#ryan mcahon

[killersfool]

Irish Goodbye | RYAN MCMAHON

Naomi swirled around the contents of her cup, in an out-of-it corner of her mind. She couldn't concentrate on the croaky vocals thrumming from the two humongous speakers—karaoke—some Journey song, the name had slipped away, under some pile of dust lodged within her creaking skull. Pulp was climbing up the glass, a green gooey sediment had collected at the bottom on the cup where, on the glass, miniscule flowers had been painted. Maybe if she was more of an optimist, she'd be imagaining the cup was, in a way, similar to a field. The green liquid being the glass and the coloured shapes being the flowers blooming.

She was bored, as you can tell. Very, very bored.

Imagining herself upstairs, watching a few episodes of Father Ted, she smiled contently. She ate a few crips from the glass bowl left on the bar. One was cheese and onion, the next prawn cocktail and the final was a quaver. Her favourite. It melted upon her tongue and she rolled it around her mouth to devour any straw flavour.

"This party's far from grand, isn't it?" A distant voice alerted her senses. She turned like a barn owl, her head almost making a compleye 180 until she met black, monochromatic eyes. He was one of the first boys she'd encountered in that grimy pub who's clothes were not black-and-white, devoid of colour, like the life had been sucked out of them. They were all virtually just walking mummies or corpses or a mixture of both. The second thing she noticed was his accent, Irish, which rose and fell as if he was a poet trying to prove a point.

"You can say that again." She spun her bar seat around to get a proper look at him.

"I was just about to head out and get an icecream. I'd been craving it—might be because everything in this place tastes the same." She watched how his hands moved along as he spoke. She didn't know whether to focus on his eyes, or his hands, or his hair which was a mess. He awkwardly swiped a stray hair from his pale forehead. His fingers lingered there as he breathed in rapidly. "I thought you might want to come along. Going to get icecream on your own feels pretty pointless. I don't think Sarah will care anyhow. You're Naomi? The journalist?"

Naomi had never met such an odd man in her twenty-five years of living. He wasn't odd in the sense that you'd want to run away from him or hold your keys like a knife in case he tried anything. It was more of a—why would some random bloke want to leave a pub, party, carnage for... icecream? He seemed like the type to hang out with party animals. Sarah had told the group that he was a drummer for some band. They'd been friends since they were very young. He was always bringing excitement to the most boring festivities. Gradually, it was becoming a necessity to invite him.

Naomi blinked twice, gulped about half of the glass of her green drink then slid the glass across the counter. It halted just before reaching the edge. She decided that she was going to take his offer. Anything to get away from the overpowering aroma of sweat that was burning the insides of her nose. Anything to get away from Sarah's shrieks filling the air everytime a karaoke song came on that she recognised. Naomi should've invested in some earbuds to block out the sound.

"Are you coming then?" The guy tried again, this time with a questioning tilt of the head. He beared his teeth, loosened his tie, ruffled his hair. "I'm Ryan by the way. I don't think we've ever been properly introduced."

Naomi shook the dark-haired boy's hand with a nervous, barely noticeable smile. "Nice to meet you and yeah, sure. Icecream sounds great."

She removed her jacket from the bar stool, placed her arms through the holes, ate another handful of crips before tucking in the stool and following Ryan out of the pub. She felt like she was breaking the law by not telling Sarah that she was leaving. This was unusual. They were both clinging to the shadows, glued to the dim half of the pub where the lights weren't really working.

"Are we Irish goodbying this?" Naomi whispered as they passed the gambling machines and pool tables. Her stomach was in knots, adrenaline pumping through her veins, heart beating at a double tempo.

Ryan stopped in his tracks before he pushed open the backdoor. Two words 'fire exit' in green were painted upon it. "Irish goodbye? Is that a saying? Or are you making fun of my accent?"

"No, no. It's a saying. I like your accent. It's like leaving an event without telling anyone." Naomi clarified. She had heard her friend using the phrase before. She'd never encountered a way to describe such a specific thing.

"Let's Irish goodbye this shit."

The pair crashed through the back door. A tidal wave of wind prickled across Naomi's skin. Goosebumps appeared upon her bare arms, moonlight poured onto the rain-covered pavement, scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air. The sky was a darkened pink as the sun glided on the horizon.

