FATHER'S DAY

All Mum ever told me about my Dad was that he was ‘a no-good feckin waster’. Talk about pots and kettles. She was never much of a Mother. Fifteen years ago I came home from school, found her with some arse-hole, drunk as skunks. I broke lover-boy’s nose and gave her a slap. ‘You’re just like your feckin father’ she hollered. So I sneered ‘You slut! No wonder he legged it!’ ‘What d’you know?’ she screamed. ‘Got me up the duff at 14. Always knocking me about – he hated you; buggered off as soon as you were born.’ ‘You lying bitch’ I said; packed my bags and left. Made me think though. Were we alike? I reckon my curly red hair was down to him. Anyway, I did ok without her. I’ve a good job, a new name and a great hobby - Genealogy. I’m researching my family tree using the internet. I’ve spent a couple of years wading through records on Ancestry and other sites. On weekends off I travel all over looking for my ancestors; even found one in a war grave in France. It’s like being a detective; you get tiny clues then work away at them until you get the truth. I got Dad’s name from my Birth Certificate, then details of his family from the electoral rolls. There were dozens of Patrick Flahertys listed, but I eventually discovered someone with the same name as his brother still living at the address where he had been born. On my next free Sunday, which happened to be Father’s Day, I knocked at that door. A scruffy woman opened it, fag hanging out of her mouth. I asked casually: ‘Seamus home?’ ‘No he bloody ain’t! He’s gone with his eejit brother to that charity do, dressed up as nuns! Nuns! Ain’t been inside a church since they was baptised so they ain’t.’ ‘Don’t suppose you know where they are missus?’ ‘In the Ship and Shovel no doubt. Tell him not to show his bleedin’ face here til he’s sober’. With that she slammed the door. You couldn’t miss it. There were nuns outside, and the bar was full of them. I sat quietly, watching two geezers called Seamus and Paddy. Closing time came and went. It was hot, and the ‘nuns’ were sweating. Then I got my answer. Paddy removed his wimple, revealing a tangle of red curly hair. Seamus was in the thick of a fight. I pushed through the crowd. ‘Hello Dad’, I said, ‘It’s me, Damien’. ‘Feckin hell! I thought I’d got shot of you years ago. Feck off you little shit!’ he spat back. Suddenly the lights went out, the door burst open and a dozen yelling cops ran in. In the confusion I silently inserted a blade into the bastard’s chest and joined my colleagues, flashing my C.I.D. warrant card. With his long record including GBH and rape, no-one would investigate this scumbag’s death too closely. ‘Happy Father’s Day, Dad’ I whispered.