Howie the Rookie (NHB Modern Plays)

Mark O?Rowe

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781780012902
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

A white-knuckle ride through a nightmare Dublin, where enemies and allies are interchangeable, this electrifying play won the George Devine Award for Most Promising Playwright and the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature.

First we meet Howie. He tells us how, one night, he gets caught up in a gang intent on beating up Rookie. He's supposed to be baby-sitting his five-year-old brother, but he goes just the same. They beat up Rookie. Howie returns to discover a horrible accident has happened to the little boy. Then we hear the story from Rookie's point of view...

'grabs you by the collar and head-butts you into submission' Sunday Times

'a magnificent mix of violence and poignancy' The Stage

'mesmerising... funny, tragic, shocking and disturbing in turn' Scotsman

PART ONE

The Howie Lee

Smoke.

Black smoke ahead there, north end of the field.

Thick, billowin’, curlin’ up.

Somethin’ burnin’.

Me, The Howie, south end, amblin’.

Approachin’.

A figure.

A man ahead, some fuck standin’ there, stick in his hand, proddin’ whatever’s burnin’. Makin’ sure it all goes up.

Me, The Howie Lee, gettin’ closer now.

Passin’ through the field, me way home.

Field, the back of the flats there, back of Ollie’s flat, me mate Ollie’s an’,Jesus, it is Ollie, little fire built, he’s standin’ there, watchin’ it, one hand in his pocket, now an’ again, stick prods the burnin’… whatsit?

What is it?

Come close. All right, Ollie?

All right, The Howie?

Stop, stand, cock me tush.

The fuck’re you burnin’?

Me mat, he says.

Ollie’s flat befits a messy cunt like him.

Kip the night, you kip on the guest mat under an oul’ slumberdown. You’re a bloke and you’re game, you can kip in the bed with him. Game meaning gay, neither of which I am, furthest thing from, so I go the mat.

Or did!

On the mat, I kip.

Did! Kipped!

It’s gone, now. That’s it he’s burnin’.

Burnin’ the quilt as well, so if you want to kip over, the future, only place is the single bed, now, you spoonin’ him or him spoonin’ you, neither of which, like, fuck both of which, ’cos I don’t like either.

Me mat’s gone, he says. Me mat’s burnin’.

’Cos it’s got a disease and it can’t be slept on.

’Cos it’s got scabies.

Scabies?

Mat’s got scabies, I’ve got scabies, he says. I’ve this cream on me, I’ve all over me body. Have to leave it for twenty-four hours, have to burn me mat.

Itchy? I asks him.

Itchy all over, he says. Are you itchy, a-tall?

Haven’t slept on your mat in while, now.

Lucky you, he says. Wouldn’t wish it upon you.

Adios, Ollie, says I. Adios, The Howie, then home.

Keys out, front door, open an’ in, ignorin’ everyone, The Howie this, that, The Howie, fuck youse.

Up to me bedroom, slide the bolt of privacy an’ peace.

Peace and quiet, nice.

Dirty rags, polish me tool, nice one.

Lie back, catnap an’ repose.

Bangin’ on me door, the oul’one, wake up, she’s fuckin’ poundin’ on me door.

Get off the bed, over, slide the bolt an’ out the landin’, swayin’ left an’ right, the sudden rush of blood to me head. The oul’one standin’ there, bad breath, ugly, dresses nineteen-fifties popsock teeny-bopper, very few grey cells, the oul’fella’s even less, he does as she says, not because she’s powerful, no, not because he’s scared of her…

Tom?!

What?

You comin’ up The Fort?

Yeah.

… But because he’s nothin’ better to do.

Nothin’ better, ’cos he knows no better.

You’re wanted on the phone, she tells me.

Pick up, it’s Ollie.

Ollie with the mat, who I met.

C’mere, he says. Me an’ The Peaches is after someone. Would you like to be after someone with us?

Who’re youse after? I says. I asks.

Someone you’ll like bein’ after, but someone who I can’t tell you, ’cos of The Peaches, he says. ’Cos it’s The Peaches’ fuckin’ skit.

