Blue Star Rising

By Keith Ryan

Blue Star Rising, a literary novel set in the autumn of 1993, tells the story of Richard (Dickie) Boyle, a member of the Dublin Gaelic Football Team (who play in blue jerseys). As a child, Richard was fostered from his birth family in the inner city to a middle class family in the suburbs. His foster parents have recently died and left him with property and money. Now just out of college, he starts a temporary teaching job in a Sheltered Workshop where he meets Dee. It is a whirlwind journey of young love set against a background of life threatening violence, social imbalance, family opposition, and the strains that superstar status brings to a relationship that is given the full media treatment by the tabloid press. This journey of self-discovery takes him back to his birth family in Dublin’s flatland, and their involvement with drugs and paramilitary violence, forcing Richard to confront his past, a past that threatens to destroy all that he holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Ryan
• Release date: Nov 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916279612

Keith Ryan

Keith Ryan is a retired teacher and secondary school Principal. He played Gaelic Football for Wicklow and Trinity College Dublin in the 1970's and 1980's. Blue Star Rising is his debut novel.

Book preview

I’m doing a lifestyle piece on you - you know, likes and dislikes, what you eat, where you hang out, where you buy your clothes… Will you do an interview with me sometime this week?

Orla had been in his class in UCD.

Look Orla, I don’t want to appear rude, but I’m not interested in any of this.

You may not be, Dickie, but our readers and your supporters are clamouring for this. It’s going to be written with or without your help. I just thought you’d like to have an input, that’s all. We’re starting with your biological family, your life in the flats and moving on to…

What?

Dickie, my editor is very clear about what people are asking for in this article. You are an amazing person and the readers want to know what makes you tick. They want to know everything about you, including your early life in the city. I was hoping to give you some control over the direction of the story. I can meet you anytime you like. Give me a call soon.

Richard noticed his hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver. Family! What the hell did that mean? A mother who drank, smoked and gambled every penny that she could lay her hands on. Three sisters who were interested only in themselves, who despised him for leaving, resented him for having a house, money and an education, envied him for making something out of his life and tried to make him feel guilty at every turn.

Well, he had moved on from that life for good. If he gave his mother money, what would she do? Straight down to the Horse and Jockey for comfort. And his sisters wouldn’t speak to him because he was sent away and they were left to try to cope with life in the flats. His eldest sister Scarlett was living with some low-life in the city centre. What chance for her three-year-old son that Richard had never even seen? Bruce, she called him. Probably after Springsteen or Bruce Lee, or a character in one of the soaps that she spent all day watching on her giant television screen. Her partner, a loudmouth covered with body tattoos and gold jewellery, had a reputation on the streets. As for the other sisters, Elizabeth and Marilyn were rough diamonds, but they must have had it tough. Family!

He’d have to call Orla. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, making him rub them awake into this living nightmare.

There was a carnival atmosphere in the flats. The blue bunting trailed from every balcony and every lamppost, onto railings and washing line poles, as Orla and her photographer got to work. They had insisted on doing the photoshoot on a Saturday as they wanted the flats full of kids. Richard liked that much of the proposal and secured their agreement that no photos would be taken inside the flat. His car was surrounded as he drove through the entrance and parked. The kids were excited to see him and delighted to be asked questions by a reporter. Richard was beginning to relax and enjoy the adulation when his mother and two of his sisters appeared.

They were dressed like they were going for a night out in the pub. Hair, nails, heels (Lizzy and Marilyn), short skirts and fishnet tights (Lizzy and Marilyn) and tight, low-cut tops (all three). Ma wore a leopard-print top, black leather mini skirt and a fur coat.

Darlings, you look amazing!

It was Marc Paul, the photographer, snapping away. All the neighbours were out to watch the show. Jason, one of the lads, had decided to act as spokesperson.

It’s all right living here, but we need more facilities, a proper playground, somewhere to play football, and a youth centre. That would help to prevent young people from getting involved in drugs and crime. Most of the time there’s nothing to do.

