SLOOT

by Ian MacPherson

They moved in closer.

  ‘All is not as it seems, Hayding.’

  ‘We’ll go furder. She’s not all she seems.’

  ‘How so?’ he said, humouring them. It was a funeral after all, and they weren’t long for this world themselves. Besides, he was very fond of them in his own undemonstrative way, so it was the least he could do.

  ‘Oh now. It’s more than our lives are wort.’

  ‘Our lips, Hayding, are permulently sealed.’

  ‘You should have seen him, dough.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Eddie, Hayding. He looked so peaceful.’

  ‘Beatific, almost.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t tink so, Dottie.’

  ‘Dodie.’

  ‘Isn’t beatific religious, Hayding?’

  ‘And he wasn’t religious, Hayding. Far from it.’

  ‘But he certingly looked very peaceful –’

  ‘– if not beatific –’

  ‘– at the end.’

  ‘All laid out in his open coffing.’

  ‘There, you’d have said, was a very –’

  ‘I took a picture,’ said Bram.

  The three aunts stopped in mid-flow.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘On my mobile,’ said Bram. ‘You know. For Hayden, so he could –’

  ‘But… you can’t do that.’

  ‘It’s… what’s the word?’

  ‘Sacrilegious.’

  ‘But Eddie wasn’t religious, remember?’ said Hayden. ‘He wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘Oh now. Oh now.’

  ‘There’s such a ting as respect for the dead.’

  ‘We’re not religious, Hayding, since we espoused existentialism in the mid-to-late forties –’

  ‘– but don’t go doing holiday snaps of us when we’re on the metaphorical slab.’

  ‘Even if we’re fully made up.’

  Dodie, or was it Florrie or, indeed, Dottie, snapped her fingers.

  ‘Hand it over, young man.’

  ‘This instant.’

  Bram, suddenly six again, did as he was told. All three aunts huddled round and peered at the image on his mobile. Click.

  ‘Deleted.’

  They handed the mobile back with a distinct pursing of lips as if, by taking the image, Bram had defiled something sacred.

  ‘Maybe now the poor man can rest in peace.’

  Bram, chastened, put the mobile back in his pocket. He was pretty sure they weren’t referring to him.

  6

  Hayden had always loved Eddie’s expansive living room stroke kitchen. The way the light came in from windows to the north and south. Open plan before open plan was fashionable, because Eddie had always been an original thinker.

  The room was big and shambolic, cluttered as it was – every wall, every corner, every available space – with Eddie’s art works, finished and unfinished. A self-portrait of an old, mocking Eddie on one wall faced an identically-framed mirror. Over the mirror: I have no need of recognition: I recognise myself. A large glass case contained an enormous turnip immersed in liquid. The Archbishop of Dublin in Formaldehyde.

  Hayden stood with Bram in the midst of all the chaos, watching absentmindedly as the three aunts fussed around the mourners, topping up their glasses, commiserating. It all passed him by in a blur. Bram was midway through a résumé of pulp classic Talk Among Yourself, about a private eye with multiple personality disorder, but Hayden wasn’t listening. He’d shoved Bram’s book box under Eddie’s writing desk; he could read it himself later. Besides, he was transfixed by the Eddieness of Eddie’s house. The manic creativity. The faded grandeur. The dust.

  ‘We note you examining the surroundings wit a somewhat critical eye, Hayding.’

  His aunts’ voices interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘We were going to tidy up as a mark of respect, but in the end we didn’t touch a ting.’

  ‘You just never know wit Eddie. He let the place go in his later years.’

  ‘Or did he?’

  ‘That cobweb on the ceiling, par example. Knowing our illustrious brudder, it could be an art installation of finest filigree.’

  ‘But we digress, Hayding. We were discussing the contents of his will.’

  ‘Chun suimiú suas a dhéanamh, we’re the executrixes.’

  ‘But we’re keeping schtum till after the prostate.’

  Prostate? What were they on about now? Did Eddie have posthumous cancer? No chance of interrupting the aunts in full flow. But prostate?

  ‘We can’t say anyting, Hayding, except to say we can’t say anyting.’

