think it's funny. But it's not meant to be funny, you know?"
I chop the air with my table-tennis bat. "Honestly, Conan? I like it when people laugh. With me, at me, whatever. It's all good."
The barbarian tilts his head to one side. "How can it be good?"
"When they laugh with me, I'm the funny fucker, right? That makes me feel good. When they laugh at me, I kick the fuck out of them. That makes me feel good too."
Conan's eyes get big and he claps a meaty hand across his lips.
"You okay, mate?"
He nods and breathes heavily through his nose. I replay what I've just said, try to figure out what got to him.
"Do you not like it when people curse around you?"
The barbarian shrugs.
"What's with the face, then?" I point at his widened and now watering eyes. "Why do you look so … so …" I pull from my GCSE English vocabulary, "indignant?"
Conan takes the hand from his mouth and rubs at one of his eyes for so long I'm worried it might pop.
He takes a deep breath. "You're funny. I nearly laughed at you, there."
I look this kid up and down. Paint him green and he'd pass for the Incredible Hulk's wee brother. "So why didn't you?"
"I thought you might kick the fuck out of me."
Psycho
I wish they'd get one of them couches in this room. The kind you see on TV when some hot, blonde American chick is spilling her guts to the psychiatrist or psychologist or therapist or whatever. I'm still not sure what the difference is with all those shades of shrink. Mine's an educational psychologist, I know that much at least. He tells me to call him Alan. If I had it my way I wouldn't call the fucker at all.
"Anything strange or startling, Danny?"
I shift on the shitty plastic school chair. These things are a nightmare when it gets hot. Sweat just streams down your sheugh , like. But it's mild enough today and I'm in good form. I decide to go easy on Alan, the ball-bag.
"There's not much in the way of strange and startling around here, mo chara ." I'm pretty sure Alan's a protestant so I tend to slip in wee Irish words here and there when we talk, make sure he's constantly aware I'm from the other side of the fence. Nothing fancy – I failed the fuck out of Irish at Corpus Christi – just stuff like mo chara , slainté and slan (my friend, cheers and bye). "It's the same shit … stuff, I mean. Different colours."
Alan nods and flicks through a file. I notice he's got a nice chair. A spinny one with wheels and a cushion.
"I can see you've been behaving yourself, lately."
"Aye, that's probably why I'm bored."
Alan frowns at me.
"That was just a wee joke."
"Right." He flicks a few more pages. "It's not written down here but I thought I'd heard something about a recent scuffle?"
"Me? Fighting? You shouldn't believe everything you hear."
"Well, since it's not written down, I have to assume that you weren't to blame in the situation."
There's a good wee saying about the word, 'assume'. But I've used it on Alan before and I decide to leave it.
"And if you weren't to blame, Danny, that's great." He looks at me like he knows I was to blame. "Because there's something coming along that you might be interested in."
I flick my chin up. Go on, then.
"I've been in touch with a few contacts in the National Trust. We've put our heads together and come up with a constructive scheme that'll benefit everybody involved. And I'd like to get you involved."
"So what's the scheme?"
"It's a kind of community service. You ever been to Castle Ward?"
I shake my head.
"It's out by Strangford, in County Down."
"Is that near Newcastle?"
My brother Paul took me to Newcastle one time when he first got a car. It's a cracking wee town with a beach and some decent parks. Spent a tenner in the amusements and got some great ice cream down there. Always wanted to go again and win that tenner back.
"No, Strangford isn't a stone's throw from Newcastle or anything, but I suppose it's the same neck of the woods."
I push out my lower lip and huff a
I chop the air with my table-tennis bat. "Honestly, Conan? I like it when people laugh. With me, at me, whatever. It's all good."
The barbarian tilts his head to one side. "How can it be good?"
"When they laugh with me, I'm the funny fucker, right? That makes me feel good. When they laugh at me, I kick the fuck out of them. That makes me feel good too."
Conan's eyes get big and he claps a meaty hand across his lips.
"You okay, mate?"
He nods and breathes heavily through his nose. I replay what I've just said, try to figure out what got to him.
"Do you not like it when people curse around you?"
The barbarian shrugs.
"What's with the face, then?" I point at his widened and now watering eyes. "Why do you look so … so …" I pull from my GCSE English vocabulary, "indignant?"
Conan takes the hand from his mouth and rubs at one of his eyes for so long I'm worried it might pop.
He takes a deep breath. "You're funny. I nearly laughed at you, there."
I look this kid up and down. Paint him green and he'd pass for the Incredible Hulk's wee brother. "So why didn't you?"
"I thought you might kick the fuck out of me."
Psycho
I wish they'd get one of them couches in this room. The kind you see on TV when some hot, blonde American chick is spilling her guts to the psychiatrist or psychologist or therapist or whatever. I'm still not sure what the difference is with all those shades of shrink. Mine's an educational psychologist, I know that much at least. He tells me to call him Alan. If I had it my way I wouldn't call the fucker at all.
"Anything strange or startling, Danny?"
I shift on the shitty plastic school chair. These things are a nightmare when it gets hot. Sweat just streams down your sheugh , like. But it's mild enough today and I'm in good form. I decide to go easy on Alan, the ball-bag.
"There's not much in the way of strange and startling around here, mo chara ." I'm pretty sure Alan's a protestant so I tend to slip in wee Irish words here and there when we talk, make sure he's constantly aware I'm from the other side of the fence. Nothing fancy – I failed the fuck out of Irish at Corpus Christi – just stuff like mo chara , slainté and slan (my friend, cheers and bye). "It's the same shit … stuff, I mean. Different colours."
Alan nods and flicks through a file. I notice he's got a nice chair. A spinny one with wheels and a cushion.
"I can see you've been behaving yourself, lately."
"Aye, that's probably why I'm bored."
Alan frowns at me.
"That was just a wee joke."
"Right." He flicks a few more pages. "It's not written down here but I thought I'd heard something about a recent scuffle?"
"Me? Fighting? You shouldn't believe everything you hear."
"Well, since it's not written down, I have to assume that you weren't to blame in the situation."
There's a good wee saying about the word, 'assume'. But I've used it on Alan before and I decide to leave it.
"And if you weren't to blame, Danny, that's great." He looks at me like he knows I was to blame. "Because there's something coming along that you might be interested in."
I flick my chin up. Go on, then.
"I've been in touch with a few contacts in the National Trust. We've put our heads together and come up with a constructive scheme that'll benefit everybody involved. And I'd like to get you involved."
"So what's the scheme?"
"It's a kind of community service. You ever been to Castle Ward?"
I shake my head.
"It's out by Strangford, in County Down."
"Is that near Newcastle?"
My brother Paul took me to Newcastle one time when he first got a car. It's a cracking wee town with a beach and some decent parks. Spent a tenner in the amusements and got some great ice cream down there. Always wanted to go again and win that tenner back.
"No, Strangford isn't a stone's throw from Newcastle or anything, but I suppose it's the same neck of the woods."
I push out my lower lip and huff a
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