LITMIR.BIZ

      First published in 2019 by

      Merrion Press

      An imprint of Irish Academic Press

      10 George’s Street

      Newbridge

      Co. Kildare

      Ireland

       www.merrionpress.ie

      © Henry McDonald, 2019

      9781785372575 (Paper)

      9781785372582 (Kindle)

      9781785372599 (Epub)

      9781785372605 (PDF)

      British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

      An entry can be found on request

      Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

      An entry can be found on request

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved alone, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      Typeset in Sabon LT Std 11.5/15 pt

      Cover design by Jeffers & Sons, Belfast

      ADVANCE PRAISE FOR TWO SOULS

      ‘Go figure that Henry McDonald’s new book is the real thing. The real thing is what McDonald does. Vivid, authentic and scabrously funny. Good news for readers, bad news for other writers.’

      ROBERT MCLIAM WILSON

      ‘Withnail and I meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with a manic dose of Clockwork Orange thrown in for good measure … You’ll not forget this novel in a hurry. I’m still reeling.’

      GERALD DAWE

      ‘Starts fast and gets faster, like a good punk song!’

      JAKE BURNS, STIFF LITTLE FINGERS

      ‘I couldn’t put this book down – a spellbinding … journey through Belfast’s underground punk scene during the 70s and 80s. With David Bowie’s “Low” setting the mood and the … Irish Cup Final … a theatre of war … football, sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll – it’s all in here in … with betrayal, hedonism and ultra violence thrown in. This is essential reading!’

      PETER HOOTON, THE FARM

      ‘Any novel whose narrator wears an “I Hate Pink Floyd” T-shirt gets my vote any day.’

      JULIE BURCHILL

      ‘Buckle up! Henry McDonald’s novel takes the reader on a gritty and violent tour through the underbelly of a city where drugs and politics provide a combustible cocktail. It’s the author’s native city, and he knows its heartbeat … this book should come with an X certificate.’

      MARTIN DILLON

      To Charlotte, for everything.

      ‘Two souls, alas, are housed within my breast, And each will wrestle for the mastery there.’

      Faust – Goethe

      ‘All this happened more or less. The war bits anyway …’

      Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut

      1

      ‘BOYS KEEP SWINGING’

      28 April 1979

      The triangle turns, missiles fire and asteroids explode. Aliens are obliterated and the quickening sound from Space Invaders promises a high score. Pinballs beep and bleep while the shooting galleries clack and crackle. All the lights and strobed neon pulsating from the machines inside the Yankee Doodle pool hall illuminate the face of my friend, Padre Pio McCann. He has just dipped his middle finger down the fanny-flat crotch of his jeans and played pocket billiards with his balls and dick. He whips his finger out, wiggles it right under my nose and croaks, ‘Here, Robbie Ruin, smell your ma. Smell your dirty oul ma!’

      His face is about to be crushed to a pulp with the purple spot ball that my cousin, Rex Mundi, has picked up from a pool table facing the jukebox, which is blaring out the Buzzcocks’ ‘I Don’t Mind’. As Pete Shelley howls, Rex grips Padre Pio by the lapels of his army jacket and pushes him onto the scuffed green baize.

      ‘Shut your fucking mouth, you wanker. Don’t talk about my aunt like that!’ my cousin warns him.

      Still giggling, Padre Pio wrestles free from Rex Mundi but keeps up the ribbing, not knowing, as per usual, when it’s time to stop. He crosses his arms over his chest, rolls up his eyes and barks, ‘Here Ruin, who’s this? Who the fuck is this? Just keep smelling yer oul ma!’

      I try to ignore what he is saying about my late mother, who died eighteen months ago from what Dad tried to convince me was liver cancer but which appeared on the death certificate, stamped in a single word, as ‘cirrhosis’. If truth be told, I’m more interested in how the Buzzcocks have redeemed themselves after all those forlorn tunes and sentimental crap on the Love Bites LP. I’m well used to how PP tries to outdo me in trading insults, which usually involves trashing our nearest and dearest, even the dead ones. I’m all too aware that I also went too fucking far the time his grandad died and I suggested we scoop the old boy out of his coffin, chop him up and sell his remains for dog meat to the pet-food factory over on May Street. And besides all of that, there is an even greater menace than him lurking inside the Yankee Doodle today.

      As my cousin is about to smash the pool ball into PP’s sniggering bake, I slide between the two of them. I am in peacekeeping mode because I have just spotted the bouncer who only wears black and has even dyed his blonde hair and moustache black so he can look like Bruce Lee. Everything about him is black: black heart, black soul and cold, snake-like black eyes. The kung fu-fighting, black-belt sentinel of the Yankee Doodle in Castle Street. In all fairness, he’ll probably be needed today, it being the cup final, and the Yankee is the first port of call for the remnants of the Red Army who’ve come from their homes in the east and south, slipping safely past the hordes of Orangemen gathered around Belfast city centre sniffing out their prey.

      ‘Don’t listen to that spastic, cousin! He’s at that all the time. He loved my ma really. She was more than good to him – more fool her,’ I say.

      Rex Mundi drops the pool ball into one of the pockets while staring into Padre Pio’s beaming face. ‘I dunno why the fuck we’re going to the game with that retard. If he keeps this crap up, I’ll kick his balls in.’

      Padre Pio is now arched up against one of the painted murals on the walls. The brilliant-white smiles of John Travolta and Olivia Newton John seem to be resting on his shaven, elfin head.

      ‘Bruce Lee is watching us,’ I tell my cousin, nodding back towards the entrance at the top of the stairs.

      ‘Ruin, you just tell that fuckwit to stop insulting my aunt or he is dead,’ Rex replies, nodding furiously at Padre Pio. He is clearly agitated, but his flame-coloured Mohican doesn’t move an inch – impressive.

      ‘Aye, be

Скачать книгу