2025 Student Literary Awards

My blaring phone disrupts the colt’s birth.  

“Michael. I want you to lead the big meeting this morning.” It’s Jim Murphy, my boss, his polished tones straddling the fence between friendly and commanding. “I’ve told everyone you’ll be outlining the new system.” 

He keeps going, piling work on me, while the mare strains in the paddock. When Jim closes with a firm ‘see you at 9’, the mare’s flanks expand like a universe. The colt slides from her womb onto the rich earth. Writhing and kicking, he tears his bloody sac to shreds, forging a path into the world.  

He is fearless. Boundless. 

Dad snorts. “Would he be bothered at all, if he knew?”  

He’s leaning on the paddock fence, a wrinkled cigarette hanging from his lips.  

“Bothered with what?”  

“Ah, any of it, Michael.” He waves a weathered hand at the paddock and the stud beyond. “Would he be bothered even getting his legs under him if he knew there was only bits, and saddles, and whips ahead of him?” 

My beeping phone distracts me. Twelve messages since last I looked. Accounts. HR. Marketing. All with demands for the new system. My chest twinges, just above my heart. Heartburn. Gráinne made the kids’ favourite curry last night. 

Dad glares while I swipe at my phone. “Jaysus, you’re chained to that feckin’ thing. Beep, beep, beep! Will it never give it a rest?” 

“Only when I’m dead.”  

I thrust the phone into my pocket. Its weight pulls the leg of my thin suit trousers. “I’ve work soon. Big meeting this morning. I just dropped by to remind you about Liam’s birthday on Saturday.” 

“Oh, of course. Aye.”  

Dad’s only half listening. Ever the head groom, he’s looking back at the yard, where harried stable-hands are lugging dung-filled wheelbarrows and red-eyed stallions are snorting from narrow stables.  

The colt foal’s trying to stand. The April breeze tests the ash saplings that circle the paddock and the colt sways, then topples against the boundary fence. His eyes roll—he’s surprised at the barrier—but he stretches out his long, knobbled legs and tries again.   

“He’s a strong one,” Dad says. “Connolly ‘ll be pleased. Boss men do love a good workhorse.” 

His head jerks at the sleek yearling trotting on a long rein in the neighbouring paddock. The horse is pulling hard. Phlegm streaks his nostrils but he’s holding steady.  

I recognize the grey, stooped trainer. “O’Brien’s still here?” 

“He is, aye. Johnny there had his retirement do and all, and then Connolly gave him half a fortune to stay on.” 

“But why keep going at his age? Does he not need a rest?” 

Dad grunts. “Sure, isn’t it true what they say: ‘every man has his price’.” 

“Madman.” 

I watch Johnny shorten the rein and slow the horse to a walk, then cock his head and dissect the horse flesh with a studied eye.  

“And his big wages are worth it to Connolly?” 

Dad looks at me like I’m stupid. “Good training gives good workhorses, Michael.”  

My trouser pocket’s beeping. Funny how it bothers me so much now, since my father complained of it.  

“Speaking of training, I got my course. It’ll be a tough slog for a couple of years, with work and the kids, but it’ll pay off. Things ‘ll be easier, then.”  

“Huh?” Dad’s watching the new colt again. 

“I got onto that Masters. Software development.” 

“Aye? You always did love the aul computers.” 

“I wouldn’t say ‘love’ exactly but, sure, it’s a living”—my phone beeps— “and this is the world we live in.”  

Dad doesn’t hear the last because my chest constricts, strangling me. Could it be stress? I turn away, towards the stable yard and my car, parked beside the hay barn.  

“I’ve to head. Got that meeting.” 

Dad’s work boots tramp the cobbles. He comes up alongside, smelling of cigarettes and horses. “The computers must be going well, if you and Gráinne can afford a course on top of the two children and the house.” 

“No. Well, yeah—my boss is paying for it. He’ll have a promotion for me, after. Senior software developer. We’ll be sorted then.” 

A large red truck pulls into the yard, Donnelly’s Finest Animal Feeds painted on the side. Wheelbarrows and trolleys rattle over the cobblestones as the stable-hands hurry to unload.  

