(A version of this story first appeared in Pinhole Camera Issue 1 - see bibliography section for details).

Rachel Donnelly's Dad

It wasn't long after my fifteenth birthday when I decided I was old enough to start going to pubs. Despite the law's view on this it didn't take much for me to convince my friend Ali Morrison, also recently turned fifteen, that he was old enough too. It was a pity that the bouncers of those pubs commonly frequently by the town's borderline age drinkers didn't agree. A Friday night spent traipsing round Ballymena soon let us know that it would be a few more years before we would be welcome in any of the town's licenced premises.

Except here, in Mc Attamney's, a small side street pub we didn't know existed until then. The place was practically empty when we walked in. A couple of old men hunched around one of the tables that furnished the dingy badly lit room. The bar itself seemed caught in some sort of puritan time warp, whoever stocked it seemed to posses little knowledge of mixers and none at all of alcopops.

"Can I help you lads?" enquired the barman.

Not having drank much outside the range of WKD and Smirnoff Ice, and now needing to ask for something that would convey some maturity, beer seemed like the best bet.

"Two pints of Harp please?" I said trying to sound as convincing as possible.

"What age are you lads?" the barman asked.

"Eighteen," we answered in Synchronicity.

"Have you any ID on you?" He inquired.

"No sorry," I answered pretending to rummage through my wallet as if some proof I was eighteen might materialise three years early.

"I didn't think so?" he said pulling the pints. "That'll be three eighty please."

We sat down at a table in the far corner, the most obscure we could find, we may have been given the green light but we didn't want to flaunt it. These people seemed to like their quiet and could easily get pissed off if we didn't give them it.

"Well Brian, it's shaping up to be an okay night after all," remarked Ali. "This is a cool place, we should start coming here from time to time."

"Cool?" I asked looking round me. This wasn't what I'd been expecting when I'd planned my first night at a pub.

"Yeah, three eighty for two pints. That's pretty cheap."

"Place is fucking deserted. It wouldn't be cool in here if it was a fucking igloo."

"Cheer up for fucksake," Ali said looking round him. "How come Scott and Timmy didn't come out?" Scott and Timmy were friends from school that we went drinking with at the local park most weekends.

"I didn't ask them," I shrugged. "Timmy definitely wouldn't have got in anywhere."

"And Scott would," he laughed.

"Fucker and his five o'clock shadow," I nodded talking a big gulp of beer. I didn't particularly like the taste of it but I wanted to get drunk so big gulps were the best method.

"Hey Brian," Ali said leaning forward with a hushed voice. "Isn't that Rachel what's-her-face's dad at the bar?"

"Who?" I asked, as I really had no idea who he was talking about.

"You know. Rachel in your English class."

"Is that the wee girl up the front that no one speaks to? Cute like?"

"I'll say. She's a fucking ride," he replied downing the rest of his pint, "I'm going to the bar. Another pint for Mr. Jones?"

I answered with a nod. I downed the rest of my pint while waiting for Ali to come back from the bar. The place had begun to fill up while we were drinking. Unfortunately the new arrivals were no younger than the rest of them. While he was away I had a look at the guy he was talking about. Rachel never spoke to anyone in class so how Ali knew her dad when I barely knew her seemed a bit odd. The guy was thin with short brown hair, that looked like it might curl if it was allowed any growth. His ruddy red complexion and wrinkles that belonged on a man much older suggested he drank a lot. Maybe we could get a few pints out of him.

"There ya go Brian," said Ali cheerfully as he set the pint down beside me. "Is it Donnelly you call her?"

"Rachel Donnelly, yeah, that's right," I said catching the look in Ali's eye. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Well, Mr. Jones, if we could get him to pay for our drinks…" he lingered to let me consider the prospect.

"Yeah, but scheming an adult is going to be harder than scheming someone our age."

"I don't see why. You lie to teachers, why is he going to be any different."

"I suppose. We'll just get a few rounds out of him, but we have to do it properly."

"Sure, we'll give it a while, he'll be pissed as a fart in no time, look at the rate he's downing those whiskeys."

"And he's drinking on his own, so he'll be glad of the company."

"Good point," said Ali with a wink.

The fact of the matter is that any money Ali and I needed we got, through a host of schemes we'd invent on the spot. None of this get rich quick crap you see on television. Sometimes it involved theft, but usually a little sweet talking went a long way. We were really good at hiding what we did, so good that not even Scott or Timmy knew about it.

I had never broken into anyone's home or taken anything that anyone would miss terribly, just the odd five or ten pound note from the pocket of someone's blazer in the changing rooms at school. Ali on the other hand was a bit less considerate about who he ripped off. "I don't care about money, who I steal it from or who I give it to," he used to say. I wouldn't care about money either if I was as rich as Ali.

"How'd you know him?" I asked Ali.

"He did our roof last summer. Him and me da were talking and it turned out his daughter went to ours. Me da asks me in front of him if I know her."

"What'd you say?"

"I made up a load of shite. What was I supposed to say - 'she's not well liked your daughter but she's fit.' "

"It'd be the truth," I shrugged.

