CC11: Castletown Blades

Home-life hadn’t necessarily changed for the better since the time of Serena. Emer was prone to throwing knives at me when she got angry. I was lucky I didn’t get one stuck in my head a few times. That was another skill of hers, to put alongside the eyebrow manoeuvres. Knives. I tried to stash them away from her, to reduce the chance of me getting one in the head, but she always found them. She knew her cutlery better than anyone, and my tricks didn’t make a difference. I wasn’t sharp enough to contend with those instincts of hers. I tried to caution her, all I could do. I kept telling her that it was something she just couldn’t do no matter how angry with me she was or how much of a prick I was being. It was just too dangerous a thing to be doing, throwing knives about the place. Big knives too, sharp steak ones more often than not. I’ll never forget the one with the yellow handle, the most fearsome knife in our kitchen, somersaulting towards me after a comment I made rejecting all duties relating to evening showers. I was too lazy to take showers in the evenings, and in the mornings too, for that matter, as soon as the job fucked off. So the knives came out. They came out again yesterday when I accused her of having an affair in so many more words than I should rightly have dared.

‘We haven’t had it off in about a week,’ I went.
‘Two weeks.’
’Have we gone off each other?’
‘What, the sex?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The sex is just sex.’
‘No, it isn’t. Not anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re married. That’s why.’
‘Ah, married.’
‘Yeah, married.’
‘Sex is sex, married or not. When you take a shower, maybe we’ll do it, you scumbag!’
‘Sex is sex, shower or not.’
‘Do you really believe that, you bloody asshole? Wise up, will you.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you were fucking somebody else. Come on, you can tell your husband. Who’ve you been riding on the sly?’
‘Not you anyway. As you’ve professed to be certain of, boyo.’
‘What, so you are having it off with somebody else, is that it?’
‘Are you mad in the head or something?’
‘I can’t work out what the hell’s going on with you anymore.’
‘Why do you have to try and work it out? Just go about your business, I’ll go about mine.’
‘What’s that business, can I ask? Out and about, looking for action away from home, is that it?’
‘You fucking psycho!’

And then, the brown-handled breadknife I’d just buttered her toast with took to the skies, and my arms flapped in scattered defense.

‘How’s it going, all?’ said Paidi, approaching us while his entourage thankfully went to stand in another part of the beer garden.
‘All good,’ Geary.
Paidi always had an emotionless look of cool about him, so it translated perfectly to his detached acknowledgment of John Carroll, who was of course the kind of person Paidi liked to deem he rose magnificently above in such confined society. Acknowledgment came with a haughty glance; that was all was required of him in the case of this nutcase.

Paidi used to train with me and Emer back in the day. He was a decent kickboxer back then until he became a local rock star. Local rock stardom destroyed any kickboxing ambitions he had. But before that, he was a tough one. I remember he beat the shit out of me in the only competition I ever fought in. Knocked me around like I was asleep, he did. I probably was asleep, having spent the pre-match time at the back of the gym, lecturing at some ninja turtle kids about Sammo Hung. Nevertheless, I got second place in that competition, losing to Paidi in the final. It wasn’t hard considering I only had to fight one other match before that. There were only three people fighting in that competition, so I wasn’t about to lose any sleep about it. The guy I beat sold me a copy of Nevermind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols and was later sent to Mountjoy prison in Dublin for stabbing his sister with a screwdriver when she caught him with his dick out in front of the dog.