Dad barks orders, makes sure the hands are handling the bags with care.  

“Few thousand worth of feed in that truck alone.” Seeing my surprise, he shakes his head. “You’ve to put the money in, Michael, if you want the best out of your animals.” 

My phone beeps again. Twenty unread messages. One from Gráinne, wanting to know if I’ll make it for Liam’s hurling training later. ‘Depends on this meeting’ I reply, then spot an email from the bank. I read ‘mortgage’ and ‘interest rate’ and switch off the screen. 

Dad’s leaning on the fence beside my car, cigarette down to a nub. He used to lean on the fence at the GAA pitch, too. He was always at my matches. But I got the good life, right? The training. The career. 

“If that colt’s fast,” Dad says, “he’ll be trained up and ran into the ground. If he’s slow, he’ll be ground to nothing. Dog meat. They’ve got it down to an art, how to get the last out of them. And it all ends the same, either way.”  

Maybe when I get my promotion, I’ll have time for philosophizing.  

“See you, Dad. I’ll ring you later.” 

On cue, my phone alarm blares. The meeting’s in 30 minutes. Dad curses, glares at the phone, and turns back to the stud.  

My chest twists again. It goes right through me this time. Maybe I should see a doctor. I can’t be getting sick, not when I’m studying. I’m committed to that course now—locked in. And the kids…Liam’s almost a teenager and changing school soon, and Sophie’s getting bigger every day. Gráinne’s been talking about ballet for her, maybe piano. Neither of those are cheap. I may read that bank email, see what way the house payments are going. Could we switch banks? Those contracts can be iron-clad. And the car’s getting on, the reg’s embarrassingly old. Could we sign onto some payment plan for a new one? Maybe Dad knows someone—  

But it’s too late because my ribs are clamping my chest and I can’t breathe. Horse hooves are pounding and my heart’s thumping and my alarm’s blaring, its beeps heralding the final heartbeats of my life. I fall against my faded car, helpless. 

My heart steadies. My chest eases and I breathe deep.  

I get my legs under me.  

Levering off the car, I tug the door open and slump onto the worn seat.  

A panic attack? I need to see a doctor.  

But my alarm’s still going. I can’t miss that meeting—what would Jim Murphy say? Besides, my breath’s steady now. The pain’s easing off. After the meeting, I’ll go.  

Of course, I’ll have paperwork. Reports. And I can’t be sitting in A&E half the night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll see a doctor.  

Through the windscreen, I see Dad advancing on the newborn foal, a harness in his fist. The colt is swaying in the breeze but standing tall. His ears twitch when Dad stretches out a hand.  

My father slips the halter over the colt’s head. My phone rings.  

Frankie Moore walked into the mortuary in the general hospital in Tralee on a frosty Wednesday night. The smell of formaldehyde creeping inside his nostrils, inching its way until it reached the back of his throat. He swallowed its familiarity. Frankie passed the post-mortem examination room and entered the expanse of a large area where several autopsy carts lay empty and several more lay covered with starched hospital sheets. Bodies as stiff as driftwood beneath.  

His first visit to the mortuary was at the tender age of fifteen, he vomited all over the pathologist. His father hung his head in humiliation and apologised. They returned to the funeral parlour in silence. 

‘There are only two things for certain in this world, Frankie.’ his father said as he lifted the eyelid of the deceased man on the preparation table and placed a cap on the sunken eyeball. 

‘Taxes and death.’ he said as he skimmed glue along the underside of the lid and pressed it gently closed. 

‘Why not pay your taxes by treating the dead with a bit of dignity?’ his father said holding the glue in one hand and scratching his bulging midriff with the other. 

Frankie Senior’s heart gave in that night, leaving his wife and only son the family business in the small seaside town of Ballybunion. For days after the autopsy result, Frankie pictured his father’s heart. That big red muscle that banged away his whole life. Though the evidence of a blockage was clear, Frankie’s young mind couldn’t imagine that heart inside his broad chest just stopping.  

