Bullfighting Read Free Page A

baldness suited Martin. Everyone said it. He’d had to change his trouser size from 34 to 36. It had been a bit of a shock, but it was kind of nice wearing loose trousers again, hitching them up when he stood up to go to the jacks, or whatever. He was fooling himself; he knew that. But that was the point – he was fooling himself. He’d put on weight but he felt a bit thinner.
    There were other things too, that had nothing to do with his body and ageing. The kids getting older was one, and the freedom he’d kind of forgotten about. For years, if he stayed in bed in the morning, if he wanted to, it had to be carefully planned. Lizzie, his wife, had to be told. The kids had to be told, and nearly asked. It hadn’t been worth it, the fuckin’ palaver he’d had to go through. For years, all those years the kids were growing up, he’d been on call. A pal of his had used the phrase, on call . He’d been talking about his own life, but – there were four of them there that night in the local, sitting around one of the high tables – he’d been describing all their lives.
    â€”I’m like a doctor without the fuckin’ money, Noel had said.
    They’d all smiled and nodded.
    He’d loved it, mostly, the whole family/kids things, and he’d ignored the throb above his left eye that had often felt like too much coffee or dehydration, too much or too little of something, that he thought now had probably been the pressure of that life. For years, the throb – the vein. Everything he’d done, everywhere he’d gone. Every minute had been counted and used. He had four children, and there were eleven years between the oldest and the youngest. It was over now – it seemed to be over – and the throb had gone away.
    It had taken a while. He’d be wide awake early on Saturday, with nothing to do. He’d drive down to the recycling centre in Coolock with five empty bottles and a cardboard box. He’d shove the box in on top of the other boxes and newspapers and he’d remember holding up one of the kids, usually the little girl, so she could reach the slot the cardboard was pushed into. He’d wonder what the fuck he was doing up and out of the house when he could have been at home in bed. He’d drive out to Howth and watch other people buying fish. He’d feel useful while he was driving. There were no kids in the back, only more cars behind him in the rear-view mirror. It took him a good while to stop. Well over a year. He was driving long after the kids stopped needing him. But he did stop. He could relax now without thinking too much about it.
    He wasn’t on call any more, and Noel was dead.
    He missed the kids. Two of them still lived at home. They smiled when they saw him. They sometimes stayed at the table for a few minutes after they’d finished eating, and they’d chat. They’d talk more to Lizzie than to him, but it was easy enough; it was nice. They’d been wise that way, him and Lizzie. They’d got through the teen years without too much grief. There’d been no drug habits or pregnancies, not too much puking and far less screaming than they’d heard coming from some of the other houses on the road. They were great kids. He missed them. If he thought of it, the fact that he didn’t have children any more – if he’d been an actor, it was what he’d have done to make himself cry.
    There was sex as well. That was a nice surprise. There’d always been sex, more or less, in among the nappies and the Calpol and school books. They’d never really stopped fancying each other. But the big surprise was some of the stuff they’d got up to since the kids had stopped being kids. Without any announcement or decision. She bit one of his nipples one night, and she’d never done that before. It hurt but, fuck, it woke him up. And he’d made her come – this was a different