Hennessy New Irish Writing: Sunday Town by Kevin Murphy

Sunday Town

Kevin Murphy

You've probably seen the name of my town on a signpost, maybe mispronounced it on the way home from some weekend away, sleepy and fed up. Maybe your mother corrected you and told about one of our minor celebrities, guys who owe money, that kind. Or perhaps those missing girls, thought to be rotting away somewhere deep in the mountains, their names buried in the minds of the locals. You might have even dosed off again with the names of the girls and the town rattling around in your head, thoughts of life here, the fresh air, the warm pubs, stories and memories real and fake like a dream or a nightmare.

The town is one you know, pubs, a pitch, a church, a bookies, a chipper. You could toss a stone the length of the main street but the creativity of the people would amaze you. Take the old boys' school, a dilapidated forgotten eyesore, it was one of O'Neill's pet projects but his money disappeared faster than a glass of water on a Sunday morning. The youngsters have made it into Disneyland and the delinquents paint it gold with cans of cheap beer.