Naomi's heels splashed water everywhere as she stepped down the stairs leading to the alleyway. Her hair was all in her face due to the constant flow of wind dancing across her frame. Somehow Ryan's hair was pretty much intact (although it had been very messy beforehand so Naomi couldn't really tell how much it had changed). The clothes he was wearing—a leather jacket, Bowie shirt, jeans—meant that there was not a single inch of skin for the wind to knife and torture. Naomi missed the warmth of the pub.

"I like your accent too." Ryan had let her words sink in. He'd brainstormed them out in his mind to find the deeper or hidden meaning. He was like that. Always searching for the truth between sentences, through the way they spoke—it was weird. Maybe it was because he liked her. He'd seen her at countless of these parties and festivities. She was funny. Loud. Today he found a chance to actually speak to her, after many failed attempts prior after becoming too fearful or self-conscious. A blend of the two was not good on his brain.

"Thank you," Naomi murmured in response.

"It's just across the road." Ryan pointed to a flashing blue sign with the words 'Sally's Sundaes'. He led the way for Naomi, jumping in puddles every few steps like he was Peppa Pig.

"Do you do this often then?" Naomi was finding it hard to catch up with Ryan's energy. He must've been drinking a lot, or eating a lot of sweets because his pace was inhuman.

"What? Escape Sarah's party to get icecream?"

"Yeah."

"Sometimes." He paused as they stopped at the road. He looked both ways before crossing with Naomi beside him. The street was narrow, packed with many cars. The icecream shop cast a blue, flourescent hue onto the pavement. There was no one inside the shop except for an elderly woman in an azure uniform; her hat with little ocean waves painted on it. She was just about to flip around the 'open' sign when she spotted Ryan through the windows. They stepped inside, hearing a faint bell clash above the entrance. The worker approached the pair, her badge with the name 'Sally' glistened. She grinned from ear to ear at the sight of them. At this hour, business was at an all time low. Ryan was a regular though.

This time, however, Sally noticed the girl that was with him. A pretty girl for that matter. Sally was already questioning what was going on between them just by the way Ryan was looking up at her—all nervous, fingers twiddling like he was drumming a beat against his thigh. Seeing Ryan nervous was a rarity-this girl must have some superpower.

"Hey Ryan! Who's this with you?" Sally's cheerful demeanour eased any tension in the air.

"I'm Naomi," she introduced herself.

There was an array of icecream flavours in the fridge. From bubblegum to lemon sorbet to tiramisu. Naomi's mouth watered all the more with every movement of her eyes. They offered an Icecream Sundae deal with two scoops, a topping and sauce of your choice.

"It's like your song," Naomi laughed as she glanced through the options. She hummed the melody under her breath.

"Very true," Ryan said with a smile.

Ryan and Naomi sat down at one of the window tables after choosing their Sundaes. Naomi had never tasted such a flavoursome icecream in her life. Ryan allowed her to try some of his—vanilla and pistachio—which she had told him was rather boring. He had pouted and scoffed when she chose mango sorbet and chocolate chip. He believed that they just didn't go together at all. He was proved wrong when he tried some.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Naomi said after another mouthful of her sorbet. Outside, the sky was dark and the moon was high. She felt knackered even after doing pretty much absolutely nothing. Most of the day, she'd just been sitting down but just seeing the stars floating beautifully made her eyelids droop.

"It's no problem. You didn't seem to be enjoying the party." Ryan licked off the final residue of icecream from his tiny transparent spoon. He thought back to Naomi sitting alone, watching everything unfold just metres away from her. He'd been watching her from one of the sofas, wondering what was going on through her mind as she stared at Sarah. Any of her thoughts had surely been negative. She had watched the group of friends with distaste.

"I just wasn't feeling it today," Naomi admitted.

"Sarah's parties really drain the life out of you."

"Honestly. I have no clue why I even go to these things anymore. I guess I've just known her for so long, I'd feel bad if I skipped it." Naomi remembered the one time she'd forgotten about a party. Sarah had bombarded her with countless messages asking for her whereabouts. Naomi knew that Sarah just wanted to be her friend. She was a nice person. Not the greatest karaoke singer though.

"I get that. I've been mates with her for donkey's years. I only come along when I'm in England—which isn't too often. But, she really is intense. Like very, very, very intense. I'm a bit overwhelmed each time that I see her."