As the years passed, Frankie grew fond of the cold silence of the morgue. Having reached midlife, he was comfortable in his work as an undertaker and enjoyed it somewhat. On this particular night, he was collecting Mrs Stratford. A decent lady, who had had a long life. The type that paid her taxes and his fees when she had her full wits about her. He had her half out the door and ready for the hearse when a small woman appeared, standing directly at Mrs Stratford’s body bagged head. 

‘Is this Celia?’ She breathed.  

‘Mrs Stratford?’ Frankie’s voice echoed truculently through the mortuary corridor. 

‘Yes Celia Stratford…oh thank goodness. I am Realtín Murphy, Celia’s death doula.’ she said winded. 

‘A death what?’ Frankie said. 

‘A death doula…someone who helps the dying, a bit like a midwife helps with the birthing process. I help with the whole process of dying.’ 

‘The whole process…but she’s dead.’ Frankie stared. 

‘Yes, I can see that Mr…?  

‘Frankie Moore, from Moore’s undertakers.’ Frankie reached a hand over Mrs Stratfords corpse. 

‘Hmm…’ she said, pursing her lips looking at his offering. 

‘Nice to meet you, Frankie. Shall we?’ Realtín said, her small stature moving off towards the exit. 

Frankie watched Realtín walk ahead of him down the empty green walled corridor. The steel wheels of the trolley squeaked on the linoleum. As Frankie followed, he noticed her shoulders were hardly the width of the trolley. As she clopped along in her black patent heels, she seemed to have a sense of importance about her. She paused at the door and as Mrs Stratford passed by her, she whispered: ‘I’ll be with you all the way, Celia’. 

Frankie raised his grey wiry brow when Realtín was out of sight. He was looking forward to a bit of time in the hearse on his own before dealing with this Doula lady again to discuss arrangements. After he loaded up Mrs Stratford, he heaved himself into the hearse for the return journey to Ballybunion. As the engine started, the passenger door opened and Realtín slipped into the seat opposite him.  

‘My car won’t start.’ she said with her ocean grey eyes and full rosy cheeks from the cold December air. 

‘Right, do you need a jump?’ Frankie said. 

‘Well, we are all going the one way, aren’t we?’ she said as she closed the door. 

‘I suppose we are.’ Frankie said, his shoulders drawing tense as he put the hearse into first gear.  

Sweat beaded on Frankie’s face as the hearse reached a set of traffic lights on the outskirts of Tralee. He looked over at his passenger briefly while she gazed out the window. She was neat as a pin and glowed in the hue of the sparse street lights. He suddenly felt much more aware of himself and his protruding gut that grazed the steering wheel. 

‘Mr Moore!’ she glared at the green light ahead of them. 

‘Ok, ok, hold onto your purties woman.’ he said as he moved the hearse slowly onward. 

They travelled along the road through Abbeydorney and turned left onto the bumpy coast road to Ballybunion. The only town Frankie ever knew. After his father died, he stayed at home with his mother. She couldn’t manage alone. Her devastation was so extreme, she couldn’t so much as wet the tea in the evening for months. Frankie ran the business and the house as best as both would allow. There was little time for friends or women. He felt the weight of this often. The business and his Mammy were the great theft of his future. She was gone now and it wasn’t easy to just stroll into the local and make friends.  

‘So, what else is that you do as this Death Doula?’ Frankie asked. 

‘Mr Moore, I don’t sense you have any real interest in what I do.’ Realtín snapped.  

Frankie felt both amused and warmed by the sound of her aggressive, lyrical accent. Somewhere in Munster if he had to take a guess, but hard to pinpoint. Silence floated between them briefly. 

‘I would like to know more about it, if you would oblige…seeing as we are in the same industry and all.’ Frankie softened. 

Realtín was quiet for a moment and then launched into the holistic world that was her work. Frankie became aware of liking the sound of this woman’s voice. He was surprised and slightly uncomfortable by this realisation. 

‘Right…and how did you get into this line of work then?’ Frankie questioned further. 

‘I was a midwife in a former life. I needed a change. We couldn’t have children of our own you see…well we did, but she died…I still wanted to care for people.’ she trailed off. 

