The Snapper

So Jackie would be there when she told them all tomorrow. That was good because the two of them always defended one another when the slagging got a bit serious. She was going to tell the rest of the family first, after the tea—that would be easy—and then the girls, later in the Hikers.

That was it, decided. But she wasn’t a bit sleepy now. She had been when she got into bed but once she’d made up her mind she was wide awake again.

What was she going to tell them; how much? Only that she was pregnant. But what was going to happen after that, and what they were going to ask and say, and think; that’s what was worrying her.

–Go on, Sharon, tell us. Who was it?

There was no way she was going to tell them that. If they ever found out—God, she’d kill herself if that happened, she really would. She couldn’t think of a good enough lie to tell them, one that would stop them from asking more questions. She could say she didn’t know who he was but they wouldn’t believe her. Or if they did, if Sharon told them she’d been so pissed she couldn’t remember, they’d help her remember and they wouldn’t give up till they’d found someone.—Was it him, Sharon, was it? And if Sharon said, No, it wasn’t him, they’d say,—How d’yeh know if yeh can’t remember? It must’ve been him then.

She’d just have to tell them that she wasn’t going to tell them.

But they’d still try and find out.

She didn’t blame them. She’d have been the same. It was going to be terrible though. She wouldn’t be able to really relax with them any more.

–There’s Keith Farrelly.

–Yeah.

–He’s a ride, isn’t he?

–He’s alrigh’.

–D’yeh not like him?

–He’s alrigh’.

–I thought that yeh liked him.

–Fuck off, will yeh. It wasn’t him.

It was going to be fuckin’ terrible.

She felt a bit lonely now. She’d have loved someone to talk to, to talk to nonstop for about an hour, to tell everything to. But—and she was realizing this now really—there was no one like that. She’d loads of friends but she only really knew them in a gang.

It hadn’t been like that in school. Jackie had been her best friend for years but now that was only because she saw her more often than the others, not because she knew her better. She’d never have been able to tell Jackie all about what had happened. They’d often talked about fellas; what he did and how he did it and that sort of thing, but that had only been for a laugh; messing. They hadn’t spoken seriously about anything to do with sex since—since Sharon had her first period. Or they’d pretended it wasn’t serious. It was always for a laugh. Giggling, roaring, saying things like,—I swear, Jackie, I was scarleh.—She really had something to be scarlet about now and it wasn’t even a little bit fu

That was always the way when one of the gang was going with someone. She’d disappear for a while, usually a couple of months, and come back when one of them broke it off. She’d come back to the pub and they’d all be delighted to see her and she’d have to slag the fella—it always happened—about how he was always farting, or how he kept trying to tear the tits off her, or how his tongue always missed her mouth in the dark and he slobbered all over her make-up (Sharon giggled as she thought of that one. Yvo

She’d have to be careful and not get too drunk again so she wouldn’t blabber, and make sure she wasn’t caught looking at him and try not to vomit if anyone mentioned his name and Jesus, it was going to be terrible.

If they ever found out! She tried to imagine it. But all she could do was curl up and groan. It was—

Years ago—four years ago—when she’d been a modette, she’d gone with this young fella called Derek Cooper who spent all of his money on clothes and then never washed them and was dead now, and the two of them missed the last DART from town so they got the last bus instead. She’d been really pissed. She was only a kid then. She’d gotten the money she got for doing the pre-employment in school the day before so she’d been loaded. She paid for his drink as well. Anyway, she was pissed and she fell asleep on the bus and she woke up and she’d wet herself and she had to tell him and she made them stay on till the last stop, Howth. It was horrible remembering it. Even now. She’d never been able to laugh about it. She’d nearly been glad when she found out that Derek Cooper had been killed in that crash, but she’d made herself cry.

But this—this was far worse than that.

Sharon didn’t even bother closing her eyes. There was no point. She waited for the time to get up.

It was mad, but she wished she’d had sex a lot more often. Doubts about the father would have been very comforting; lovely. But the last time she’d done it with a fella she’d really liked—who’d turned out to be a right fuckin’ bastard—was six months before.

Before—Jesus!

She was glad she didn’t remember much about it. The bits she did remember were disgusting. It wasn’t a moving memory, like a film. It was more like a few photographs. She couldn’t really remember what happened in between. She’d been really drunk, absolutely paralytic. She knew that because she remembered she’d fallen over on her way back from the toilets. She bumped into loads of people dancing. It was the soccer club Christmas do, only it was on in February because they weren’t able to get anywhere nearer to Christmas. She’d made it back to her table and she just sat there, trying not to think about getting sick. She remembered Jackie was asking her was she alright. Then it was blank. Then she was by herself at the table. Jackie was getting off with a fella in front of her. That was Greg. She could remember the song: The Power of Love, the Je