Naomi nodded with each word he said. "How's touring going by the way? I've heard a lot about your band." She was reminded of the time that Sarah invited 'Inhaler' to play at her birthday. Naomi thought they were good. Really, really good. Each of her Spotify playlists had at least one of their songs in them. She'd been especially impressed by Ryan's drumming. Seeing someone play their instrument always fascinated her. It just looked so natural for him to be holding drumsticks and banging cymbals.

"Tiring. Nerveracking. I just love that feeling when you get off stage, the adrenaline rush. I can't explain it. It just feels amazing." Ryan's wrist rested against his cheek as he watched the cars passing like blurs through the window. Naomi traced her gaze over Ryan's features; curved nose, wavy hair that was tousled across his forehead due to the wind, sharp jaw, pretty smile. She understood why Sarah invited him to every party. There was just some way about him, a certain confidence always emanated from him and he could bring life to even the most quiet rooms. Even in this calm state, there was comfort in the simple commodity of his presence.

Ryan placed his spoon back into the cardboard cup before shifting to look at Naomi. It was true, he did feel nervous around her. He could barely attempt to formulate a word as he watched the gentle cadence of her chest raising then falling with every breath. It was something so normal, so straightforward but it was all he could focus on. Her very presence was intimidating. He tried to plan out what to say next, let some words come together within his mind but he was sure that whatever he'd say, he'd make a total fool of himself.

"Do you want to watch a film or something?" Naomi piped up. She nudged the icecream cup along the table gently. She couldn't look him in the eye. He was staring at her with raised eyebrows and a sly smirk.

"Where?" He watched as her fingers tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her hooped earrings shuffled around as she moved.

She nervously looked forward to evade his eyes. "Mine."

The implications of that word rattled his mind. His boots clicked against hers under the table as a short, uncomfortable silence rippled between them. "Yeah, okay," he said, faintly, his accent hiding behind his words. "Sounds good." Wanting to act cool and actually coming across as cool was a very difficult thing. Naomi thought he was pretty cool.

They scuttled out of the shop after thanking Sally for their sundaes. Ryan offered to pay for Naomi as it was his idea to bring her there.

The streets were empty aside from the ocassional car that passed every few minutes. Streetlamps shone, making Ryan's skin glow with warmth and aliveness. Step after step, street after street. Her apartment appeared and Naomi opened the door, after struggling to find her key and letting out an irritable sigh. Ryan watched her with delight, snorting at how difficult she was finding this. Naomi resisted the urge to lock him outside and watch him shiver in the cold. Who knows how far his hotel was from here or whether the other boys in the band would even bother to pick him up. They were probably all asleep for all she knew.

Climbing up the stairs felt like climbing Mount Everest. She didn't know why she'd chosen them over the lift. Although the lift did scare the living daylights out of here. It was a square box that had malfunctioned too many times to count on her fingers. She'd been called by her neighbours after they got stuck inside or it started making some weird noises. If she ever had the chance to make a horror film, she'd film the entire thing in that creepy lift. She wouldn't even need a monster or a villian to take its place.

"Which one's yours?" Ryan was already on the third floor. He paced up and down the hallway, waiting for her response.

"Thirty-two. Third one on the right." Naomi reached the top of the stairs. She was panting. Her fingers clung onto the banister before she hoisted herself up to the door of her room. Ryan was leaning beside the dark oak, his shoulder squeezed against the white paint. He was making it hard for her to open the door again. Her hands were shaking as she turned the key. He was having this weird effect over her.

Ryan shrugged his Doc Martens off of his feet and dunked them to the side. Naomi offered to hang up his jacket and he passed it to her, revealing bracelets around wrists and strong drummer's arms with tattoos scattered along them. She glanced over them discreetly whilst putting his jacket on her coathanger. "You like Bowie?" She was first drawn to the tattoo of David Bowie's face that had caught her eye.

"Who doesn't?" He laughed to himself. He turned his arm forward to present the tattoo to her. She traced her fingers over the inked lines, his face warmed up at the subtle touch.

"I've got some of his records," she said as she pulled her hand away. His lips fell down at the sudden lack of touch.

He followed her along through the apartment, which perfectly encapsulated her. Plants were dotted around with shiny, perfect leaves. They were well looked-after. Posters of all kinds of films and musicians were pinned onto the walls. Bags of Quavers were on top of her kitchen table. She turned the kettle on as Ryan explored her apartment like he was discovering another country. He regarded all the intricacies, the typewriter in the living room, the disordered folders of her articles on the coffee table, colourful cushions on the sofa. The whole place smelt like flowers and freshly cut grass, when the trimmings float through the air and you can't help but breathe it all in. It was so homely compared to the hotel room he'd been trapped in with the band. It was nice to be somewhere different. Especially with good company.