  This set them off in a fit of giggles like a flock of starlings on holiday. Bram leaned helpfully over while they were in full flight.

  ‘I think they might mean probate.’

  Of course they did. He’d been away too long.

  ‘Anyway, Hayding, the pertinent info at this stage is as follows.’

  ‘He wants his ashes trown to the four winds.’

  ‘Wait for it.’

  ‘At the Hellfire Club.’

  ‘In the heart of his beloved Dubling Mountings.’

  ‘On the first full-moon night after his sad demise.’

  ‘At tree tirty-tree, Hayding. He said he was meeting ould Lucifer half-way.’

  ‘Isn’t that gas?’

  ‘Now, can one of us top you up? We’ve got sherry, portofino, brandy –’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Hayden.

  The three aunts giggled as one woman.

  ‘Try telling that to the judge.’

  ‘Only joking, Hayding. Very commendable.’

  ‘There’s a pot of tea just made. Would you like a cup?

  ‘You drink tea, Hayding, so technically speaking, you do drink.’

  ‘Unless he doesn’t drink tea.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Florrie.’

  ‘Dottie.’

  ‘Everyone drinks tea. And even if he didn’t, he’d have to drink someting. Or he’d wilt. Wouldn’t you, Hayding? You’d wilt.’

  Hayden ignored them. ‘I thought I’d sleep here,’ he said.

  The aunts looked… difficult to describe how they looked. Worried? Disapproving? Defensive? Their eyes may have narrowed slightly. The starlings flew away.

  ‘What? You mean overnight, Hayding?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Sure you can always stay wit us.’

  ‘Or me,’ said Bram.

  ‘There y’are, Hayding. Abraham has spoken from on high.’

  ‘His sofa awaits.’

  ‘Not to mention male company and its attendant badinage.’

  Bram nodded in agreement. That sounded about right.

  ‘I want to stay here,’ said Hayden. ‘You know. Old times. Memories.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All alone?’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit creepy?’

  They scuttled off before he could answer.

  Why did they not want him to stay at Eddie’s? If Hayden had been more tuned in to their little ways at this point, with particular reference to the narrowing of the eyes, he would have been, at the very least, suspicious. But he wasn’t. He pretended to be engrossed as Bram switched to the book he was currently reading.

  ‘A Killing in Killala. Twin brothers from Dudley, both Muslim, right? They get wind of the village in County Mayo, think ‘Whoa! Kill Allah?!’ There’s your inciting incident right there. It fires them up. They travel to Killala to wipe it from the face of the earth. Settle in, suicide vests at the ready. But what’s this? The sleepy charm of the locals begins to have that age-old effect. They dispense with the vests and settle down. Get married. Have little Catholic babies. Become respected pillars of the community and – here’s the twist – end up k
illing each other, in time-honoured tradition, in a bitter, fraternal feud over land. They have become, in a word, more Irish than the Irish themselves. Magic!’

  Hayden nodded politely, but he was more interested in having the place to himself at this stage than listening to any more of Bram’s stories. He felt the need to be alone. Besides, he was drawn to the ramshackle old house. After his parents left for Waikiki, Hayden had gone to live with his Uncle Eddie. His childhood bedroom was here, and with it, his childhood. He stood for a long moment lost in thought, feeling tearful. But he wasn’t tearful for his dead uncle.

  He was tearful for himself.

  The sun was going down as Hayden finally closed the door on the few remaining mourners, the three aunts, and Bram. He was alone. He could have stayed at Bram’s and riffled through his books. He could have stayed with his aunts and ended up killing them. Instead he sat with a cold cup of tea at the table in Eddie’s living room. He sighed and looked around. What a melancholy feel to the place! Mildewed walls. The light fading. The wallpaper peeling, and what rugs covered the floorboards faded and worn.