Ah, now, this is all a bit fuckin’ skulduggerous, I says.

But, it’s The Peaches’ skit, he says. Call up to me after.

After me dinner?

Yeah.

Right. But, what’s up?

After your dinner.

Hang up, smell of carrots an’ parsnips. Lovely.

Bit of bad, now, bit of hassle, the oul’one.

Tryin’ to eat me dinner, sittin’, she’s at me.

At me goodo, she’s in me face; popsocks an’ cardigan.

Mind your brother. Mind Mousey.

I’m busy.

Me an’ your oul’fella’s goin’ The Fort.

I’m busy, get out of me face.

Wears this spangly glitter shit on her cheeks, ’cross her nose, her glasses magnify, make it flash at me, gimme a tense nervous.

I won’t get out of your face.

Leave me alone.

No, I won’t. You mind The Mousey Lee.

Fuck that.

So forth, enter the oul’fella.

Cycles fifteen miles to work and back every day.

Got a bad ticker, was told take it easy or die, so he saved for a car.

Saved, went without, like, sacrificed.

Walkin’ by Harry Moore’s one day, saw a handicam.

Now, has the handicam, fuck the car.

Fuck the ticker, fuck his life, full fuckin’ stop.

She’s standin’ over me, naggin’, he’s standin’ over the two of us, handicam perched, red light flashin’, the record light, tense nervous becomes migraine.

Carrots an’ parsnips in the bin.

No, I won’t mind the fuckin’ Mouse!

Up the jacks.

Up, shower, freezin’, cold enough to stop me heart – I love it – dressed an’ down.

Mousey.

There’s The Mousey Lee, kitchen now, sittin’ on an armchair, watchin’ me.

I say, I’m sorry, I’m busy (feel a bit guilty), I can’t, man.

Mousey’s five, he just started school.

Do you understand, The Mouse? I’ve business.

He does, he… Course he understands, he’s the brother, you know?

He’s the fuckin’ brud, he is.

Out the front door, oul’one behind me, oul’fella behind her.

Trip on the step, I go on me snot.

Side of the road, I’m out on me snot, oul’fella’s gigglin’ like a

youngfella, he got me goodo, got me on video.

I’m down, change rollin’ round, silver an’ copper, fuck it, he’s

comin’ towards me, now, red light flashin’.

Up, go.

Come back, he says.

Fuck that.

Come back for your money.

He’s laughin’ hyena-style, she’s not, she’s mad. Mad in both, mad in all fuckin’ senses.

Fuck the money.

Call up to Ollie’s.

Ollie comes out, call up to Peaches’.

Not in the best of moods, Peaches, have to say. Big dirty puss on him.

I wanna know why we’re here, his oul’one’s kitchen, but it’s his skit an’ he wants to go out first.

Bein’ teased righteous, I am, ’cos they know I’m a curious fucker.

Delayin’ me, they are.

Delayin’ me earlier, delayin’ me now.

Tell me somethin’ first.

We go out first.

A morsel, man. Tell me who the fuck we’re after.

After someone, you’re lookin’ for them. Gonna give them a hidin’, hurt them, you’re chasin’ them.

Someone’s after you, you’re hunted.

Tells me we’re after The Rookie Lee.

Nice one, says I. Thank you. I enjoy bein’ after people. Thanks for tellin’ me. Specially… (At fuckin’ last.) Specially cunts like The Rookie Lee. Handsome cunts. Specially cunts with the same last name as me.

Lee as in The Bruce.

So, we’re after The Rookie righteous.

Why, Peaches?

After.

Goes for a piss before departure.

Don’t flush, I says.

Out he goes, in comes Avalanche. A monster. Peaches’ sister.

Sixteen stone, size forties on her chest, few tats.

She’s askin’ can she come with us.

Not tonight, sister.

She belches in Ollie’s face, mid-sentence, Jaysus, doesn’t even know she does it. She’s talkin’ ’bout gettin’ a new tat – A tat on me baldy gat, she says – Fuck, Ollie’s try...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Dedication
• Characters
• Part One – The Howie Lee
• Part Two – The Rookie Lee
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information