"Well, yeah but I mean, I feel kind of sorry for Rachel, you know," Ali said, after a while.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Well the amount of shit that she takes from that bitch Gemma, I'd love to see someone smack that stupid bitch in the mouth."

That was the thing about Ali - he had a warped sense of justice. For example, he was okay with what we did but one thing he couldn't stand was seeing people bullied. We came across four second years in the technology corridor, a few months ago, beating up this first year, who was wearing these big jam-jar glasses, a real easy target. Ali's immediate reaction was to sink his boot into one of their arses and command the rest to "Get to fuck!" Poor Ali nearly got expelled for his good deed.

"Hitting younger boys is bullying in any circumstance," was the reaction of our headmaster. Needless to say he and Ali didn't get on too well.

"I'd say her dad coming home in that state doesn't do her much good," I said.

"I don't know, She seems well enough off."

"Aye, anyway, I suppose it's not right to speculate."

"I suppose. Right Mr. Jones, let's start this. You get him over here with a round of drinks. I'll offer to buy the next round and then I'll make out like I've lost money so that he'll offer to pay for them. See, piece of piss."

"Right, but if he doesn't offer to pay for them then I'll have to."

"No you won't. Just say that you've run out and because the drinks are already poured at the bar he'll pay for them to avoid awkwardness."

"Okay, I'll start it."

"And don't tell him you're from Harryville."

"Don't be such a fucking snob."

"It's nothing against you, but Rachel's a Catholic, that's why she gets bullied. He's not going to spend his money on you if he thinks you're a red hand son of Ulster proud of the Queen and Pride of the Maine is he?"

"Ali, I'm a Catholic," I said. And I live in Ballee, not Harryville."

"Aye, Loyalist Lanntara," he nodded.

"Do you want to get him over here?" I asked annoyed, but I knew he was right.

I joined the queue behind Donnelly. There were two people in front of him, waiting to be served, so I knew I had to act quickly.

"Your name's Donnelly isn't it?" I used as an opener.

"That's right," he slurred, looking at me with a 'what's it to you?' expression on his face.

"Yeah, you did some tilling at my parents house two summers ago."

"Oh aye?" he said in a less aggressive tone. "How's that holding up?"

"Yeah good," I replied, "My da's well chuffed with it."

"Where'd you live at?" he asked.

"Just off the Old Park Road." I replied.

"There's good money to be made up there, they're all rich fuckers," he said with a drunken laugh. "No offence."

"None taken, mate," I answered, "They isn't as rich as you'd think up there. My family ain't rich."

"That makes two of us," he said with another laugh. I laughed as well, out of politeness.

"Listen, are you drinking on your own? You can come and join us if you want," I offered.

"What can I get you Donnelly?" the barman asked him.

"A whiskey and coke," he replied, "and whatever the young lad's having."

The barman turned towards me, "A pint of Harp." I said not wanting to seem rude by asking Donnelly to buy Ali's pint. Ali would just have to buy his own this round.

"What's he drinking?" Donnelly said, motioning to Ali.

"Oh, um, the same as me," I answered, pretending to have forgotten Ali.

"You go on over," he said, motioning for me to take Ali's drink as well.

"As it turned out Donnelly was fun, he was full of jokes and one liners. When it came time for the next round Ali and I didn't even have to go through our routine, Donnelly shot straight out with

"Right lads, same again?" The conversation inevitably turned to school, as we were obviously underage. While we would admit to being underage we wouldn't admit to being fifteen so quick. We both looked about seventeen so that's what we said we were. We pretended to be at tech, with very little mention of which one or what we were doing at it. When he asked us which school we had attended we told him the name of the one we were at. When he told us that his daughter went there we stupidly let him know that we knew her. This was a stupid move; we shouldn't have let him know that our lives crossed with his in any way, a sign that the alcohol was starting to affect our judgement.

"Rachel Donnelly! In fourth year? She's your daughter?" I said, feigning surprise.

"Yeah, you know her?" he said giving me a curious look, as if to say, 'Just what is someone your age doing hanging around fifteen year old girls?' I had to think quick as I didn't want him to start a 'keep your fucking self away from my daughter' speech which would have upset the whole scam.

"Yeah, she's in my wee sisters year," I said. "She's been to my house a few times."

Ali shot me a relieved look, but the way he shook his head, as if correcting a child, pissed me off; I was doing most of this on my own. I began to make excuses for him in my head, maybe he was being quiet because the alcohol was affecting his judgement too, maybe he was thinking how to make his part of the scam look believable.

"What's you're sisters name?" said Donnelly.

"Rebecca," I answered plucking a name out of my head.

"Oh? I don't know her," he replied and for a moment I thought we had been rumbled.

"She usually gets called Reb."

"I don't really know any of her friends. It's always this one or that one phoning her."

I shot Ali a look of bewilderment. Rachel was shy and didn't have many friends, but by the sound of her dad, she was really popular. I began to wonder how he would know anything about her, let alone her friends, since he probably spent all of his time and money down at the pub: he had been drinking on his own, the barman knew his name, he looked like all the other shaky handed fuckers that drank in here. The old fellah probably didn't take a big interest in her, but he was more than willing to spend his time and money on two lads that he didn't even know. I couldn't stand people who neglected their kids. I hadn't seen my father since I was six years old. Whatever the reason, I was going to make this scam extra expensive for him.