He found her records stacked up in the living room and was also met with a pleasant surprise of the DVD box set of Father Ted. He had the exact same one in the tour bus. It was one of his favourite shows. He grinned as he flicked through her records; from Blur to Bowie to Taylor Swift—she had quite the collection. He picked out 'The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust', carefully pulled out the vinyl and placed it on the record player. The stylus glided downwards and the gentle drums of 'Five Years' emerged from the speakers

"Good choice." Naomi mused as she brought two cups of tea into the room. She'd taken off her blazer and was wearing fluffy socks. "I don't know how you like your tea so I've got some sugar and milk here." She placed his cup beside her sugar container and jar of milk.

"Thank you," he murmured as she settled down on the sofa, dipping her chocolate hobnob in the boiling drink. She hadn't had a guy in her apartment for ages and the sudden invasion of privacy was strange. The living room was a mess. Discarded headphones and magazines were amongst the clutter just left on the floor. Her bedroom was at least ten times worse. Journalism was a generally messy job. She had highlighters, folders, post-it notes, all kinds of random stuff thrown everywhere.

Ryan hadn't acknowledged any of clutter. He was too focused on trying to learn more about her through her music taste. He then picked up the Father Ted box set and held it up, looking at her with a small smile, "Didn't think you'd like this."

"Oh, I love it. I'm not usually a sitcom person but it changed me."

"Should we watch some?" He was already turning on her CD player and placing the first season disc in. She kicked up her feet onto the coffee table, resting her head on her armrest.

She didn't even need to respond because he'd already put on the first episode. He sat beside her, pouring some milk into his tea. "I've watched this show so many times. It's an addiction," Naomi muttered. "I sort of find Father Ted fit." She took in his expression then laughed, "I have no shame."

Ryan gulped a long drink of his tea, eyebrows furrowing with scepticism. "You're kidding."

"He's leng."

"I'm a bit scared of you."

"Why does no one agree me with me?" She pressed her face into the armrest. Ryan was laughing along with every joke whilst trying to figure out what Naomi saw in Father Ted. "I dunno if it's his face, the accent or the amount of times I've watched this show. It's probably altered my brain chemistry."

"I see it." Ryan tried to hold a straight face as he said those three words but he couldn't help the chuckle that left him.

"Bugger off. I shouldn't have told you that. Fuck's sake. You're going to tell Sarah and that lot, aren't you?" Naomi could already imagine him hosting a weird meeting, or making a groupchat with everyone. She'd be ruined. The thought of them making a joke everytime she entered a room sounded far from ideal. Having to spend hours with them was bad enough but this, this was dangerous. Ryan could possibly be the worst blabber on Earth.

"I'm not like that. My lips are sealed." He motioned his fingers across his mouth like he was tying a zip, circled them around at the corner then threw the made up key down into her plantpot. Naomi had been lost in a trance—gaze focused on his lips—they were thin, smooth and gently pressed together. He followed her shifting eyes until she snapped them away, back to the TV screen.

Dougal was now onscreen—Naomi wasn't particularly focused on any words leaving the priest's lips, or the laughing track almost breaking the sound barrier. She was now sat on the sofa properly: her legs crossed and her head on a cusion. Ryan was sat similarly, on the opposite end of the sofa, but instead with his legs hanging off the edge of the seat. He looked so calm with his cup of tea which had been specially selected by Naomi. It was a present her Dad bought her when she got her first job. The design was simple—sunglasses with a sparkle in the corner. She thought it was insanely cheesy when she first saw it but maybe it was given to her for a reason. All the months of dust collecting upon it, the times she'd left it in the back corner of cupboard to sit alone. Maybe Ryan was supposed to be the one to drink out of it. The holder perfectly complimented his slender, ringed fingers.

Overthinking. She was overthinking everything.

It was late, she was tired. This was the hour when her mind would reel like a projector in an empty cinema. Just her in the back row, watching all her thoughts roll across the screen.

"You alright there, Nao?" Ryan clicked his fingers a couple of times, waved a hand palm before her face.

Naomi pushed herself off of the sofa and turned the key on the window. Fresh air poured in. She sighed. "Sorry. It's just a bit stuffy in here."