Frankie felt the unfamiliar pain of heartbreak make its way from her to him. He knew exactly the words to say to grieving families in his own line of work, but this caught him off guard. 

‘I’m sorry to hear that Mrs Murphy, are you and your husband living around these parts then?’ 

‘Ex-husband.’ She said. 

‘And yes, I found a little cottage in Abbeyfeale. It’s a good base for my work.’ 

They passed through the town and out the other end where the night sky was cloudless and speckled with stars over the Atlantic Ocean. The hearse rolled into the yard, its slow tyres whispering on the fresh gravel.  

‘Would you like me to ring Pat down at the hotel to see if there is a room for you?’ Frankie offered. 

‘Oh no Mr Moore, I’m here to see this through for Mrs Stratford. I assume you have a long night of work ahead and I’ll gladly be of help.’ 

‘Right you are.’ Frankie said lightly. 

*************** 

Frankie fiddled with the key to the front door of the house adjoining the funeral home. With a push of his shoulder, the solid oak scraped off of the dusty rug just inside. He brushed down his jacket and gave way for Realtín to enter in front. She hesitated looking into the dark house. 

‘Oh, I don’t normally have guests this way. Sorry for the mess.’ he said as he reached for the light switch.  

The hall was cluttered with boxes and mildewed wall paper had began to unfold on itself and hang limply.  Realtín entered cautiously, lifting her narrow feet carefully over the crumbling cardboard and gardening equipment.  

‘I should have brought you around the back, it’s a lot more civilised. Mammy had always said to bring guests through the front but…’ Frankie paused and apologised past Realtín to open the kitchen door.  

Frankie could see the look of relief on Realtín’s face when she entered the warm kitchen. A shaft of light from the full moon fell over the side of her face in the semi-darkness. She approached the window that looked over the ocean. Everyone that entered this room was drawn to this window the way Realtin was, although there hadn’t been anyone new in Frankie’s home for several years. The warmth of the Aga and view of the water below always created a sense of calm in Frankie. This room was like his regulator. If he was looking after a  

particularly hard bereavement, he would come back to the kitchen for a mug of tea to settle himself. He sometimes still heard his mother’s words.  

‘You can’t change any of this and you are only human, you do your best for this poor soul and that is all.’  

she would say gently, patting his hand and returning to watching her soaps.  He often greeted her even though she was no longer there, but he felt her presence with him. This kitchen was his safe haven.  

‘It’s beautiful.’ Realtín said, her gaze still out the window.  

‘Aye, the ocean at night is a sight to behold alright. Can I take your coat Ms Murphy?’ 

‘Realtín, I prefer… Realtin and yes thank you.’ 

While Frankie stowed her coat, Realtín moved over to the Aga to warm herself. 

‘Would you like a cup of tea before we get started? Or something stronger maybe for the night ahead?’ 

‘It’s not my first rodeo Frankie; I’ve been through this process before with a few clients.’ 

‘Really? Is this a normal ask when someone hires a Death Doula then?’ Frankie asked while filling the kettle.  

‘Some clients, not many. Some I develop quite a close relationship with and they trust me to see that things are done right for them. The more someone talks about their own death ahead of time, the more they realise that they are in fact quite particular about their wishes.’  

Frankie trundled turf from a white bucket of cow meal into the simmering range and topped it off with a wedge of timber from the stove side. 

 ‘That’ll keep it going until morning. You may want to come in here for a break. It can be cold in the parlour.’ 

Frankie noticed that Realtín was restless, she didn’t know what to do with her hands and looked around for something to feel useful. 

‘So, Mrs Stratford didn’t want her remains to be treated by me without supervision?’ Frankie asked. 

‘It’s not that per say, it’s more that she felt frightened of the process and I am familiar. Was familiar to her I suppose…’ 

‘Aye, I suppose you have a long time to think of these things when you get to that ripe age and she’s been to her own share of funerals.’ 

When the kettle squealed, Realtín began searching for cups. Frankie reached over her small frame and pulled two from the shelf above and handed them to her.  

