Sunday, October 5th 2014

'Áiméan,' murmured the congregation in unison as the priest bowed his head.

Jack sat wedged between his mother and an old man who looked like he was clinging to life. The wooden pew pressed against his back, stiff and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the restless toddler in front of him. She was maybe three, with white-blonde hair so pale it almost looked translucent under the dim church lights. She stared at Jack without blinking, moving a two-euro coin along the backrest of the pew like a toy car. Her parents had long since given up trying to keep her facing forward.

His mother let out a pointed 'cas timpeall', her tone sharp, like a schoolteacher at the end of her patience.

The toddler didn't budge. Jack smothered a laugh, but his mother shot him a look that made it die in his throat.

'Now before ye go, just some community news,' the priest announced, his voice dragging.

Jack half-listened as he reeled off a list of events—the raffle, set dancing, some charity sale for a prefab roof. The usual. The same announcements he had been hearing for years, the same conversations these people had been having for generations.

Then, the tone of the room shifted.

'And one last thing. I'm sure we've all seen in the papers this week about the opinion poll showing seventy-six percent in favour of same-sex marriage.'

Jack barely had time to process the words before his mother let out a deliberately loud tut. A few heads turned. Jack could feel the heat rise in his face.

Christ.

'However,' the priest continued, 'good news off the back of that—some locals have taken it upon themselves to organise a 'No' branch committee for the referendum. They've set up a Facebook page and are looking for support. Please like and follow "Spiddal Says No" or contact Cathleen for more information.'

His mother beamed. Jack's stomach twisted.

Outside in the car park after mass, the air was unseasonably warm for October, which meant the usual post-mass gathering in the car park would last longer than usual. Jack hovered at the edge of his mother's conversations as she held court, rattling off updates about his life like a proud press secretary.

'He's loving Dublin,' she gushed to anyone who would listen. 'Studying English and Irish up in UCD. He got a house sorted and all. Playing Gaelic football up there. He's settling right in. Sure we knew we didn't have to worry about him!'

Jack smiled politely. Nodded when expected. Dropped in the occasional 'yeah, it's great', but let her do most of the talking.

Nobody asked him about his course.

Nobody asked if he'd made any friends.

Nobody asked if he missed home.

Because that would imply they expected him to leave and not come back.

After a few minutes, he excused himself and went to sit on the low stone wall along the edge of the car park. He pulled out his phone, scrolling absently through Twitter.

Seventy-six percent. It didn't seem possible.

Not here. Not with these people.

If they had polled this church, it would've been seventy-six percent the other way. He switched over to Facebook and navigated his way to the 'No' group. Six hundred and seventy two likes.

Jack tapped open Facebook and searched for "Spiddal Says No." The page had barely a few hundred likes, but the posts were relentless. Grainy, overexposed images of rosary beads and wedding rings. Bible quotes about Adam and Eve. A photo of a child holding a sign that read "Don't Redefine the Family." His mother had shared that one. So had half the town, it seemed.

The comments underneath were the worst part. "This country's going to hell." "They're trying to push this filth into our schools." "Won't somebody think of the children?" The usual. He should've been used to it.

But still, something twisted in his stomach as he scrolled.

Then, another post caught his eye. "Spiddal for Yes." He frowned, clicking into it. The page was newer, smaller—just over a hundred likes—but it was there. A counterweight. The latest post was a call for volunteers, and its profile picture was a rainbow-coloured version of the Spiddal pier.

Jack clicked into the comments. A few familiar names stood out—some arguing, some supporting, some just lurking. People he knew. People he had grown up with. Maybe this wasn't as one-sided as he thought. He scrolled through some of the names of those who followed the page. Mark.

Jack exhaled. He wasn't surprised, not really—but still, something about seeing Mark's name there settled him. Even if Jack couldn't quite figure out where he stood, at least Mark already had. Maybe this wasn't as one-sided as he thought.

'Jack! Conas atá tú?'

His thumb darted to lock his screen, as though she could see what he had just been looking at. He glanced up, and there was Róisín, smiling down at him.

'You didn't say you'd be back this weekend,' she added, beaming.

'Róisín,' he said, a little too flatly. She threw her arms around him in a quick hug, smelling of something floral and sweet. Over her shoulder, he saw his mother noticing. She winked. Jack cringed. 'The city boy returns to the sticks,' Róisín teased, pulling away. 'How's Dublin treating ya?'

'Ah yeah, grand,' he muttered.

Before he could say more, two familiar voices cut through the crowd.

'JACKO! What's the craic, ya bollocks?' Jack barely had time to brace himself before Wham Bar wrapped an arm around his shoulders in an exaggerated hug. He reeked of stale Lynx Africa and last night's pints.

'The prodigal son returns,' added Begs, grinning.

Jack forced a smirk. He already knew where this was going. 'You remember the lads, Róisín. Wham Bar and Begs.'

'Jesus, I think the last time I seen you, Róisín, was when you and Jack were rattling in the specials' toilet at the debs,' Wham Bar announced, far too loudly. 'Did he leave his muck in ya, did he?'

'Aw that's brutal, lad!' laughed Begs, cringing even as he said it.

Jack's stomach plummeted. He could feel his mother's eyes on him.

Róisín, however, was unfazed. 'You're just raging the only action you got in the bathroom that night was with your own hand,' she shot back, and Begs howled as Wham Bar reddened.

'Or did Begley here suck you off?'

'Fuck off, Róisín,' Begs retorted, shaking his head. 'If either of us wanted a blowjob, it wouldn't be from you anyway. I heard you're all teeth.'

Jack clenched his jaw. He should stop this. He should say something.

But before he could, Róisín delivered the finishing blow. 'If you wanted a blowjob from a girl, would you not ask your brother over in London? I hear he wears dresses now.'

Silence.

The grin slid from Begs' face.

Wham Bar let out an awkward snigger, but even he knew she had gone too far.

Jack sighed. Not now. Not here. 'Alright, easy now,' he cut in, before it could turn uglier. 'We're all mates here.'

'Are we?'

Róisín folded her arms. 'Want me to drop you home?'

Jack hesitated. Across the car park, his mother was watching again. He could already hear the questions she'd ask if he stuck around. Could already feel the expectation in the air.
Could already see the version of himself she was building in her head. And he just wasn't in the mood.

'Yeah, grand,' he muttered, sending her a grateful look, 'thanks.'

'Road head, is it?' Wham Bar grinned, recovering.

'Would the two of ye ever piss off?' Róisín snapped.

The lads sauntered away, muttering under their breath.

'See ya later, Jacko!' Wham Bar called, charading a blowjob with his fist. Jack gritted his teeth.

'Sorry about them,' he muttered, already reaching for the passenger door.

Róisín just rolled her eyes. 'Why do you still hang out with Wham Bar?' she asked, exasperated. 'He's honestly such a prick.'

Jack exhaled sharply. He didn't have an answer. 'Ah sure look,' he muttered instead. Noncommittal. Safe.

He sent his mother a quick text—getting a lift home, see you later—and climbed into the car beside her, leaving the car park behind.