Richard could see that even Orla was impressed.

Jason, how old are you?

I’m twelve. Just started secondary school this year.

Did you say there’s drugs and crime here?

Jason looked about as if they were surrounded by drugs and crime. He lowered his voice.

It’s the way we’re brought up. No one has a chance. What do you expect? How could it be any different? We need help!

Orla stood with her mouth open as Jason, who was interviewed on a regular basis for TV, radio and PhD studies on poverty, crime and drugs, reamed off his polished routine. When he finished, he smiled for the camera. Orla lapped up every word, then turned to the family.

Can we get one family photograph with Dickie in the middle please?

Richard.

Pardon?

You called him Dickie. His name is Richard. I named him after Richard Burton, you know. But you’re too young to remember who Richard Burton is, I suppose.

Richard?

"Yes, that’s it. He was married five times, you know. Twice to Elizabeth Taylor who I called my daughter after. I loved Where Eagles Dare. Have you seen it?"

Eh, no, sorry, I haven’t, but I’ll look it up. That’s lovely. Just look straight at the camera. Can you all smile, please? Thank you, Marc Paul. Do we need any other shots?

Richard could feel his mother’s hand shaking as she grabbed hold of his arm. He couldn’t remember the last time she had touched him. She never touched him. But he could feel her shake and he felt sorry for her.

Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?

His whisper was brushed away by his sisters who grabbed him for a last photograph with them. Marc Paul gave the thumbs-up sign and he and Orla were done. His mother grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear.

You have to get Bruce out of the crèche immediately. His life is in danger. Someone fired shots through the window into Scarlett’s flat last night. She’s gettin’ ready to go to Spain later today with that Cobra one. Richard, she can’t take Bruce with her. It’s too dangerous. Can you go down and collect him and bring him back here now? We’ll take care of him till things settle down again.

Ma, he doesn’t even know me. Can’t Elizabeth or Marilyn do it?

Her grip was surprisingly strong and she twisted his arm till he was looking right into her face.

You have to do this. I’d never forgive myself if anything happens to him. Richard, I’m begging you! They’ll be watching for the girls, but they won’t stop you. Please, Richard.

He didn’t have to ask who would be watching. There had been a movement of anti-drugs activists and it was rumoured that the paramilitaries were pulling the strings. A question that you don’t ask. You just know.

Okay, Ma. I’ll get him. But Elizabeth will have to come to hold him in the car.

So it was that Richard found himself sitting next to Lizzy, who didn’t usually talk to him at all, now shouting directions and yelling at him to hurry on through the crawl of lunchtime traffic. She rolled down the window to hurl abuse at every car, truck or bus that blocked the way. Richard’s nerves were frayed when he pulled up across the road from the crèche. There didn’t seem to be anybody about, but that could change at any time.

Richard insisted Lizzy come with him. The crèche staff seemed happy to give up Bruce who eyed Richard with suspicion until he saw the car.

Beep-beep. Me-drive-me-drive.

He was bouncing in Lizzy’s arms in the back seat. She had to struggle with all her puny strength to keep him from jumping into the front as they snaked their way back to the flats.

This is your Uncle Dickhead, Bruiser. Say hi to your Uncle Dickhead.

Richard didn’t think they’d been followed, and breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the flat. His mother had the door open and was outside sweeping, a thing he had never seen her do before.

Say bye Uncle Dickhead.

Bye-bye Dickhead. Bye-bye Dickhead.

Bruiser repeated it and seemed to like the sound of it as he shrieked with joy to see his Nana.

Bye-bye Dickhead.

He had the face and build of a boxer and even at three years old, Richard could see that the three stripes cut into each side of his head by the barber suited him.

You’ve had your fun, now piss off.

It was amazing how his sisters could turn nasty in the twinkling of an eye – and just out of earshot of the Ma who had gone inside with the precious bundle of joy.

