Ronan shows up at the front door wearing a Santa hat and a big smile.
I’m there, “What are you, drunk?” because I’m aware that the Ireland soccer team had some kind of result at the weekend.
“No,” he goes, “Ine not thrunk. I habn’t touched a throp all week. If you must know, Rosser, I’ve an early Christmas president for me sister.”
I’m there, “What is it?”
‘Ronan is hanging out with the absolute scum of the earth: my old man and Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara’
‘Dude, if you insist on coaching Blackrock, you can forget about me being your best man’
‘It’s all right for you,’ Honor goes. ‘You can have any woman you want’
‘I don’t like who my son has become since he started playing rugby. He’s full of himself’
He’s like, “It’s a keer, Rosser.”
I’m there, “A cor?”
And he goes, “No – a keer,” and he steps past me into the house and storts shouting, “Hodor! Hodor!” up the stairs.
I’m there, “What kind of a cor are we talking, Ronan?”
He’s like, “Ah, she a little beauty, so she is, Rosser. She goes like a bleaten rocket ship.”
Honor appears at the top of the stairs. She’s like, “Oh my God! Ronan!” because – yeah, no – they get on like port and stilton. She comes pegging it down the stairs and gives him a big hug.
“What’s with the Santa hat?” she goes. “Are you drunk?”
And he’s like, “No, Ine as sober as a judge, Hodor. Ine after buying you a president – we’ll call it an eerly Christmas president, so we will.”
Sorcha steps out of the kitchen then. She’s like, “What’s all this about early Christmas presents? Hi, Ronan.”
And he’s like, “Howiya, Sudeka? Looking younger every time I see you.”
“Oh, Ronan,” she goes, because she’s a sucker for a one-liner, the secret of our unexpectedly long marriage, “you’re so sweet.”
“Alreet, Honor,” he goes, “close yisser eyes. Mathor of fact, Ine gonna cubber them and lead you ourra the house.”
What my wife is trying to say, Ronan, is that this cor better not be focking stolen
— Ross
So – yeah, no – that’s what he ends up doing? He makes, like, a blindfold of his hands and then he sort of, like, slow-walks her out of the gaff, with me and Sorcha following.
“Alreet, no peeking,” he goes.
And Honor’s like, “Oh my God, what is it? It’s not a cor, is it?”
We turn the corner and that’s when I end up seeing it. My jaw ends up hitting the floor.
“No, it’s not a keer,” he goes, then he removes his hands from in front of her eyes. “It’s a bleaten Mercedes-AMG GT four-door coupe.”
“In matt focking black,” I hear myself go.
Honor lets out a scream. She’s like, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
I don’t think I’ve seen her this happy since she showed me a You Tube compilation of models falling brain over shoelaces on the runway during Paris Fashion Week.
She opens the door and gets in.
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Ronan, this is very – well, this is, like, oh my God–”
I’m there, “What my wife is trying to say, Ronan, is that this cor better not be focking stolen.”
Sorcha’s there, “Ross!”
I’m like, “Come on, Sorcha, you’re thinking it as much as I am. He’s hanging out with some seriously dodgy types at the moment, the absolute scum of the earth – and by that I obviously mean my old man and Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara.”
“This is nuttin got to do with Cheerlie or Heddessy,” he goes. “Look, I felt bad that I nebber got Hodor athin for her 18th. Now, Ine arthur getting a few quid togetter from woorking in the resterdoddent–.”
I’m like, “You mean the restaurant that’s a money-laundering front for Nudger, Buckets of Blood and Frankie the Greek?”
He’s there, “Who the fook is Frankie the Greek?”
I’m like, “Do you not know a Frankie the Greek? Maybe I made him up. Anyway, my point still stands. You’ve been up to your eyes in criminality ever since you came back from the States. Honor, wipe down that steering wheel. You don’t want your dabs anywhere on that cor.”
There’ll be no blowback, Rosser. It’s gameball, so it is
— Ronan
Dabs? Jesus, it’s terrifying how easily this stuff slips from my tongue.
Ronan goes, “Rosser, will you chiddle the fook out, you bleaten spanner? It’s not stolen – and that’s norra woord of a lie. I bought it.”
I’m there, “A cor like that? In, like, matt black? Where did you buy it?”
He goes, “At an auction.”
I’m there, “An auction?”
He’s like, “You heerd right, Rosser.”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “you can get amazing, amazing borgains at auctions.”
This coming from a girl who changes her cor to a brand-new model every 12 months.
Sorcha walks over to the cor and gets into the front passenger seat. A second later, Honor storts the engine and gives it a few revs.
I’m like, “What kind of an auction, Ronan?”
He’s there, “Excuse me?”
I’m like, “Take that stupid Santa hat off. I can’t have a serious conversation with you while you’re wearing it. I’m asking you what kind of auction you bought the cor at?”
I swear to fock – this is, like, word for word – he goes, “A Cab auction.”
I’m there, “Cab?”
He’s like, “That’s right, Rosser.”
I’m there, “As in, I don’t know, the Criminal Something Something.”
He goes, “Assets Burdeau.”
I’m there, “Jesus Christ, Ro. So who owned it before the Criminal Assets Bureau got their hands on it?”
He’s like, “You doatunt want to know, Rosser. Thrust me – the least you know, the bethor.”
I’m there, “Well, call me a protective father, but if my teenage daughter is driving around in a cor that once belonged to one of Dublin’s leading gangland criminals, I would at least like to know which one.”
He goes, “There’ll be no blowback, Rosser. It’s gameball, so it is.”
He gets into the back of the cor and he goes, “Do you want to take her for a bit of a spin up and down the Vico, Hodor?”
I’m like, “Not without me, you don’t,” and I get in the other side.
Honor leans on the accelerator and a few seconds later we’re pulling out onto the – like he said – Vico Road.
For some random reason that I can’t explain, I reach for the little box between my seat and Ronan’s and I flip it open. And there, inside – I shit you not – is what I, an occasional listener to the Nicola Tallant podcast, straight away recognise as a gun.
I’m about to hold it up and ask – as any concerned parent would – what the actual fock, when Ronan all of a sudden snatches it out of my hand and goes, “I’ll take that, Rosser. Meddy Christmas, Hodor.”
