The shrill sound of the doorbell stirred Vinny Fitzpatrick from his favourite armchair. "Hold yer horses, I'm coming," he said as he heaved his bulky frame upright.
Taking care to press the pause button on the telly, where he’d been watching a re-run of the All-Ireland hurling final on Sky Sports, the burly bus driver tottered to the hall door. It was Monday, mid-morning, and all was quiet on Mount Prospect Avenue.
Through the frosted glass, Vinny could make out two shapes, one adult-sized, one a kid. “It couldn’t be, could it?” he thought as he fumbled at the lock. It was. As the door sprung open, Vinny’s grown-up daughter Niamh threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around the shoulders of the father she’d met for the first time barely three years ago.
Between snuffles, and gulps she painted a distressing picture. “I couldn’t take it any more Vinny, neither of us could. You were right, he’s a monster.” Vinny knew exactly who the “monster” was. His name was Roberto, a swarthy ex-pro footballer, who got his kicks from inflicting pain, physical and psychological on the ones he claimed to love.
Vinny had given him a yellow card before as he’d seen the sneaky art-work of Roberto. At that time, Niamh had begged Vinny to back off. Now, it seemed, even she’d had enough of the Tuscan terror.As they disentangled, Vinny spied the grim evidence for himself. Niamh was not only red-eyed, but was bruised about the lower jaw.
Brutal handiwork
Rolling up her sleeves, Niamh exposed the further brutal handiwork of her husband – there were burn marks on both arms. Vinny’s blood went ice cold, and his fury rattled from within. “The bastard,” he hissed. It got worse. Turning to give his grandson, little Vinny, a hug, he noticed a split on the brow, and fear in the two-year-old’s big brown eyes. “Oh, my God. Don’t tell me,”’he said, before his voice dropped off. For 30 seconds, the trio hugged in the hall, in silence, as tears fell. After a bit, Vinny ushered the arrivals into the kitchen. “Time for a cup of tea, and a biscuit,” he said gently.
It was deep into the second pot, and towards the end of the chocolate digestives, by the time Vinny had a handle on the latest act of domestic violence perpetrated in the suburbs of Manchester, where Niamh worked as a football columnist. She covered the Manchester City beat for the Manchester Evening News and had reported on all of City's great recent triumphs, the FA Cup (2011), league wins of (2012 and 2014), and League Cup (2014).
Memories
Vinny was astonished that his off-spring, the product of a night of drunken dissolution in Rathmines in the winter of 1982, had matured into a raven-haired beauty, who combined intelligence and kind-hearted decency with a passion for sport. They’d hit if off from the moment they first met, soon after Niamh’s step-father, Harry Hatfield, a wealthy Manchester businessman, passed away. That Niamh had memorably given birth to Little Vinny in Foley’s, with the lads acting as mid-wives, had only strengthened their alliance.
Even so, from the drop of the flag, Vinny had been suspicious about Roberto, who had matinee idol looks but whose character was lower than a serpent’s belly. He’d met Niamh at a PFA dinner where Roberto was inducted into the League Two “Hall of Fame” after making 600 appearances at right-back for Accrington, Morecambe and Bury. The latter were known as The Shakers and, right now, Vinny knew who he wanted to shake – by the throat.
Niamh replayed her story. After the last caution, Roberto had initially behaved, attending counselling paid for by the PFA. And then one night, with drink taken, he’d hit out. The beatings had quickly become systematic and regular; the put-downs relentless and when Roberto turned really vicious, he’d tie Niamh to a chair and burn her upper wrists. It was “punishment”, she was told, for being a useless wife who spent too much time at work, when she should be at home.
The final straw came last Saturday when Niamh's sports editor, stuck for copy with no Premier League action, sent her to cover Oldham against Fleetwood. It forced Roberto, now a players' agent, to cancel an appointment with a rookie pro at Blackpool who needed advice on a tax claim and when Niamh returned late from Boundary Park, Roberto had gone berserk. He'd rained in with both fists and when Little Vinny screamed at him to stop hurting his mother, the kid was sent flying by a fierce slap across his forehead. "We had to get as far away as possible," said a tearful Niamh.
The recall prompted more waterworks, during which Vinny shaped a plan. “Right you two, how about spending some time here in Dublin with us? I’ve a wee house a five-minute walk from here, which has just been redecorated and is ready for someone to move in. Let’s get you settled there today, after a visit to Dolan’s supermarket, and we can think about the options. May I suggest Niamh, you ring your boss and call in some sick leave – your readers will have to make do without your City observations for this weekend at least. And call your mother. Tell her you’re visiting me.”
Later, Vinny received a text from Niamh. “All settled here. Little Vinny sound asleep. Have glass of red wine to hand. Feeling wanted again. Love you Dad, Niamh xxx.” It was rare that Niamh called Vinny “Dad” and the expression gave him a shiver in his veins. They hadn’t known about each other until Niamh was 27 but they had clicked from the word go, like Dads and daughters do.
Research
Vinny was tempted to waddle down to Brian Boru Avenue and join his daughter for a night-cap but not now, for he had some research to do. Checking out the approved agents on the PFA website, he found the name he was looking for, and noted he had several players on the books of Crewe Alexandra, who were at home this weekend to Port
Vale
in League One.
With that, Vinny booked a flight to Manchester on Saturday morning, and bought a match ticket on-line for the Gresty Road game at £22. It was time, he reckoned, for an Italian job.
