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El Niño
by Mick Donnellan
Format: Paperback
Publication date: 1st February 2012
ISBN: 978-1-908817-54-9
Price: €12.99
Charlie is a pick-pocket with a complicated past. He steals El Niño’s wallet, then falls in love with her. She’s wild, beautiful; intoxicating. He’s a recovering alcoholic and needs to stay away from the pubs. Their relationship takes flight and is full of passion and possibility. But soon, Charlie’s demons come back to haunt him. P.J., a member of an old crime gang he used to work with, offers Charlie some work – a once-off robbery that seems well planned and very profitable. But it doesn’t turn out that way and one of the crew is arrested.
P.J.’s boss is Kramer – a vicious thug that Charlie grew up with in his hometown of Ballinrobe. They’d gone their separate ways when Kramer began dealing Cocaine and started a gang war that nearly cost Charlie his life. Now he’s back and he’s sure Charlie is talking to the police – an unforgivable crime in gangland.
It seems there are no ‘outs’ and all the couple can do is try and escape, but fate seems to have other plans….
About the Author
Mick Donnellan is from Ballinrobe, Co. Mayo. He completed the M.A in Writing at NUIG in 2004. Having traveled for a number of years, he now lives in the West of Ireland. In 2009 he worked with Druid Theatre under the New Writers Programme. At present, he is Writer and Artistic Director with his own company- Truman Town Theatre. Most recently he co-wrote the award winning series “Lucky Run” (Winner of The RTE Storyland Competition 2010) with writer Colm Cafferkey and Producer Eamon Stack.
You can contact Mick on mickdonnellan@hotmail.com
Sample from El Niño
Her name was El Niño. Her father called her that because the night she was born there was a storm. He said it signified the way she was to live her life. I met her in an elevator. Wanted to go three floors and forget about it. Instead, everything changed.
Thing is, bout meeting a girl like her, it hits you like a curve ball. It’s not like you get written notice. It’s fast, short, and leaves you spinning. I hit floor three and asked: ‘Goin up?’
She purred. ‘Third floor.’
‘Arts?’
‘Yeah.’
It was the last day of the semester and I’d spent it following a lecturer around. His wallet bulged so big, I coulda jumped up right there in the class and taken him out. But that’s the downfall. That’s how mosta my friends spend their holidays in a cage. They get impatient, can’t wait, always want the big scoop.
The guy taught socialism. Preached about a perfect world, one without money. I disagreed. What a fuckin hypocrite. I looked down and saw this wad popping out, thought: fuck, I gotta get me a piece of that. We all like some extra grade. But I waited. Scoped him out. Asked him a question after, like: ‘Excuse me, Mr. McKenna? But where can I get a copy of The Communist Manifesto?’
He looked me up and down, said: ‘Call up to my office this afternoon. I’ll have one there, costs €3.50. That alright?’
Thought: fuck you, selling the goddamn pamphlet that says we should kill the capitalist. Makes me sick. He bent to get his briefcase and I saw my chance. Went ahead and some chick came from behind.
‘Sorry, Mr. McKenna? Do you have a minute?’
Ah, fuck off hippy kids, always want the revolution. Nearly had him too. Heart beating fast, going in for the kill and snared. Bitch didn’t even know what the fuck she was talking about, just trying to sound all smart and shit.
Left. Thought: get him later, maybe at the office, send him somewhere.
Started the game bout ten years ago. Only been caught once.
Old man clocked me hitting some geyser on his way from the post-office. Pension hanging out. Was in fast, hit hard. Knocked him, played the Good Samaritan. Pulled him up with one hand, took his cash with the other. Next thing I see is sky. Father staring down, frothing. ‘Give it back,’ he says, ‘ya thief. Never been no stealin in this family til now, and I’ll knock it outta ya.’
He had a heart attack six months later. Tough times. Needed to bring home some grade. Took up robbing again. Probably turn in his grave, but, what’re ya gonna do? Get a fuckin job?
The elevator passed the first floor. I took in her intoxicating perfume. It smelled like confidence, prowess, intrigue, desire.
Asked: ‘English?’
‘Classics and Soc&Pol. You?’
‘English and Soc&Pol. Goin go see McKenna, bout buyin The Manifesto.’
‘Were you there today?’
‘Yeah. Bullshit.’
‘I thought it was interesting.’