  A sudden wave of desolation washed over him. He unlocked the back door and let himself out. An adrenalin rush of happy nostalgia mingled with the sweet sea air. He’d always loved the garden. He sat on a rickety old bench and soaked in the atmosphere. Fruit trees filtering the setting summer sun. The ramshackle shed. Wild privets on both sides. Beyond the wall at the rear, a large and looming redbrick house. The overgrown grass was littered with artworks in various states of completion – in pride of place, an imposing sculpture in search of a plinth. Hayden remembered this one well. Eddie had been commissioned to create a statue in human form to rise over the sea at Dollymount. The work was withdrawn without explanation and a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary erected in its stead, after which Eddie would have nothing more to do with the art establishment. Cussed to the last, he left a creative legacy that littered his house and garden, probably a warehouse or two, and a few select galleries belonging to people Eddie hadn’t fallen out with.

  Eddie’s Dollymount sculpture was lit by a slanting sun. A tall, rough-hewn column of granite set in a clearing among the trees, it seemed at first sight to be just that. A block of granite with no discernible artistic merit. And maybe it was the angle of the sun – or maybe it was Hayden reading meaning into it that wasn’t there – but it seemed to draw the viewer artfully in until it came to resemble, in a vaguely postmodern way, the imposing figure of an Irish icon: early twentieth century revolutionary and feminist Countess Constance Markievicz, standing austerely in the midst of Eddie’s trees.

  He’d loved those fruit trees as a boy. Clambering up the boughs for the highest sun-kissed apple. Collecting windfalls for Uncle Eddie’s Sweet Ambrosia, an apple and pear cider that – but Hayden couldn’t bear to think about it.

  He wandered through the cluster of trees to the shed and peered in. Stacks of canvasses. An easel with a work-in-progress propped against it. Paint. Tins of turpentine. He retraced his steps to the back door and stood for a moment taking everything in, glancing once again at the statue. The sun had sunk behind the trees. The Countess had mysteriously fled. He turned and went inside.

  Uncle Eddie’s Sweet Ambrosia. Nectar of the gods, yes, but the hangover! And the blackouts! Never again. No more AA for Hayden. No more of his self-appointed minder, Trace. Luckily, he’d put the width of the Irish Sea between the two of them. No forwarding address. End of subject. He was finished with the drink. Full stop.

  Until, that is, the door to the cellar caught his eye. It stood unobtrusively next to the kitchen cupboards and might have been mistaken for the entrance to a scullery. Hayden smiled ruefully. If he’d still been drinking he would have gone straight down there for a couple of bottles or, better still, a crate. Uncle Eddie cheering him on, or jeering at him, depending on the old sod’s mood. Who knows, he might even have joined in the revelry.

  Funny thing, though. Hayden had been scared of the steep steps down into the dark as a child. He shuddered at the thought and returned to the present, but the memory had sparked something. A quick look, he thought. Strictly nostalgia. No harm in that.

  He approached the door tentatively. It opened with a sharp, grating rasp onto a darkness beyond darkness. He felt for the light switch. Click. Typical Eddie. The cellar was bathed in a blood-red glow. A child gate with a small plaque on it blocked his way. He bent down to read it. Artist Descending into Hades. An obvious reference to the ladder leading down into the cellar’s Stygian depths. Hayden unlatched the gate and stepped gingerly onto – Jesus! He nearly stepped onto nothing. Was this Eddie’s idea of a joke? Was he trying to kill someone?

  Hayden’s eyes slowly accustomed to the gloomy red light. Interesting. The ladder had twisted onto its side. But why? Hayden had been to Tate Modern – twice – so he knew his modern art. Perhaps Eddie was suggesting…

  No. It didn’t make sense. Everything Eddie did was a work of art, but this was a cellar. He must have intended the ladder for practical use as well.

  Hayden examined the doorway. The ladder had been fixed at both sides with bolts, but one of the uprights had snapped. He bent down for a closer examination. Odd. It hadn’t simply cracked. It had been cut with a saw, but not all the way through. Why would Eddie do that? Surely if he was removing the ladder, he’d just undo the bolts securing it to the doorjamb. Maybe it was an artistic statement?

  Hayden’s head hurt.

  He’d only been to Tate Modern twice.

