He answers straight away with a yo.
It’s me, Allegra.
Freckles, he says and I smile.
Out of Jamie, Marion and Cyclops, he’d been the only one to call me by my school nickname when I came home on the weekends. It angered Marion. She hated other people claiming me with a stupid name when she’s known me the longest. Jamie could never remember it. Maybe Cyclops did and does because he understands what it’s like to not just have a nickname but to be your nickname.
Cyclops is so named because of his surname. ó Súilleabháin is Irish for O’Sullivan, but it sounds exactly like súil amháin which translates to one eye. He’s from a family of six brothers and they’re all called the same. Huge broad big brothers they seem to own the name better than my friend, strapping big GAA players, his eldest brother played for the Kerry senior team and is named the Cyclops. That’s it, he’s the ultimate Cyclops. Then there’s Goosey Cyclops, so named because he’s a bird plucker. His dad is Chief Cyclops because of his thirty-year involvement in local and county football. Then there’s Nixie Cyclops, because his name is Nicholas. Inky Cyclops, because he published a book of poetry and writes for the local paper, and Chops Cyclops the sheep farmer. Someone once told me my Cyclops friend was the runt of the pack. We were on the sidelines watching him get pummelled by everyone. He wasn’t a good footballer, not like his brothers. He tried because he had to, couldn’t let his dad and the locals down, but cars and music were always his thing. Customising his cars into these muppet mobiles with underglow lights attached to the chassis, illuminating the ground beneath. That’s how he got with Marion, he kept asking her dad to do the modifications. He calls himself Chewy Cyclops, because he’s DJ Chewy, but unlike his brothers it hasn’t quite stuck, it’s a name he gave to himself and that’s not how it’s supposed to work. You earn it. People give it to you, like a badge of honour. Locals call him Cyclops óg, which is young Cyclops or kind of like saying junior.
So you heard the news, he says, and I know he means Marion and Jamie. Dirty rats, he says. Fancy meeting up, drowning our sorrows, or celebrating, whichever you want.
Both, I say and that’s cool with him, he’ll be over within the hour, he has a set tonight, he’ll drive us there.
He shows up all proud of himself in a van, with speakers on the top. DJ Chewy decorates the side panels with an image of decks, music notes and a Chewbacca that looks more like a rabid monkey, with a line about bringing the wild to the Wild Atlantic Way. Some smart arse had messed with the word wild.
Bringing the dildo to the Wild Atlantic Way, I read.
Ignore that bit. It’s a Sharpie, taking me ages to get it off. Is the Pops in there, I’ll go say hi, he’s a laugh. Heard about what happened with the church administrator, she can go fuck herself. He shouldn’t let them get to him.
No need, he’s asleep, I say, circling the van. I thought that the Chewy thing was more for tourists. Why not DJ Cyclops, I ask. Doesn’t that carry a better reputation.
The big bro wouldn’t let me. His eldest boy’s name is DJ.
Oh. I get inside the van. So where are we going.
The syndicate rooms.
It’s in Tralee, an hour and a half away but I don’t care, I’m glad to get out and away, take my mind off things. Cyclops lights a smoke, starts up the engine and gets straight to the point. So what do you think of Jamie and Marion, he asks.
I don’t know if he knows about the baby yet, probably not, I’m sure neither Jamie or Marion would want him to know that. Who knows what he’d do. I don’t know, I tell him honestly, it feels weird but I suppose they can do what they like.
It was going on behind my back, he says. When I was gigging around the place, they were at it. Manky rancid bastards.
I study his profile. He looks skinnier than ever. He was always thin but this is unhealthy. His face is skeletal. Pale. A blue white.
You look like shit, I say.
Not you too. Mam keeps throwing Kimberley Mikados at me whenever I’m at the house. And I hate Mikados. Maybe a cherry Bakewell or something but who ever said marshmallow and jam was a good idea.
I like Mikados.
You would. You eat like a five-year-old at a birthday party.
Maybe stop eating cherry Bakewells and start eating iron, I suggest.
What’s that in.
Meat, veg.
He makes a face.
You look anaemic, I say, studying him.
I don’t puke my food out.
Not what it means. So you moved out of home, I say.