‘Whatever you’re into.’
Second floor. She scanned me from the toes up, blinked and asked: ‘Why you want The Manifesto then?’
Thought fast. ‘Take a read over the summer, give it a chance, see if this Marx kat’s really got anythin to say.’
‘What about the revolution?’
‘Fuck the revolution. I wasn’t around.’
‘Have you taken this up with McKenna?’
‘No. And the bastard wants €3.50. Tells me he wants a revolt against the capitalist, but I gotta pay for it – fuck that.’
She raised her eyebrows. Style and attitude. ‘Maybe it’s all about progress.’
‘Or a lost cause.’
‘Or the bigger picture?’
‘Or floor three. Beauty before the beast, babe.’
‘Interesting ride.’
‘Went too fast. Gimme your number and we’ll take it up later.’
‘You don’t waste time.’
I shrugged. It felt the right thing to do. Silence threatened.
She scribbled it out and said: ‘I’ll let you buy me a drink, see how it works from there.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘Name’s El Niño.’
‘El Niño?’
‘There was a storm on the night I was born; my father said it signified the way I was to live my life.’
‘I’m Charlie, after my father, and my grandfather, and his old man too. One long line of Charlie.’
She smiled a hundred suns. ‘Cute. See you this evening.’
Walked, with the feel of her wallet inside my coat. Silly bitch.
Wrote the number, left her bag open. What was I supposed to do? Sorry Mr. Opportunity, no one round, call back later?
Got to his office. He was bald with a gut. Sat typing something, probably more overpriced communism. Knocked, said: ‘Mr. McKenna? I talked to you today, after your lecture, about buyin The Communist Manifesto?’
Turned, fixed his glasses, scrutinised. Obvious disdain. Must have been the clothes ─ leather jacket and cap on backwards.
‘Yes, yes, Marxist Economics, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
I looked around. Saw books on Orwell, Nietzsche, Smith, Rawls, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, the whole fuckin crew. Irony apparent. He ruffled in his desk, took out a copy, said: ‘Well, Mr…’
‘Charlie.’
‘Well Charlie, that’s €3.50, please.’
Took out my stash, asked: ‘You got change for a hundred?’
He frowned. I saw the disappointment. The dilemma being: the profit or the cause? Checks his pockets, looks around. ‘I… let me see, I…don’t…at the moment. Anything smaller?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh.’
Frown time for me. ‘Oh?’
‘Tell you what, you can call back with…no, actually, hang on and I’ll see if Doris is in the office…she might have some.’
Disco. Took his fat ass up and waddled out. Almost caused a tremor on the corridor. This place is a real fuckin Jurassic Park. Looked around, wallet on the table. Could be obvious. Fuck it, not here for the socialism. Acted fast, skimmed the notes, left a few. Didn’t want him seeing the wad all thin. These guys looked after nothing better than dust. Heard him thank Doris. Probably fuckin her, blowjob at lunch and a cash bonus on the side. Some revolution.
He returned with: ‘Yes, got some change from Doris. A hundred you say?’
‘Aye, captain.’
Did the exchange. The cold greasy feel of money changing paws. The fear that someone’s gonna snap the goods and screw the whole deal. Could get ugly. Everyone just stay cool. I took the pamphlet. Watched him, like a starved dog, stuff the money into a sweaty pocket. He didn’t open the wallet. Wouldn’t be like a man of the cause. Watched his beard and smile. Yellow teeth. Stink of cigars and wet armpits. No exercise. Always takes the lift. The stress. Thought: arteries. Could see the cholesterol, like a ghost’s aroma, hovering around his head. The red patch at top, screaming with rage, like follicles pulled with pliers. He stood salivating, jingling coins, asked: ‘You like it?’
‘Oh yeah. Can’t wait to get a read of this. I’ve been after it for a while now. I love Marx. He’s my hero.’
He turned his back, walked to the table, dismissed me with: ‘Enjoy…’
Left and took the lift back down. Could still sense El Niño. Her scent vamoosed from the mirror behind. In my head, an image of McKenna sitting in his office, with a smile for another one recruited to his illusions. And behind him, an ugly sceptre, hanging with menace, waiting to sever his spine. And the wallet lying open, gutted like a slaughtered animal. At least he got €3.50 back. Threw the pamphlet in the bin and walked home.