"I can go if you'd like. It's getting late. I don't want to keep you up." Ryan stood up, fixing the cushion back into its original place.

"No, Ryan. You're the best company I've had in a long while. You're really cool and nice and a great drummer. I'm still buzzing after watching you play."

Naomi plopped down on the stool beside her keyboard, her head falling into her hands. She scraped her hands through her hair, raking through each strand. She jolted forwards when a light pressure was applied to her back. Ryan was standing beside her and said, "You're a lot fucking cooler than me. Your articles are mindblowing—they're funny, sad at times, just a general rollercoaster of emotion." He gently traipsed the length of her shoulders with his fingers.

"You read my articles?"Naomi now looked up at him, her eyes a little teary and lipstick smudged. "I'd write one about you." There was something so overwhelming about all of this. She then looked at the wall—a little flustered. "-I mean the band, of 'Inhaler', of all of you." Father Ted was still playing the background. Too many Irish accents for Naomi to cope. Although Ryan's was most definitely her favourite, no doubt about it. If he read her a bedtime story or even just the bloody shopping list, she'd be asleep in a matter of seconds.

His gentle touches were driving the oxygen out of her lungs. "That would be an honour." Ryan tucked her hair behind her ears, carefully wiped away the red smear of lipstick with his thumb. He was just about to pull his hand away when she grabbed it, held it. His fingers were a little clammy but so were hers—the heat of the room was immeasurable—the light draft of wind was barely making a difference. But now, Naomi felt more at peace. Especially as she traced along his knuckles, his fingernails, his cuticles. It was weirdly intimate. Ryan thought he might be glowing pink. It was like he was in a vacuum, completely detached from his body, unable to move or speak. She made him mental.

"Did you know that the guy who played father Ted—who sadly passed away—was actually from Dublin like you."

"Interesting."

"Right? Well, anyway, uh. He sounds a lot like you, almost the same. Now that I've been talking to you for a while—I can hear the similarities." She stammered on, still transfixed by his hands, now outlining the veins along his forearms and each tattoo that she passed. His other hand was still on her shoulder, drumming his digits to the beat he'd been playing when they went to get icecream.

"Is that a good thing...?" He paused, ran his tongue over his front teeth as he stopped in thought. "Didn't you say that one the reason you might find him fit is because of his accent?"He sucked his lip under his teeth as he hesitantly spoke. The room felt a lot smaller as if the walls were crushing in. He was challenging her, proving that he payed attention to every word that she said.

"I didn't — wait fuck yeah I did, didn't I? Well, I've dug my own grave." She shook her head, trying not to lose herself in Ryan's eyes. They were pools of comfort. "Yeah, I find your accent pretty hot. Is that bad?"

His entire vocabulary had vanished by the boldness of her statement, the smirking playing at her lips. "I don't know what to say," he babbled, accent somehow thicker with every word. His pushed his knuckles into his cheek, feeling how warm it was.

"Then don't say anything," she said, barely a whisper.

A newfound confidence surged within Naomi. Just his smile sent her into some haze, she could get drunk on it. He was kneeling before her. His jean-covered knees were resting on the carpet and he was anxiously scuttling. The air was getting thick was silence — silence on their part — Father Ted was still speaking. Ryan reached for the remote and turned the TV off, leaving David Bowie's 'starman' gently playing in the background, serenading them. If Naomi told Ryan to not talk, he would listen.

Her hands rested on either of his cheeks. They were rather pale in contrast to her skin, and cool compared to the room. He neared her. His breath swam across her lips, smelt of tea and a hint of vanilla — from the icecream. He whispered, "God, Naomi," no longer falling victim to the simplicity of silence, of wordlessness. The way their foreheads were together, like two jigsaw halves blending into one, it was too perfect. The way Ryan spoke her name — like it was his lifeline. He said it twice more and her heart strained, her eyes closed and his eyelashes scrubbed across her brows. His fluffy hair cascaded over her temple and she let her right hand feel though the curls.

David Bowie's voice, the echoes of cars passing in the distance, the rustle of clothes. Each sound added to the intimacy — the quietude. They stayed there for a while, just relishing in the moment. They both acknowledged the importance of this. They both needed it. Time away from any carnage, from anxious whispers, from parties, from life —they had found safety in one another. They were both hoping — a lingering thought bloomed between them, in the slight gap left between their touch, just like those flowers on Naomi's glass cup — maybe this could blossom into something good.