  7

  He was still mulling this over the following morning as he sat in the garden, his bag packed, waiting for Bram to pick him up to take him to the airport. Long hot summer. Triple rent. Rich. Foetus. AA Trace. Gravesend. Set all that against the delights of Clontarf on a beautiful balmy day. Perfect for this leafiest and loveliest of suburbs. London, on the other hand? Stifling at this time of year. Sweltering heat, fume-belching cars, and oh, for the smell of the sea! Could be a line from a poem there. Yeats? My thought, by the way, not Hayden’s. Possibly brought on by the fact that Eddie’s statue, angled by the glorious morning sun, bore an uncanny resemblance to a youthful Maud Gonne.

  Hayden’s thoughts were more prosaic as he went back inside and grabbed his bag. Bram wouldn’t be late. He knew this. Bram’s previous reference to timekeeping was based on a lazy stereotype of public transport. Bus driver humour. Hayden smiled wryly as he crunched down the gravel path. Here’s one you can use.

  He spotted the three aunts in their front garden peering at him over the top of the cotoneaster. One cotoneaster, three heads. He strolled over.

  ‘Howaya, Hayding.’

  ‘We were just pruning the roses. Seen you over the top.’

  ‘Talking to yourself. So, how’s tings?’

  ‘I’m off back to London,’ he said.

  They seemed, for some reason, cheered by this news. Odd response. They were very fond of Hayden, so why would they want him to leave? Did they, perhaps, know something he didn’t? At any rate, they brightened visibly for a brief moment, then went back to the social niceties.

  ‘Aww, Hayding. So soon?’

  ‘But you’ve hardly been here.’

  ‘You’ll be sorely missed, dough. Won’t he, ladies?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtably.’

  ‘I did tell you I was just here for the funeral,’ said Hayden. He hadn’t.

  ‘Well bong voyage. We’ll let you know about the will.’

  ‘You never know. Your luck might be in.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Hayden. He knew Eddie.

  ‘So do we, Hayding,’ said the three aunts.

  ‘Anyway, say hello to your mammy and daddy.’

  ‘My parents,’ said Hayden, ‘are in Waikiki.’ His tone was measured, bordering on curt.

  ‘Waikiki? Isn’t that lovely? I’ll tell you someting. We could do wit a hollyer, couldn’t we, girls?’r />
  ‘It’s not a holiday,’ said Hayden. ‘They live there.’

  The three aunts knew that already. Hayden’s tone segued from curt to hurt. ‘I haven’t seen them since the day before my seventh birthday.’

  They knew that already too, but all three sighed deeply as Bram pulled up and got out of the car.

  ‘Ah well. That’s the modering world for you, Hayding.’

  They turned, three heads as one, to Bram.

  ‘Anyway, that’ll be your lift. Howaya, Abe. Did someone steal your bus?’

  ‘Nice one, ladies,’ said Bram. He punched Hayden on the shoulder. ‘You can use that.’

  Hayden said nothing. He kissed his three aunts on the tops of their dear little heads, pointed out that they were pruning the cotoneaster, not the roses, and left them to it. He tossed his overnight bag on the back seat and strapped himself in. Bram eased her into whatever it is you do with cars – I don’t drive, myself – and they were off. As he drove along Kincora Road towards Castle Avenue, Bram pointed to a house on the left.

  ‘See the brown plaque there?’ he said.

  ‘Erwin Schrödinger, 1887-1961,’ groaned Hayden. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘Good man yourself,’ said Bram. ‘Well done.’

  Hayden let it pass. He was brought up here. Erwin Schrödinger, of Schrödinger’s Cat fame, lived there after the war. He knew this already. Thank you, Bram. But Bram wasn’t finished yet. He never was.

  ‘Funny thing about your man,’ he said. ‘Whatever about that experiment of his, the same cat would be long dead by now one way or the other.’ He punched Hayden playfully on the shoulder. ‘I’m just thinking of the implications for quantum mechanics.’

  This was exactly the same witticism Bram had used last time they’d passed the plaque. Fair enough, Bram liked to show off his sense of humour. But you can’t just repeat the same gag every time you pass the same bloody landmark. Hayden had to call him on it.

  ‘Jesus, Bram,’ he said. ‘You told exactly the same story last time.’

  ‘Glad you noticed,’ said Bram. ‘I learned from the master.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Bram chuckled. ‘Come on, Haydo,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your act now – how many times?’