"Last orders!" called the barman.

"Okay boys, last orders," he said, throwing a ten pound note on to the table. "Get me a double whiskey and coke and whatever you want for yourselves. I'm off to the toilet." I noticed his bulging wallet and suddenly a plan hit me.
I walked up to the bar. Our original plan had worked brilliantly, but I had a new one. I was going to mug him. But for it to work, I needed him to be completely paralytic and he was already most of the way there.

"Could I have three whiskeys and three cokes please?" I asked the barman, grinning drunkenly at him.

"Donnelly likes his whiskeys alright," the barman laughed.

This confirmed my suspicions about him being a piss head, but it unnerved me as well. The barman wasn't drunk and he'd probably remember us quite clearly if Donnelly told the police, but then again we weren't known in that area of town so no one would know who we really were.
After paying for the drinks, I pocketed the changed and returned to the table. I informed Ali of the situation and the plan. He agreed automatically. I suspect because he didn't want to lose face. I wouldn't have cared if he backed out. I would have mugged him on my own.

"Now watch the bar," I told him as I poured the singles into the same glasses. I then poured the cokes into the glasses to hide, what I had just done. Even so Donnelly's glass still looked like cold tea.

"Which one's mine?" Donnelly asked on his return from the toilet.
I pointed at his (triple) whiskey and gave him a drunken grin.

"God bless us, there's none like us!" he said lifting his glass and downing it in one fluid motion. The toast sounded like the kind of rehearsed and well used line that got a customary airing anytime an occasion arose, kind of like an old suit. I wondered if he would be thinking the same about me and Ali in the morning. I winked at him in a matey manner and downed my coke in one go. I made an 'ugh' sound to pretend that whiskey had gone down harshly.
"C'mon Jamesy!" I jested to Ali using the fake name he had told to Donnelly. "Down the fucka in one!"
Donnelly let out a loud drunken laugh at this, which I copied in mock friendliness.
Ali downed it, but not in one. He instead pretended to have to stop halfway through it, as if it was too much for him. Donnelly laughed again. I had to hand it to Ali. He didn't contribute much but when he did it was a real wee gem, a regular Oscar winning performance.
We left the pub to a rush of cold air that made us feel even more drunk, especially Donnelly whose eyes looked a mess. I was glad that nature had given me a hand in executing my plan.
Ali didn't know when we would begin, I had just told him to follow my lead. We eventually reached the Ballymoney Road after what seemed like an eternity of listening to Donnelly's drunken mumbles. The last drink seemed to have hit him just nicely.

"Where do you live at?" I asked.

"Parkmount," he answered, though it took me a moment to work out what he had said.

"It's quicker through the park," I said jumping up on a wall, "C'mon," I urged as I went on over.

I lit a cigarette, to steady my nerves, as I always did before something big occurred. In a way it could be construed as an unofficial signal to Ali. I could tell by the clumsy fall that the first over the wall was Donnelly, closely followed by the agile frame of Ali. We could have executed our plan easily enough there and then as the old man seemed content to lie where he was, but we couldn't leave him there as it wasn't safe: you never knew who would come wondering through and at what hour.

We helped him to his feet, despite his drunken protests. "C'mon, not far to go," I urged, taking a drag from my cigarette. We led him through the park and onto the lane between the park and the primary school.

"What year's Rachel in at high school?" I asked him.

"I can't remember," came his foolish and barley coherent reply. That was confirmation enough for me. This fucker deserved what was going to happen.

My fist curled through the air and collided with his jaw, nicely on target. Ali followed almost instantaneously with a rugby tackle, his few years on the school A-side had come in useful at last. This knocked our unfortunate friend to the ground, he was so drunk that he just fell clean unconscious.

I stood there momentarily staring at the figure lying in a heap. That'll teach the bastard I thought.

"Fuck me!" exclaimed Ali panting, half out of exertion and half out of panic. "I hope we haven't killed him."

"Naw, he's breathing. Listen," I said reassuringly, as I reached into his breast pocket and took his wallet.

"Fuck me!" I said counting the money. I then wiped the wallet with a tissue to get rid of any fingerprints. Then I threw it into the trees.

"How much did we get?" Ali asked.

"A nice little earner if I do say so myself." I said in a fake cockney accent.

We rolled him onto his face in case he was sick, then, as the moon went behind a cloud, we legged it through the park.
I remember when I got home that night, lying on my bed with the radio on: the journey home had given enough time for the worry to start sinking. What if we were recognised? What if we were seen in the area? We didn't know who knew who. Aside from worry, guilt was setting in. Stealing from people's pockets in games had never dented my conscience and scheming people had been fun. But this was mugging, this was big. I needed to catch myself on. I didn't want this to be the start of something.

When I woke up the radio was playing white noise, which meant that it was late. I set my alarm for half seven and went back to sleep.