On his way to the car, Richard passed ‘Drugs Out’ signs on vacant doors and windows. He had read about the candlelight marches to the homes of drug dealers and of the violent confrontations there. He lived just four miles away, amid leafy, tree-lined streets and whitewashed houses with ordered gardens and middle-class neighbours who played golf and tennis and sailed out of Dun Laoghaire on the weekend. A different world, a different universe.

Orla was waiting patiently outside his house. She greeted him with that professional smile she reserved for her special assignments.

Hi Dickie, or should I say Richard!

Drop it, Orla. Sorry about the delay. I had to do something for my mother. Okay, Marc Paul. No photos outside the front of the house. Let’s go inside.

Orla smiled. This was going to be a great article. She could see the headline: ‘Blue Star Rising’ with great photos from the flats and then this. It was perfect. Dickie was such a gentleman. She couldn’t help admiring his physique as he walked to the front door. Drugs and crime. That’s what that child Jason had said the future held. She must do a follow-up article with him on life in the flats.

Can we talk about your foster parents? she asked. How old were you when you came to live here?

Richard walked through the sitting room, opened the patio doors and stepped out into the autumn sunshine that flooded the decking and bathed the garden with its ethereal light.

Later, when the photos were done, Orla sat across the patio table and broached her final subject.

I know you said that talk of Dee was taboo, but I have to ask you for a comment on reports that she’s back in Ireland. Have you guys been in touch?

Taboo means taboo, Orla. I’m sorry, but that’s all I have to say.

Yes, but this is the one thing that readers are dying to know about. That and your trip to Sydney. Where to from here for Dickie Boyle?

Richard stood up. The interview was over.

CHAPTER TWO

May 1979

Yer Ma!

Ye wha’?

Yer Ma!

The group, consisting mainly of eight and nine-year-olds, scattered into a chanting circle.

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

The two boys howled and charged at each other punching hard and quick, hits landing on both sides. The circling pack screamed and danced in unison.

What’s this? Jasus.

The Master jumped into the circle and shouted at the top of his voice. Another teacher followed and the boys were separated, closed fists flaying, eyes popping from red faces. The pack broke up, jostling and laughing.

Boyle, ye little bollix, what’s this? Can’t ye even behave for five minutes when we’re out on a school trip?

The voice was a hiss through gritted teeth.

He said he’d had me Ma, Master.

I don’t care if he’s had your wee sister. I’ve warned ye for the last time, Boyle.

Richard looked at the popping eyes, flaming red mop of hair and sticky-out ears and said nothing. The Master was from Donegal or Kerry or somewhere with bog in it anyway. Richard had followed him one day after school, but had to turn back when he crossed the South Circular. Didn’t want to risk gettin’ caught by the gang from The Square when he was on his own.

Jim, you stay around here with Boyle till we get back. I’ll take Smith with us. I don’t want another turf war startin’ between the gangs from The Square and The Flats. We’ll sort this out later.

Jim stood with Richard as the group resumed their hike past the amusements and on up the steep path.

You, me boyo, are coming with me.

The new teacher, Jim, was holding him by the back of the neck with his jumper twisted tight on his neck. He was from another part of Bogland. Tipperary or Wicklow maybe.

You’re not going to give me any trouble, are ye, Dickie boy?

They were standing in front of a small whitewashed cottage. Richard looked beyond the teacher to a large painted red hand that rocked gently in the sea breeze. Beneath it the word PALMIST drew his eyes like a magnet.

Richard glared but said nothing. He stared at the sign.

If ye behave I’ll give ye a treat before we go home, said Jim.

Richard did behave himself in the hope of getting one of the massive ice-creams with coloured topping and flake that he saw other children licking. A treat!

Have you ever had your fortune told? There’s this gypsy who knows stuff.

Jim gave him a look. He led Richard into the cottage with the big red hand, and handed over some coins to a bored teenage girl sitting behind a table in the hall. She opened the door to a room on the right and gestured for Richard to go in.

I’ll wait for you, said Jim.

