Dead Dad Points
Niall
EVEN IN THE best of circumstances—meaning I’m well rested and have had a decent fry-up for breakfast—I’m not particularly fond of venturing into public with JJ Biggs.
He might have been my best mate since before we could walk. And he might live right next door. And I might even trust my life in his (perpetually sticky) hands. But I utterly detest shepherding him through the aisles of a Tesco.
It’s like trying to leash a feral dog that has just discovered cocaine and a sense of entitlement.
It’s even worse when he makes an absolute hames of us both—like today when he nearly sparked an international incident by taking out some American pair by the Cereal Bars.
And one of them was a child, which he sounded like he wanted to kidnap.
So yeah. Not a great time at the shops so far. And I haven’t had my breakfast, so my patience started out thin and is now non-existent.
“You’re worse than a toddler, you know that? I’d rather be babysitting Finn’s sisters than hanging out with you,” I scowl at him, white knuckling the handle of the trolley. His steering privileges have been revoked until further notice.
“Don’t be a miserable aul’ sod, Nialler,” JJ chirps, sounding pretty breezy for a guy who nearly flattened a couple of tourists.
“Did I or did I not tell you to get off the cart and stop trying to ride it like a feckin’ push scooter? Tell me that, Jonathan?”
“Come on, lad. At least I never make a day boring, you know that.”
I just shake my head, steering him towards the till. He’s right—he is anything but boring, but his excitement always comes at the expense of my nerves.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
UNTIL THE DAY he died, my father drove this car—a battered, dark green Ford Escort. A nearly decade old beast that’s a testament to both my father’s memory and my own mechanical aptitude.
When I turned fifteen and asked Ma if I could perform my mechanical exorcism on the vehicle collecting dust in the garage, she told me to knock myself out.
And so I’d spent the whole summer before last covered in grease, every cent I got from working at the bakery going into new brakes and fixing a rattling exhaust pipe that sounded like a bag of spanners in a tumble dryer.
It’s sat idle for the last few months while I was recovering from my surgery, but she’d turned over last week with only a bit of a cough.
My reward from my mother for fixing the car was being allowed to drive it around illegally. She, of course, made sure I was fit to drive it around first. But once she decided I was alright behind the wheel, she let me have the freedom.
My birthday isn’t until September, and I still have a few weeks to go until I’m finally 17 and can take the theory test. But as long as I don’t drive like a loon, the Mayville Gardaí usually look the other way when they see my car.
They’ve been eating my Mam’s lemon drizzle for a decade; they aren’t about to bust me for a quick run to the shops.
Just another trophy in the sympathy pile of Dead Dad points.
Bad things happen to people all the time, but Da had been the social butterfly to end all butterflies.
A pillar of the community, if you will. I didn’t inherit those qualities from him—even though we look practically identical when my hair isn’t bleached—it’s my sister who got that butterfly-flapping gift.
It seemed like everyone in Ireland knew Patrick Blue.
When the funeral came around, you’d have thought we were carrying the Pope.
They, not we. I wasn’t one of the pallbearers, I was too young.
JJ reaches behind us into the backseat as I pull the Escort out of the car park, grabbing the canvas bag holding his “babies.” He and my sister have some sort of savior complex when it comes to small, helpless animals—another thing dad passed down.
JJ called me an hour ago about a litter he found with his cousin Gerard out by Glen Alder, and I was at his beck and call. That’s just how it is with us.
“Hello, my little laddy-lads,” he coos, his voice jumping two octaves. It’s sickening. I swear, my stomach lurches. “Did you miss your Dada? We’ve got so much milk for you, my precious wee ones.”
He gently lifts an impossibly fluffy black and orange kitten, holding it in his palm that usually holds a football or a pint, rubbing his nose against it with the sweetest look on his face.
JJ’s a good guy to his core. I know people assume things about him because of his reputation, or his family—his Da was a Russian doctor who had an affair with JJ’s Ma, then bolted back to his real family when JJ was only four years old—but I know Jonathan Jarlath Biggs-Kuznetsov is a lover, not a fighter.
Probably because he’s always had me there to do the fighting for him.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to your mammy,” he whispers to the kitten, kissing its face.
Annnnnd I’m gonna kill him.
“If you ever call Claire “Mammy” or anything of the sorts ever again, I’ll tuck you into the boot,” I warn, glaring over at him.
JJ likes to treat my boundaries like brightly coloured hurdles to be jumped over. “I can’t help it, Nialler. It’s the natural order. Claire’s the Mammy, I’m the Daddy, and you’re the grumpy uncle—”
I reach over and deliver a sharp, open-handed slap to the back of his head for the second time in an hour. Maybe the constant hitting is what’s wrong with his brain, but I do it with the intention of knocking something back into place.
We really are mates, I swear.
I pull into the driveway of house 42 on our estate and cut the engine. JJ lives at 44, but he spends so much time at ours I’m surprised Roisin Biggs’ hasn't rented out his room.
“We’re home, lads,” JJ announces, cooing again to his kittens. “Your new home. And your new mammy.”
“JJ.”
“Last time. Promise.”
He’s probably lying. In fact, I’m almost certain that he is.
JJ gathers his canvas bag, holding it carefully in his arms. “You bring in the goods Nialler. I have a girl’s bedroom to go hang out in.”
“Door stays open,” I mutter, pocketing the keys.
“Aww. Don’t be that way, mate. What would I do?”
“I’d actually rather shove my own dick in a magimix than imagine what you might do.”
My best mate’s friendship with my little sister is something that, as far as I know, has never crossed a line beyond her having a crush on him, and him mindlessly flirting with her in the same way he does with every living, breathing female.
I’m not the kind of lad who thinks my sister’s virginal status needs to be defended with violence or even be my business, but I would still rather JJ stop flirting and shifting every girl he comes across before he and Claire get any closer.
I just don’t want my sister to end up hurt, is all.
He cringes at the visual I painted. “Noted. Door stays open.”
I haul the groceries into the laundry room that’s in the back of the house, just off the kitchen.
We had a hedgehog last summer that Ma made them put in a laundry basket back here, so I’m sure the kittens will get the same treatment once Ma learns of them.
Claire and JJ have a do-now, ask-for-forgiveness-later kind of mindset with these things.
Comet’s already rubbing his nose against the back of my leg before I can even straighten up properly, and I make quick work to give him some love. “Hey, hi, who’s a good boy?”
His tail thumps in pleasure against the floor, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in bliss as I scratch behind his ears and down his back.
It’s Friday, so Mam’s at the bakery until nine-ish, working the books with Auntie Ro. That makes me JJ’s unofficial babysitter for the evening.
She isn’t our real aunt, of course, and JJ and I aren’t related in any way.
But his Mam had grown up with both my parents, right here in this little town, so we've always been close. I know that they think Claire and JJ are gonna grow up and get married some day—hell, I think so. It’s my job to be the protective big brother, but it’s obvious to anyone they like each other.
JJ just needs to get his shit together so it can happen.
And the same way we all know Claire and JJ are meant to be, we know the only place I’ll be going is Manchester United—or whatever pro league wants me—so long as my knee holds out.
The last thing I need is some girl ripping my heart out like the last one did, or a family waiting for me back home. That’s just not my style.
I just need a ball at my feet, and I’m happy.