When I wake in the morning, I check Instagram before my eyes have unstuck themselves and I see a red number one beside the arrow signalling private message.
The Happy Nomad has said: Freckles! so good to hear from you.
Yes! I punch the air and leap out of bed.
It’s a beautiful morning. It’s bright, sunny, hot – a heatwave, they say. The first week of May. Cherry blossoms bloom. I even say hello to the man in the suit with the backpack and jaunty walk. He looks confused, as if he thinks I’ve mistaken him for someone else. But that’s okay. I smile at the jogger. She smiles back. I pat the Great Dane. I ask the owner how old he is. Three years. What’s his name. Tara, he says. We laugh. Good morning, good morning, beautiful morning, to the old man and his son.
I bounce along to my next destination, the Village Bakery. Whistles is outside eating a cream éclair, a steaming black coffee beside him on the ground.
Spanner is beside him, smoking. He flicks his smoke, Whistles goes for the end.
Spanner holds the door open for me with a Howya, Freckles, and we go inside.
He pours the batter into the waffle machine, even though I haven’t ordered. He knows me. It’s this simple act that makes me feel closer to him. Close enough to suddenly start talking about my recent visit to Pops and unload my worries about him. About how quickly he changed as soon as I left. How quickly he could lose everything if he doesn’t have people around him.
Ye see it’s the fuckin stress, Freckles. It’s the stress that’ll do it to ye. Cancers, strokes, Whistles.
While Spanner works he unloads more of his worries about his restraining order. He hasn’t been able to see Ariana since the Irish dancing feis because of the order against him coming near Chloe. He can’t even contact her directly, so has tried to get friends and his ma to contact her. Have his ma pick up Ariana, but Chloe’s having none of it. You know what, all you women – sorry, Allegra – but you with your rights and unequal this and unequal that, it’s fucking fathers who need to have the next revolution. I’ve never had a restraining order against me in my life and I’ve put Deano’s head through a window, the thieving fucker, even though it turned out it wasn’t him.
You’re right, I say, to his surprise. My Pops raised me on his own.
Power to the Pops, he says, raising his fist, tattooed biceps winking at me.
But you need a solicitor, I tell him again.
All of a sudden, I feel a thump in my back as a fella comes rushing by me. The coffee splashes up from the drinking hole in the cup onto my skin. It burns. I shake my hand in the air, suck my scalded skin.
Oi you, he shouts, firing himself into the shop, finger pointing at Spanner, all aggressive. What have you been saying about me.
Well if it isn’t the paedo muppet, Spanner says, a glint in his eye but a tone in his voice I’ve never heard from him before. It’s dangerous.
I’ll fuckin kill you, the fella yells.
Spanner removes the dishcloth from his shoulder, opens his arms out in a welcoming pose. Bends at the knee, muscles in his thighs tensing. Go on and try it.
How do I get in there, the fella spits, pacing up and down the counter.
Spanner picks up a whisk, waves it around like he’s Bruce Lee and it’s a nunchuck, then he throws it at his enemy. It makes a sad sound against his chest. Splashes him with egg batter.
Fortunately – or unfortunately for the fella, who I now realise is Chloe’s boyfriend – he can’t get to Spanner. The counter spans the entire width of the shop; the only way to the other side is at the end of the counter by unlocking the door in the lower half and lifting the counter, but he’s so consumed by his red mist he can’t figure that out. So he lashes out, arm swinging over the counter, body somehow miraculously going halfway over it too. The beautiful carrot cakes lining the top shelf get smushed. It’s such a shame, they were so pretty. The banana bread and the blueberry muffins are lost too in his second attempt to slide over, arm swinging and punching the air.
He’s having the greatest kerfuffle with confectionery that I’ve ever seen, and he seems to be losing.
Should I call the guards, I ask.
They’re only down the road, I could be there in minutes. I’d love the excitement of including the Gardaí, another chance to spend time with Laura, and I could impress them with what I’ve witnessed, but I don’t think Spanner would want them on his premises. Not with the looming custody battle. He doesn’t hear me anyway.
Spanner laughs loudly, taunting him. A bad idea. Because suddenly the lad has pulled himself over the counter, his T-shirt covered in sugar, cream and jam. The sweetest-looking bad guy you ever did see. Spanner looks dangerous. He has too many items at his disposal. A bread knife, jagged and sharp, used for the thick doorstep loaves he baked that morning. The boiling hot water in the coffee machine beside him. Frankly a sourdough thrown at speed to the head would knock a man out. I see him registering everything, his eyes quickly moving left and right. Don’t mess with the village baker. His legs are wide and bent, a strong stance, arms out and ready. The size of him, all muscle ripping from his white T-shirt and his jeans. His hands opening and closing into fists as he moves from side to side like a tennis player waiting a serve.