The good son, p.1
The Good Son, page 1
The Good Son
‘An intensely moving, often riotously funny coming-of-age story that merges the personal and political to create a novel that resonates long after the final page is turned.’ —ALEX PRESTON
Mickey Donnelly is smart, which isn’t a good thing in his part of town. Despite having a dog called Killer and being in love with the girl next door, everyone calls him ‘gay’. It doesn’t help that his best friend is his little sister, Wee Maggie, and that everyone knows he loves his Ma more than anything in the world. He doesn’t think much of his older brother Paddy and really doesn’t like his Da. He dreams of going to America, taking Wee Maggie and Ma with him, to get them away from Belfast and Da. Mickey realises it’s all down to him. He has to protect Ma from herself. And sometimes, you have to be a bad boy to be a good son.
Praise for The Good Son
‘I was knocked out by this stunningly intelligent, compassionate, and mordantly funny debut novel. The Good Son is a brilliant portrait of both political and familial unrest, and Paul McVeigh is a wildly important new talent.’
—LAURA VAN DEN BERG, author of The Isle of Youth and Find Me
‘Paul McVeigh has created a strong, unique, and funny protagonist, able to reveal the everyday intricacies and the broader politics of the Troubles in a fresh, engaging way. I fell in love with Mickey Donnelly.’
—SARAH BUTLER, author of Ten Things I’ve Learnt About Love and Before the Fire
‘With his debut The Good Son, Paul McVeigh, long a champion of writers, proves himself a writer to be championed. There are flashes of both Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clarke and Patrick McCabe’s Francie Brady in the character of Mickey Donnelly, who cartwheels fully-formed from the very first page, a spirited, exuberant and utterly engaging young narrator. The circumscribed world he inhabits – a few streets in North Belfast at the start of the Troubles – is vivid and fresh, brought fully to life, and McVeigh’s ear for the rhythms of his characters’ speech is second to none. The Good Son is a coming-of-age story written with a sharp eye and a big heart, and will establish Paul McVeigh as an important new Irish voice with stories to tell.’
—LUCY CALDWELL, author of All the Beggars Riding
‘A real page-turner. Mickey Donnelly is a brilliant creation – a captivating, complex boy on the cusp of young adulthood. A poignant, devastating, funny, unforgettable read.’
—VANESSA GEBBIE, author The Coward’s Tale
‘I meant to dip into The Good Son and ended up reading it all the way through in a matter of days. I love it. It’s brilliantly sparky and original, the story trips along effortlessly, the characters are all wonderfully alive and Paul McVeigh has a real ear for the music of dialogue and prose. The Good Son fairly ripples with wicked humour, warmth and coming-of-age wonder.’
—SARAH HILARY, author of Someone Else’s Skin and No Other Darkness
‘I opened Paul McVeigh’s novel just to get a flavour of it and was then unable to put it down until I’d finished. It was like falling down a rabbit hole. The Good Son reminded me in many ways of Pigeon English – the extraordinary way the voice of the young narrator immediately pulls you into his world, as though that world, dangerous and unforgiving as it is, is the most natural place on earth. From the very first page I knew I was in the hands of an accomplished storyteller, McVeigh’s vibrant and irreverent prose carrying along a novel that is both hopeful and big hearted at its core. It deserves to be widely acclaimed and widely read.’
—CLAIRE KING, author of The Night Rainbow
‘A vivid, poignant and thrilling tale of troubled boyhood, The Good Son is a lot better than good – it’s outstanding.’
—TOBY LITT, author of Life-Like
‘Paul McVeigh brilliantly achieves a very difficult thing: he turns a coming of age novel into high art, with complex yearnings. His young Mickey Donnelly navigates the Troubles like Huck Finn navigates the Mississippi River, prematurely becoming a fully-flighted adult and thereby letting us see the human condition through penetratingly fresh eyes. The Good Son is a work of genius from a splendid writer.’
—ROBERT OLEN BUTLER, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
The Good Son
Born in Belfast, Paul began his writing career as a playwright before moving to London where he wrote comedy shows, which were performed at the Edinburgh Festival and in London’s West End. His short stories have been published in literary journals and anthologies, read on BBC Radio 5 and commissioned by BBC Radio 4. The Good Son is his first novel.
Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © Paul McVeigh, 2015
The right of Paul McVeigh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2015
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-78463-046-1 electronic
To my Ma
1
I WAS BORN THE day the Troubles started.
‘Wasn’t I, Ma?’ says me.
‘It was you that started them, son,’ says she, and we all laugh, except Our Paddy. I put that down to his pimples and general ugliness. It must be hard to be happy with a face like that. I almost feel sorry for him. I spy a dirty, big love bite on his neck and store this ammunition to defend myself against future attacks.
Steamy, flowery-smellin’ disinfectant fills my nose and joins the sweet tastin’ Frosties in my mouth as Ma passes with the tin bucket and yard brush. Ma only cleans the yard when somethin’s up. That would be Da, as usual.
‘Do you want a hand, Mammy?’ says me.
‘No, son,’ says she, disappearing out the back. She didn’t even look at me. I’m worried about her after last night.
