaps flash a breast or two at Rory in the mini-cab. But it had already sped down the street and was on its way to the Protestant side of town. As she clutched the house for support, Dymphna was too drunk to wonder What in the name of feck was Bridie

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