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Then they left; Dennis with his toaster and Áine with a deep dish of satisfaction.
Heading back down the main street canopied by colourful umbrellas, the sun was already setting over them, and it was much quieter now than when they went in. Only a lone busker playingMamma Miaon the violin was left.
Áine and Dennis were still laughing to themselves in some telepathic way that was all their reserved rearings would allow when his smile faded, replaced by pressed lips and a furrowed brow that made the wrinkles between turn deep and protruding.
Áine followed his gaze to the rise of voices across the street where a bookies had taken over the old thatched pub.
“Dad?”
He didn’t answer.
The bustle got louder and more handsy, pulling him towards it.
It was immediate how secondary her concern became for her dad when she noticed Fionn caught in its middle between the three men, his school bag on his back, and a bald man in all denim staggering backwards into his front.
“Jimmy O’ Rourke,” Áine’s dad sighed to himself with a shaking head.
Her legs suddenly gravitated towards Fionn in some protective way she wished even one person in the world had for her. Her dad’s chunky arm gently pushed her back from the commotion, contradicting the thought.
“I’ll be back in a minute, alright?” He crossed just left of the green traffic lights to get a closer look.
“Dad, will you wait!” She called from the place he’d put her and from where she loyally obeyed. Still, something in her gut, outside of being scared, felt compelled to intervene in whatever was actually happening.
“Stay the fuck out of it,” a greasy-haired man in a puffer jacket shouted, revving to push Fionn’s dad again.
An older guy in a green work polo, stood between them with freckled arms outstretched, a sweeping brush threatening both sides.
“Is everything alright, Larry?” Áine’s father asked, his hand out of his pocket already fisted on the off-chance he might need to use it. It came as no surprise to Áine that her father also knew the owner of the betting office.
“I’ll tell ya’ Dennis, I don’t care if it’s not alright. I just want it away frommyfucking business,” Larry shouted despite standing next to Dennis by the time he’d finished.
The one who’d pushed Fionn’s dad brought up his fluffy hood and by some unexpected respect to the betting institution, continued his argument while crossing back over to Áine’s side. Jimmy followed before Fionn could grab him, his face blotched with anger and frustration.
Áine’s father looked both ways before steadily using the empty Zebra crossing to come back to her. “If it’s not Larry’s issue, it’s not mine,” he said close to her ear. “We’ll head on home.”
Áine wanted to nod, but found herself too distracted by the tightening knot in her stomach. That and the air of anger growing and growing between the men mostly occupied by flying spit.
It felt so impossible to know which way to look, causing threats of whiplash to reverberate in her achy neck.
“Dad, just fucking leave it. Please!” Fionn said, tugging on the back of his dad’s denim jacket so hard the tendons along his forearm were thick and protruding.
“Fionn?” Áine said to the surprise of no one more than herself. It wasn’t a whisper this time. It was loud and territorial. Noticing her, all the anger bunching in his shoulders seemed to dissipate into something else that made his tugging arm drop.
Pain, she thought.That’s embarrassed pain.
“Nah. Fuck this, Jimmy! I’ve given you enough time to sort it,” the man in the puffer jacket said. Then out of his pocket, he pulled a black sock. It abnormally stretched and bulged at its end where it had been knotted.
“No need for that now,” Jimmy said with surrendering hands as he retreated into a full bike rail. “I can get you the money by next week. Like I said, there’s no lies here, man. I’m good for it, yeah? I said I’m fucking good for it! Aren’t I, son?”
Áine wondered why a sock had shifted the mood into an even tenser one. Why Fionn’s anger, his embarrassment, had melted into something that made him look twelve years old. His mouth hung with heavy gasps, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Jesus, Áine, stay back out of it,” her dad called in a low hush, but Áine’s feet were still instinctively moving like some celestial force in contract with her heart was pulling the strings.
The man swung.
Dennis’ finger hooked the neck of her school jumper, jerking her back when the inside of the sock; the ball or rock smacked across Fionn’s head after his father dipped from the swing.
The noise of crunching contact was nearly as debilitating to Áine as it was for Fionn.