‘D’ya wanna hand?’ Our Paddy says in a girl’s voice. ‘You wee lick.’
‘I’ll tell m’Mammy on you,’ I say.
‘I’m tellin’ Mammy on you . . .’ Paddy mimics me.
I look at Wee Maggie and give her the We hate him, don’t we? look. She gives me the Yes we do, he’s a big, fat pig! look back. I was taught how to give looks by a monk on Cave Hill. I trained like a Jedi Knight but my lightsaber was my face. I became Look Skywalker. My mission: To defend all weaklin’s and youngest ones in families against the evil that is older brothers. Wee Maggie is now my disciple.
To test her telepathy training, I send – Don’t worry about him cuz he’s gonna be knocked down by a car then a lorry will run over his head makin’ his eyes pop out. Wee Maggie smiles. She got it. I think we’re actually twins born years apart in some CIA super-genetic-test-tube experiment.
Paddy gets up, leavin’ his dirty bowl on the table like he’s King Farouk.
‘Don’t leave that for Mammy,’ I say.
‘Mammy’s boy,’ says he.
‘Shut up you,’ I say. ‘At least I don’t have a dirty, big love bite.’
Wee Maggie laugh-chokes and Frosties shoot from her mouth onto Paddy’s jumper, just like that wee girl in The Exorcist I saw at the Pope John Paul II Youth Club.
‘That’s your fault, you wee gay boy!’ Paddy slaps me across the head.
I try to kick him but my shin hits the table leg.
Paddy laughs, wipin’ his jumper. ‘And you’re supposed to be the smart one? Grammar School? Away on.’
‘I’m smarter than you, dumbo,’ I say. ‘By the way, does your girlfriend like suckin’ the pimples on your neck?’
Paddy dives at me and trails me off the chair by the jumper.
‘Mammy!’ I shout out the back yard.
‘What?’ Ma screams. The house trembles like when bombs go off. Paddy lets go. Not even Muhammad Ali would mess with our Ma.
‘Nothin’,’ I shout back. Paddy grabs his blazer from the back of the chair and heads off. I raise my eyebrows and smile at Wee Maggie. ‘Victory is mine!’ I laugh like the Count from Sesame Street.
There’s mess on Ma’s good table. I run to the sink, wet the cloth and rush back before Ma comes in and kills somebody. Somebody = me. Even though I’m the good son in the family, I get the blame if Wee Maggie does anything wrong cuz she’s the youngest and I look after her. Wee Maggie could set me on fire and Ma would kick my head in for lettin’ Maggie near matches.
Wipin’ the table, I see my reflection in the smoked-glass. I look like a Black Baby we do collections for at school. I usually give them creamed rice. We get free tins from the community centre cuz we’re poor and cuz somewhere there’s a place called Food Mountain made from tins of creamed rice and corned beef. I think it’s in Switzerland.
One day I’ll be President of Ireland. I’ll be so kind and good. I’ll bring all Black Babies to Belfast where there’s fre e food for poor people and they can live in new houses like they’re buildin’ at the bottom of our street.
I’ve only ever seen black people on TV. Apart from the ones starving in Africa, there’s ones America stole to make slaves, which isn’t very nice, but at least they gave them some clothes. You wouldn’t be allowed to walk around America with no clothes on. Or Belfast. Maybe if they lived with the Protestants. I’ve only seen Protestants on the TV too.
‘Mickey, stop spacing out,’ Wee Maggie tugs me. ‘You’re going to be late for school.’
I throw the cleaning cloth in the sink and run through the living room and up the stairs. I tip toe into my room cuz I don’t want to wake Da. Ma took him back in when he hammered the door in the middle of the night. He brought men with him. I listened from the top of the stairs. I told Paddy I heard Da cryin’ and they were talkin’ about money. The men said they’d come back today.
Paddy thought Da wasn’t comin’ back this time. But Da always comes back. I don’t know why Paddy even bothers trying to think.
I grab my schoolbag and run down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘Ma, I’m away on,’ I shout to the yard.
‘Did you get washed?’ Ma shouts back.
‘Aye,’ I look at Wee Maggie through the doorway, pretend to pick my nose and wipe it on my jumper. She laughs into her hand. She thinks I’m like one of them from the TV. Like Laurel and Hardy or Abbot and Costello. We play them sometimes. She says it’s not fair that we don’t play any girl funny ones but I say it’s not my fault that girls aren’t funny. Cuz if they were, wouldn’t they be on the TV?
I get on my horse and ride him, dodgin’ the chair and table, swerve round the half-open door into the livin’ room, sideward round Da’s chair and past the sofa.
‘Cham-p-ion The Won-der Horse!’ I sing, salutin’ the TV. I gallop out the front door, Wee Maggie running after me.
‘Don’t be doing that in the street, Mickey,’ Wee Maggie says, like she’s the one who looks after me.
‘I’m not stupid,’ I say. ‘Go on you.’ I push her back into the livin’ room.
The waste ground in front of the house becomes an open prairie and the aul half-knocked-down houses to the right now an abandoned Gold Rush mining town in the Wild West.
