The Lonely Crowd will feature a new short story by a different author each month throughout the remainder of 2025. For June, we are delighted to publish a new work by Aideen Henry.

‘Pricks,’ said Carmel, ‘they come in all shapes and sizes. Trick is spotting them.’

Orna frowned and squinted over at her. Carmel’s muscles clenched in her temple, broadening her forehead. She really was getting worse.

‘What?’ Carmel said.

Orna shook her head.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming?’ said Carmel.

Orna pushed back her chair, fingering her handbag in her lap. The air in the café, warm and humid. She glanced out the window at the cloud filled sky, a kind of July day that felt both bright and heavy.

She looked back at Carmel, who had opened her large hands in the shape of a bowl.

‘Well?’

‘It’s not that …’ Orna said, ‘it’s just that…’

‘You fell in love with him,’ Carmel shrugged, ‘I get it.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘You love him. And he’s a lying prick. They’re not mutually exclusive.’

Sometimes Carmel’s bluntness was exasperating. Yet it always felt necessary, like a slap to the face. Always some truth in it, somewhere. A necessary pain. Like pressing on a bruise to remind yourself that something bad has happened.

Christ, since when did pain become good.

‘What’ll I do?’ Orna said, knowing as she asked the question what Carmel’s answer would be. Needing to hear it but having no wish to.

‘Only one thing to do.’

‘I know, but…’

‘What’s a week or two’s misery? Better than months, years, of slow torture from this fella. Clearly he’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear, as long as he can keep you dangling.’

Message delivered, Carmel slid back in her seat.

Orna found it hard to believe that this is the kind of man he had turned out to be.

‘Do you not think …’ Orna began then glanced up at Carmel and away again.

‘He won’t exit that marriage no matter how dead he swears it is.’

Orna shook her head, flopped back and sighed. She had been played, right enough. She hadn’t even told Carmel what he’d said about his marriage and Carmel had guessed it, almost word for word. There must be a book these men look up for the next lie to spin, when their imagination fails them. What imagination.

‘So, how do you spot them?’ Orna said.

‘Haven’t figured that one out yet. Are you planning on getting him back at all?’

‘Getting even?’

Orna remembered her son, Oscar’s reaction to being struck on the shoulder by a passing cyclist when he was five. ‘I have to get him back, Mommy,’ he’d said through his tears, ‘I have to.’ They spent that evening searching nearby housing estates, without success, looking for anyone who might resemble the cyclist. His shoulder hurt him only briefly but his pride, oh his pride.

‘A little lesson for him before you go,’ said Carmel. ‘Or after you go. Something for him to remember you by. A memento. A bit like a tattoo, really. Only not.’

‘I’ll get away from him. That’s as much as I can manage.’

‘You’d be surprised how great it feels. I’d say even goody-two-shoes Orna could enjoy it.’

‘Ending it makes me sad. Getting even won’t change that.’

‘Pity.’

Orna examined Carmel’s face.

‘You’ve a plan, I suppose.’

‘It’d be easy enough seeing as he’s such a clod.’ Carmel sat forwards, her blue eyes dancing in her head.

‘Carmel, I’m still seeing him.’

‘What kind of an idiot asks a client out on a date?’ Leaning on her elbows, her large hands lay like fallen rocks on the table. ‘Using work email?’

‘I’m not getting him back.’

‘He lied. He disrespected you by lying to you. Does he not deserve, has he not earned his comeuppance? He’s only begging for it.’

Orna smiled.

‘Begging for it?’

‘Well?’

‘Go on so, tell me what you’d do.’

For entertainment value alone, this would be worth hearing. The thought of it would probably be enough to satisfy Orna’s clearly underdeveloped retaliation instincts.

‘Depends on how hard you want to play it. Full frontal or accidental, mar dhea, so sorry, oops!’

‘I’ll go with the oops.’

‘The gome used his work email. And I take it they’ve all met at the Christmas party, his colleagues, his wife and kids.’

‘So?’

‘A reply saying you’re ending it because he’s married so it’s really for the best. And advising him, because you really care, of course, that he really shouldn’t proposition customers. His boss wouldn’t approve and he could lose his job. Send the email to info@. That should reach the whole team. If he ever comes back to you on it, tell him you just hit reply. You thought it was his personal email. So. So. Sorry.’

‘He could be fired.’

‘He should be fired, but he won’t be. They’ll clip his wings. They’ll half admire him too for trying you.’

The waitress cleared the table. Carmel and Orna stood and slipped on their coats. Carmel towered over Orna. A gentle drizzle darkened the afternoon light.

‘Is that other business finished with?’ said Orna.

‘Nearly, just one final surprise.’ Carmel moistened her lower lip.

‘Carmel, you should stop.’