‘I’m afraid all I have is a few digestives, I wasn’t expecting company.’ Frankie apologised. 

‘I am fond of a digestive.’ Realtín said as she took a seat at the table holding her hot cup, her rigidity dissolving like the biscuit in her tea. 

Frankie began the way he usually did, flicking the switch on the radio and opening the small roller door of the preparation room. He wheeled Mrs Stratford from the hearse through the door and up the short incline to where Realtín eagerly appeared. 

‘Grab something over there to stop your clothes getting stained.’ Frankie pointed at an ancient floral apron hanging by a fridge. 

‘Didn’t imagine this as your style, Frankie.’ Realtín said as she made a bow at her waist with the apron strings. 

‘It was Mammy’s.’ Frankie said as he heaved the bottom part of the black body bag onto the embalming table.  

‘Oh. Sorry Frankie.’ Realtín said darting over to help him transfer the top half of Mrs Stratford’s body into position. 

‘No…it’s nice to see it in use. She used to help out with the make-up and hair. Taught me all I know.’ he said pretending to style his hair. 

They both laughed in their different ways. Frankie grew slightly embarrassed at his dramatics immediately. He wasn’t used to company. He straightened up and went to fetch his own attire for the process of embalming. He winced at the wall in the wash room as he stepped into his overalls and cringed at his silly gesture. He assumed the woman had little interest in him in anyway but now it was certainly zero. She did laugh though, he thought to himself.  

The embalming process began. Realtín sat on an old bar stool watching intently as Frankie set up his embalming mixture, adding different chemicals until the room smelled just like a morgue. He expertly made his incisions and monitored two pumps carefully, dialling them up and back down again. Realtín watched as a yellowish fluid sped along the tubing into the body and a red one snaked down to a nearby drain. Once the embalming process was finalised, Frankie carefully massaged Mrs Stratford’s arms and hands to relax muscles and joints tensed by rigor mortis. He watched as Realtín instinctively began to cleanse her face and arms and hummed away like a little bird in the morning. Her hands were firm but gentle as she handled Mrs Stratford with care. She combed the woman’s hair and asked for rollers once she had it dried off. From a mahogany wardrobe, Frankie retrieved a lavender skirt suit and pegged each piece of the suit and blouse onto a clothes line that stretched across the room. 

‘Giving them an air before we put them on? Realtín looked puzzled. 

‘You haven’t been around for this part then, I take it?’ Frankie replied. 

‘Not if it involves dry cleaning the deceased person’s clothes as an additional service’ Realtín said.  

‘This is how I cut open the clothes, so we can put them on Mrs Stratford.  It’s just how we have always done it here.’ 

‘Who am I to judge?’ Realtín shrugged as she applied mauve lipstick to Celia. 

Soon, Celia Stratford was dressed in her lavender two piece. Her white blouse buttoned up with shiny pearls and her chosen pendant resting on her sunken sternum. Realtín touched Celia’s milk white hands as if to assure her they had done exactly what she had asked. 

‘This line of work must get a bit lonely sometimes? Realtín asked as she began to apply a final layer of sheer powder to Mrs Stratford’s weathered face. 

‘It can do.’ Frankie replied, immersed in configuring Mrs Stratford’s hands in the appropriate clasped position, weaving treacle coloured rosary beads between them. 

‘Anyone special in your life?’ She asked, looking at him with a matter-of-factness. 

‘No, nothing like that. This business isn’t for everyone and it’s hard to meet people these days.’ he said looking up at Realtín’s work on Mrs Stratford’s face. 

‘Hmmm, she looks like herself.’ he said  

Mrs Stratford looked peaceful and dignified, just the way Frankie’s mother would have been so pleased with and he felt a sense of pride in that. As he packed away his accoutrements and Realtín hung his mother’s apron back where she had found it, he began to dread the emptiness that would follow when Realtín left. It had been a long time since he had laughed with someone. 

‘Can I offer you another cup of tea, Realtín or maybe a drink?’ Frankie asked as they returned to the warmth of the kitchen. 

‘Would you like to go for a walk, Frankie? She said quickly, brushing invisible dust from her spotless skirt. 