I ride Champion off into the sunset.
‘Mr Donnelly, what time do you call this?’ says Mr McManus.
I’m in the doorway lookin’ at my feet. ‘Sorry, Sir.’ He’s a funny frigger Mr McManus, cuz he’s sayin’ that, but I know he doesn’t care, due to my telepathic abilities. A power like mine comes in very handy so you know when someone’s really bein’ real. He’s just pretendin’ to be annoyed, so I’m pretendin’ to be sorry.
‘Go and sit down, Donnelly,’ Mr McManus says, goin’ back to readin’.
‘So what’s happenin’, Fartin’?’ I say, slidin’ into my seat.
‘Shite,’ says he.
‘Well, now we’re all here,’ Mr McManus gives me the side eye, ‘I thought we could have a little competition. Some creative writing, one page in length, on any subject and there will be a small prize for the winner. If you’re not taking part, you can read quietly at your desk.’
The room groans. Since we finished our 11+, ages ago, it’s been singin’ and stories and everybody hates it. Not me. I love singin’ and stories. I’m gonna write somethin’ but I’ll have to hide it from the Hard Men who would love to kill me cuz I’m smart and not hard. Thank the Lord, His Holy Mother and the Little Baby Jesus, I’ve got my mate Fartin’ Martin. Fartin’ is cool and hard but not one of them. Without him I’d’ve been murdered about seventeen times.
MY DOG KILLER
My dog Killer, he is great.
My dog Killer, is my mate.
I take him walks about the street,
And he stays right beside my feet.
Because he does what he is told,
And he’s never, ever, bold.
He knows what to do because he’s dead cool,
Though he’s never even been to school!
He’s my dog and he’s the best,
I bet he could even do a test.
Late at night he likes to bark,
Because he’s scared in the dark.
He sits in my Da’s chair,
And he covers it with hair.
Then my Mammy goes mad,
And tells him he is bad.
It’s not one of my best but it’s only for fun. Are you allowed to tell lies in a poem? They’ll all be dead jealous if they think I have a dog.
‘Have those of you who’re entering the competition finished?’ asks Sir.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Everyone tuts and stares at me and the two brainers who answered. I always get too excited about things. Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut until I get to St. Malachy’s and away from this school?
‘Who would like to read first?’ asks Mr McManus.
‘I will, Sir,’ The Blob says.
Everybody looks at each other tuttin’. That’ll distract them from me. You can depend on The Blob. He’s always first. First with his hand up, first to offer things and first to get his head kicked in. But I won him in the exams cuz I didn’t get some wrong on purpose like I do in class.
The Blob clears his throat then reads with his put-on voice of a somebody not from here. Mountains and the sea and somethin’ about beauty. I mean, who talks about those things in Ardoyne? You’d think he’d know by now what to hide from the Hard Men.
The Hard Men starrin’ Wee Twin McAuley, Big Twin McAuley – co-starrin’ Ma’s-a-Whore and Monkey McErlane. It’s a filim about stupid people – how they do bad at school and beat the shite out of everybody that’s got a brain cell. Comin’ to a cinema near you.
Wee Twin is starin’ at me while chewin’ a straw from our bottles of milk. He must’ve nicked it cuz we haven’t had our milk yet. That’s the kind of bad thing he does. He’s shootin’ pure hatred at me from his good eye. The other is pointin’ towards our display of Carrickfergus Castle. The bendy eye followed a bullet that grazed his face and decided not to come back. So would I, if I was his eye. Havin’ to see that face in the mirror.
‘Thank you, Mr Campbell, that was a great effort, well done,’ says Sir. ‘Now, who’s next? Mr Close?’ he says.
Status Report: Sean Close – AKA Helmet Head – under observation – moved into my street last month – posh – therefore probably a Protestant double-agent as who’s ever heard of a posh Catholic – has no mates – thinks he’s great. Conclusion – I hate him.
Helmet gets left alone cuz somebody tried to beat him up on his first day and he kicked their head in with Karate. Definitely suspicious. A Protestant child spy trained in Kung Fu? I wouldn’t put it past them.
‘This is a story called “Monty the Fly”,’ says Helmet. I snigger the loudest. ‘ “Monty was from Surrey and flew Spitfires for a living. He was a short-sighted fly, so he had to wear very large spectacles.” ’
He’s talkin’ but I can’t hear. I already know how brilliant it’s gonna be. Some things you just know right from the word go. If it had been homework, I’d’ve said his posh Da must have helped him. It’s not enough he’s moved into a new house near me and into my class, but he’s movin’ in on my action too. It’s me that comes up with brilliant stories in here.
I could never think of somethin’ like that though. Never. Maybe if I didn’t come from Ardoyne, but from a place where you’re allowed to learn things. But I’m goin’ after the summer. St. Malachy’s Grammar School, here I come! I’ll learn to write brilliant stories like his.
He’s gonna win me today. I can’t let him. Never let them win.
I put my jotter down the back of my trousers. ‘Toilet, Sir?’ I stand up.
‘You shouldn’t interrupt someone, Mr Donnelly, it’s very rude,’ says Sir.