‘Hmm … naw. One more, then that’s it.’

‘You said that about mice through the letterbox, what’s left?’

‘Rotten fish, my farewell gift.’

‘Through the letterbox?’

‘In the boot of his precious Jag.’

‘Does he not lock it?’

‘You’d think he would. Never bothers when it’s parked in the garage.’

‘You’ve a key to his garage?’

‘Always under the flowerpot.’

‘This is dangerous.’

‘It’s easy. One teeny weeny bucket of fish heads, rotting in his car for the week he’s abroad with his new squeeze. That’ll soften his cough for him.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Who?’

Sometimes Carmel made no sense. Who doesn’t look up the one he dumps you for? Orna’d had no difficulty finding a photo of the wife online. She’d regretted it after. The woman had looked so nice, so kind.

‘His new, you know…’ said Orna.

‘No idea.’

‘Did you not look her up?’

‘Why would I?’ said Carmel. ‘She didn’t cheat on me and lie about it. I won’t be sleeping with her.’

Carmel had no concept of jealousy. She was blinkered that way, a blessing maybe, considering how prone she was to acting out her instincts.

‘He’ll know it was you,’ said Orna.

‘I hope so.’

‘No cameras?’

‘Doesn’t believe in them. Moron.’

‘Are you not afraid he’ll lash back?’

‘He’ll take the beating. He’s a coward. And he was brought up catholic so he’ll know he’s earned it.’

Orna zipped up her coat and plunged both hands deep into her pockets. Sometimes blunt was just too much. Carmel, too, needed to be challenged.

‘So you think I’m a coward?’ Orna said.

‘I didn’t say that. Are you?’

‘Maybe. Maybe I am … what am I saying … no, I’m not a coward.’

‘Really?’

‘I just wouldn’t…’

‘What?’

‘I just wouldn’t … lower myself.’

‘Oh, I see. Carmel the fishwife, the bare knuckled boxer. You think I’m uncouth.’

‘Carmel.’

‘It’s okay, Orna, you stay in your ivory tower. Keep those hands clean, those fists unbloodied. I prefer to be real.’

‘With revenge?’

‘Yes, that’s real. More real than all the blather that creep has been feeding you in the name of love.’

Orna had no answer for that.

Carmel held the café door open while Orna stepped through.

‘Everyone has a price.’ Carmel said, ‘what would it take?’

‘What?’

‘You know.’

They walked towards the car park, past hedgerows bursting with orange sprays of Montbresia. Orna tried to remember the last time she had lashed back. It would have been with Oscar. Her reaction, in affection or in anger, was always instantaneous with him. She’d have worried less about rearing a girl. How do you mother a boy with no father figure in his life? Poor Oscar, when he disobeyed her she punished him severely. When he grew to be a man, whatever else, he would treat women with respect, she would make sure of it. Or fear.

‘I’d have to be outraged, I suppose,’ Orna said.

‘You’ve been dating a man for two months who hid from you he’s married and you’re not outraged?’

‘I could feel it for someone else. For you, maybe, but not for myself.’

Carmel had a way of drawing her out, leading Orna to discover things about herself and her view of the world that she hadn’t fully realised before their conversation.

They reached the carpark and hugged.

‘Do you still think about him? Senan, I mean.’ Orna asked. She never knew whether it was best to mention him or to leave it. It was now three years and Carmel was far from over it.

‘Of course, try not to,’ said Carmel. ‘Time makes him perfect. Hate that.’

‘But you’ve such a memory for every detail, Carmel, all your times together.’

‘All those memories get a sheen, though. A glaze is thrown over them. My mind can’t hold him as he really was. He never ages. Still 40. He’ll be forever 40.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘No man will ever measure up to him if he’s perfect.’

‘You haven’t had too many contenders.’

‘I wonder is it because that’s a competition they can never win. I don’t know that I’d want them to, really.’

‘Senan’s dead. You’re not cheating on him by dating other men.’

‘Feels like cheating, though.’ Carmel’s eyes hooded over with the same flat look she’d had at the funeral. ‘That’s what I find so weird about this. I usually know my own mind.’

‘Always, you always do.’

‘On this I hold two totally opposite ideas – both of them feel right, yet they contradict each other completely.’

‘About Senan?’

‘About men, after Senan,’ said Carmel. ‘I really really want to be with a man – I want to be mad for him, I want to love him to pieces, I want to want him, to rip the clothes right off of him, drag him to my bed and have my way with him. And at the very same time, I’m completely repulsed. The only man I want to be with is Senan. And that’s not going to happen even if I filter the whole lake for his ashes. He’s well and truly gone. I fucking hate ambivalence, I hate confusion. Anything that smacks of nancying about. Carpe diem. Piss or get off the pot.’