Frankie nodded and searched for more to read from Realtín’s suggestion, but there was nothing. Realtín went to get her coat and scarf from the mass of coats in the hot press 

that were unclaimed after the hundreds of wakes in the parlour over the years. 

*************** 

Street lights from the carpark above lit the winding pathway down to the beach. Sooty clouds covered the full moon darkening their journey.  Frankie could just about make out Realtín flinging her shoes off to reveal her stocking feet on the wet sand. They both stood hugging their arms in darkness, listening to the sound of the water they couldn’t see. When their eyes adjusted, Frankie unfurled two blankets and draped one over Realtín’s shoulders and the other around his own. 

‘Do you come down here much?’ she asked. 

 ‘Not so much. I come down on my mother’s anniversary and her birthday. She loved it here.’ 

As dawn approached, the ocean was a pewter colour. The horizon turned a magnificent tangerine and their surroundings became more visible. Realtín found a dry spot of sand the tide had not reached and sat with the picnic blanket wrapped around her small body. Frankie awkwardly joined her, his blanket barely covering his shoulders. 

‘You miss her a lot, don’t you? Realtín asked. 

‘Aye, the company and she knew me… when she died, I had no one in the world that knew me like that,’  

‘And you, do you miss your daughter…and your husband?’ Frankie stuttered. 

Realtín looked into the ocean and nodded. Frankie felt an immense swelling of regret for asking such a question.  

‘You know Frankie, the odds of us being here are incredible!’ Realtín turned to him almost gleefully. 

‘Well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence. This is my job as an undertaker.’ 

‘No, I mean the chances of being born are four hundred quadrillion to the power of one hundred and fifty thousand or something like that. Now, I am not very good at maths but in betting terms I’d say that’s almost zero. That’s the odds of life.’ Realtín said as she positioned herself to face Frankie. 

‘Right, wow… a miracle really.’ 

‘Indeed. My little baby was my miracle and I still treasure every moment I got with her.’ 

Frankie didn’t know what to say as she stared out to the waves crashing against the jagged rocks that he climbed on as a child, searching for periwinkles. 

‘I thought it was going to really work out for us that time, I had a nausea that made the world seem to tilt slightly.’ 

‘And that was a good thing? Frankie said cautiously. 

‘Oh, it was, Frankie.’ she smiled. 

 ‘And then one day I thought there might be something wrong, so I went in to the general and I was right. It felt like we were sliding off towards the edge of the world where we were parents with no baby. 

‘Lord, I am fierce sorry Realtín, for your loss and your pain.’ he looked at Realtín with a blob of a salty tear on his cheek. It trickled its way through the hairs of his unshaven face. 

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ Realtín said as she hugged her legs and managed a smile. 

As they sat watchful of the ocean outstretched in front of them, Frankie felt that a veil that had stood between him and the rest of the world had been drawn away. He wanted to stay on the beach a while longer with Realtín, immersed in this serene intimacy that was a foreign land to him.  Frankie imagined the arc of the sun through the dense winter clouds and its journey across the sky on this cold December day. A splinter of a peculiar warmth filled his chest and he felt all his regrets could lie peaceful and dormant for now. 

Sam sat on his stool watching the euro he had placed on the pool table. He had regretted queuing as soon as he took the coin out of his pocket. A game was coming to an end, he was next to play against Gossie. Gossie had a temper when he lost. He rarely lost because he was actually good, Sam knew after watching him the last hour. But Sam also knew about his losses. Everyone in the pub did. Every person that sat near the pool table watched in silence any time it was Gossie’s turn. It was accepted that you shouldn’t distract Gossie or Gossie would clobber you.  

Gossie had won pool tournaments when he was younger but he had smashed too many pool cues over opponents’ heads. Now he haunted the pool table here, the past glories on loop in his head turning him grey. No one ordered at the bar, no one tiptoed past the pool table to get to the toilet or the smoking area. The juke box mounted on the wall was silent when Gossie played. When Gossie wasn’t playing, the pub returned to normalcy. People chatted, played the jukebox, went to the toilet as they pleased. 