Inside the room of the small cottage, Richard longed for the ice cream. Maybe after this he would get one. He hadn’t put a foot wrong since the fight. Through the window he watched the steep rise of the Head plunge into shadow. He traced the progress of the shower across the shoulder of the summit, sweeping madly downhill chasing day-trippers to the shelters and into the amusements at the end of the prom. The glass tinkled in front of him as the room fell into darkness. Further out to sea a rainbow threw its magic arc against the patchwork sky. He shivered.

The door behind him slipped silently open and an ancient gypsy woman wearing a red headscarf and giant gold earrings showed him into a dimly lit back room.

Your hand is shaking. Do not be afraid.

Richard watched the weather-beaten face with yellow teeth and tiny black eyes pore over his upturned hand. She pulled his hand closer to the red lamp.

Oh, my! You have lost a parent – yes, a father – when you were very young. You have had an unhappy childhood. I see family troubles at home. You are surrounded by strong women.

She raised her leathery face to his and Richard felt those wizened eyes burn through him. He tried to pull away. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

But this is a very lucky hand, she went on. I see a new start, a new life. Yes, indeed, this is a very lucky hand. I see fame and fortune. Yes! You are destined to fulfil your dreams. Great things will happen to you before you become a man. Come here.

Richard followed reluctantly. How had she known about his father? That new teacher must have told her so that she could wind him up. That’s it, he decided. It’s a wind-up. She held a cloudy globe between her hands and placed his hands on it and looked into its depths. Richard tried to see from where he was sitting across the small table, but there was nothing there.

A huge change is coming into your life. You will become very famous…I see large crowds…you are head and shoulders over everyone, and… oh!

The old woman stood up.

Not everything about your future is sure.

What did you see just now? Tell me. If it’s something bad, I want to know.

Some things are best left unsaid. Not everything about your future is clear. You are a very lucky boy. A great thing is going to happen to you. Don’t be afraid.

In the light of the front room, she seemed to shrink in size and grow in age, all her energy spent.

Outside he scuffed his shoe off the wet pavement and breathed deeply in the strong sea air.

Ye look a bit red in the face, said Jim. Are ye okay?

Richard climbed on to the rounded top of the whitewashed wall, jumped up and tipped the signboard, sending it squeaking on its rusty bracket. He landed at the feet of the teacher who grabbed his arm and marched him across the road and up on to the stony beach.

Ye can throw stones into the sea while we wait for them to come down off the Head.

Richard felt the cool of the smooth stone in his hand. Then he let go at a gull with all the strength of his eight years.

Just a load of bollox.

The slap on his ear was like a bullet that sent his head sideward, immediately followed by one on the other side. This helped to stabilize him as he slipped on the stony shore.

The Master was back.

CHAPTER THREE

September 1993

From the outside of the Training Centre it looked like any factory unit. The insipid beige brick front was broken by black barred windows on the ground floor. Upstairs, a row of mirrored windows watched as he quickly crossed the car park. Two large entrance doors stood like steel partitions, glinting silver in the September sun. The right-hand door was open, with blue plastic strips hanging limply in the opening, mocking the bright blue sky. Richard had watched the forklift truck speed in and out on laden, important journeys, like a child moving sand at the beach. He passed through a small half-glass door that said RECEPTION in faded gold letters.

Inside, a short, steep, double flight of stairs brought him into a long, narrow corridor with a row of windows looking down on the factory floor. He inhaled sharply. His eyes swept over the long tables piled high with what looked like magazines. Around them a teeming mass of bodies, men and women, stood shoulder to shoulder, pressing forward like worker bees around the queen. They appeared to be putting inserts into the magazines. The hiss and chomp of heavy machinery sounded intermittently from somewhere on the factory floor.

He knocked on the door marked MANAGER in gold letters on a black background.

Who’s there? demanded a rough voice through the door. What do you want?

Richard was a bit taken aback.

Who is it? repeated the voice from the other side of the door. There was a noticeable sharpness, verging on irritation.

Richard….Richard Boyle.

He swallowed hard. Come on,