‘I don’t think that’s exactly what – ’

‘I can’t even do that much. I’ve become the kind of person I’ve always despised.’

‘Jesus, Carmel, would you stop, would you?’

For a lapsed Catholic, she had some appetite for self-flagellation.

‘Why? Why would I stop?’

‘Ripping chunks out of yourself like this will help nothing. It’ll fix nothing.’

‘It might get me to the truth.’

‘The truth? Are we back to the fucking truth again?’ said Orna. ‘The truth is you loved him with every bit of you. You loved him so much that you’re hurting, still hurting and it looks like you will be for bloody ages. And you can get with as many men as you like, try to convince yourself you’re over him, but that’s not going to change it one bit.’

‘So what will?’

‘If I knew the answer to that, I’d get a barrel of it for you.’

‘It might take a barrel, alright. But then would I swallow it, do you think? Would I?’

Orna took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

‘Come on, I’ll walk you to your jeep.’

They linked arms and crossed the car park. Their feet crunched on the gravel.

‘The fucking walking wounded,’ said Carmel.

‘Speak for yourself.’

Orna felt a light breeze on her face. It was nice to feel the warmth of Carmel’s arm tucked inside hers. The air smelled of wet grass after the rain.

‘You were right about outrage,’ said Carmel, ‘you’d no bother finding it on my account.’

‘Oh, that, yeah, better than nothing, I suppose.’

The lights on Carmel’s jeep flashed. She turned to Orna.

‘We elevate them.’

‘Who?’

‘Men, we elevate them. Look at how your hopes dived when you found out about work-email-man. He didn’t earn that high opinion you had of him. You gave it to him.’

‘I don’t know if I –‘ Orna fingered the chain at her neck, pulling the clasp to the back, the gemstone to the front.

‘Oh man that I am dating,’ Carmel continued, ‘I hereby pronounce you perfectly lovable and attractive, intelligent and witty.’

Orna leaned one hip against the jeep, folding her arms.

So, not only had he let her down but she’d had a hand in it too. Great.

‘I’m not having a go at you, Orna. I’ve always done exactly the same. Senan gets to keep it because he’s dead. And I don’t seem to be able to activate it for any other man. So when they let me down, I’m not surprised, I’m not even disappointed, not really. I don’t expect a whole lot from them. I expect less and they deliver. Job done. God help me if I meet a suitable man, I won’t know what to do with him.’

‘You might chase him away.’

‘I might.’

Orna toed a stone, rolling it into a puddle. She looked up at Carmel.

‘So how will I not?’

‘Not elevate men? Oh, you don’t want to lose that, Orna. It’s one of the things I love most about you. That faith and hope and goodness. The way you bounce up with it every time you meet someone new. Lose that and you’ll become hard-hearted like me.’

‘You’re anything but.’

‘It has its benefits, though. I can be the rottweiler at the window of your love life. Snarling through the glass at men who should be snarled at.’

‘And delivering live mice and rotting fish.’

‘That, too.’

Carmel opened the door of her jeep and climbed inside. She slid her feet out of her sandals and rested one broad tanned foot on the foot pedal. Her toenails had outgrown their varnish, a rim of new nail at each cuticle

‘See you Saturday?’ Orna backed away.

Carmel slammed the door shut and rolled down the window.

‘Sure, Pilates. Coffee and calories after. Or maybe just calories and calories, depending on the mood.’

Orna trudged back to her car and sat into it. She remained still a few moments as she watched Carmel’s jeep pull away. She lifted Oscar’s muddied football jersey from the passenger seat and pressed it to her face. Boy sweat. Slightly sour, like gruyere cheese. She let it drop to her lap. In the silence, she felt the weight of her body land fully into her seat. Her head rolled back against the headrest. Another ending. You’d think she’d find it easy at this stage, she’d had that much practice.

Aideen Henry is a poet, short story writer and dramatist. She completed an MA in Writing, NUI, Galway (1^stclass Honours) and has published 3 books of poetry with Salmon Poetry,Hands Moving at the Speed of Falling Snow, Slow Bruise and A Bloodless Field. She has published 1 collection of short stories, Hugging Thistles, with Arlen House. She has written plays for stage and radio. She is a recipient of a Literature Bursary Award from the Irish Arts Council and was shortlisted for the Hennessy XO Literary Awards. Her short stories have been shortlisted for Francis McManus Awards and her radioplays for the PJ O’Connor Awards. Her work has been broadcast on RTE Radio and has been published in Southword, Ourobourous Review, Salamander, Ambit, The Interpreter’s House, The Dublin Review, The Irish Times, The Stinging Fly, Café Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Cyphers and numerous anthologies.

With special thanks to Matthew David Scott.

Main photo by John Lavin.