Who’s next to play? Gossie challenged. 

Sam rose from his tool, swigged his pint, placed his euro into the slot. The balls rumbled out below. Sam arranged them neatly, glanced at Gossie. 

You can break, Gossie said. 

Sam did as he was told and broke, potted a red ball, Gossie’s favourite colour. Gossie scowled at Sam as he surveyed his first shot.  Gossie caught up and potted a few yellows. A young lad shuffled past to go to the smoking area while Gossie aimed his next shot. Sam saw Gossie’s eyes narrow as the floorboards creaked under the young lad’s runners. The young lad paused, the pub’s eyes on him. He lingered at the table, took a euro out of his jeans pocket. He slid it across the edge of the pool table, distracting Gossie. 

Who the Jaysis are you?, Gossie bellowed at the euro. 

Kevin, the young lad stuttered. 

Fuck off out, Kevin, he said to the euro. 

Kevin creaked towards the smoking area, distracting Gossie further. Gossie let out a roar and kicked him in the arse, out into the cold, ignoring the barman’s stern gaze. 

He tried to aim his shot again but missed,  his face reddening as the yellow ball slowed to a stop. He gulped his pint to calm himself, the barman still watching him. Gossie was only allowed to play pool here because they were cousins. Everyone knew that. Gossie was barred from the other pub in town for throwing the black ball through the front window. He had hurled it so far it broke the chipper window across the road. Everyone knew that too.  

Sam chalked his cue, afraid to take his next shot. He had an easy one lined up, hesitant to take it. Everyone saw that easy shot; Sam could feel their eyes in the back of his head. People muttered behind him as the ball went into the pocket. Heads turned to Gossie leaning against the wall, pool cue gripped tight in his hands. His eyes never left Sam as he chose his next shot.  

Hurry the fuck up, will ya, Gossie growled, breaking the silence.  

Everyone froze in their seats, eyes on the black ball. The barman swivelled round to Gossie, arms crossed. Gossie drained his pint glass, swung the foamy glass down onto the nearest table. The barman began to pour another pint for Gossie without being asked. 

Pint, Sam?, the barman obliged. 

No let him take this fuckin’ shot, Gossie roared. 

Tense, Sam turned to the barman. I’m alright for the minute, he said. 

Sam bent down to line up his shot, swallowed the fear in his mouth. He realised he needed to piss, but he didn’t want to put off his shot any longer. He struck the white ball,  sending a red ball bouncing off the side across to a pocket. The ball lost momentum, grazing the side of the pocket. A sigh escaped him when the ball didn’t fall in. 

Gossie tutted, shook his head at Sam. What a shame. My turn, so. 

Gossie squared up with the pool table, lined up his next shot fast. He sent a yellow ball flying into a pocket, down into its glass prison. He potted another, confident now. They all looked on as Gossie got back into a streak, a grin stretched across his face. 

Every game before Sam’s went the same way; Gossie’s opponent got lucky for a minute, then grew nervous as Gossie’s temper peaked. They missed a shot, either by accident or on purpose; then Gossie grew confident, calmed down enough to pot his remaining balls, leaving his opponent in the dust. Sam could only stand back and watch as it happened to him. Only the red and black balls remained. 

Hard luck, lad, Gossie said, gloating. 

Sam smiled politely. He managed to pot two more red balls but he missed his third, just to get it over with. Gossie hovered over the black ball, a buzzard moving in for the kill. He smacked the black ball into the pocket. Relief washed over the room. Sam sat down, the pits of his t-shirt damp with sweat. 

Pint, please, he asked. 

Everyone began chatting again. Pints were ordered, people went to the toilet and the smoking area. After he paid for his pint, Sam remembered he needed to piss. 

Right. Who’s next to play?, Gossie asked. 

The room went quiet again. Heads turned to find the person who had placed a euro down on the table. The young lad, Kevin, returned from the smoking area, all eyes on him.  His arse still sore from Gossie’s boot, Kevin put his euro in the slot, lined up the balls, and chalked his pool cue. Gossie made short work of him.