HAYDEN: – you –
He was off again.
HAYDEN: – cunt.
The three aunts pressed pause.
‘Lucky for you, he didn’t play the tape back before he died, Hayding. It would have killed the poor man.’
‘We tought of cutting that bit.’
‘But decided that, on balance, it added nuance.’
‘Lovely word, nuance. Delicate. Playful.’
‘Unlike ‘cunt’. Which suggests to us, Hayding –’
‘– you’re better off the jungle juice.’
‘Because on it, to be quite honest, you were always a bit of a –’
‘Stop it, Dorrie.’
‘Flottie. A bit of a –’
They composed themselves. Then pressed play.
EDDIE: Now stop it right there, son. You’ve no right to talk to your fa –
‘Second pregnant pause, Hayding.’
HAYDEN: My fa? What the fuck is a fa? You’re not my fucking –
‘Pause numero tree, Hayding.’
‘Wait for it. Any second now.’
HAYDEN: Da?
‘End of act one, Hayding.’
‘Beautiful twist, by the way.’
‘But where can it go from here?’
* * *
22 Spanish Civil War, to clarify.
32
I must say, I hadn’t expected this. Was Sloot, I found myself wondering, a modern Irish tragedy? Hayden’s life had certainly entered the realm of the Ancient Greeks. Granted, he wasn’t high born in the Aristotelean sense if we’re going to stick to rigid definitions. Perhaps, rather, he bears out Stern’s most oft-quoted dictum: ‘For what is comedy but tragedy with loose trousers?’
The sound of loud snores vibrated from the tape.
‘Well there’s your answer, Hayding. That’s Eddie’s considered response to the daddy question.’
‘Inscrutable or what?’
‘Oh yes. Very Zen.’
Hayden’s animated voice cut across the snores.
HAYDEN: Jesus, that’s it, isn’t it? You are my fucking father. My dear old fucking da.
‘And so it came to pass, Hayding.’
‘Troot will out.’
‘He was your dear old naughty word da.’
Hayden paced the floor, stunned into silence. He also paced the floor on tape. But ranting.
HAYDEN: I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, you fucking old fucking fuck. I’m going to burn this place down with all your so-called masterpieces. That’ll fucking larn you.
‘The merest smidgeonette of professional jealousy there, poot-être?’
‘It’s nutting to be ashamed of, Hayding.’
‘Perfectly acceptable in the arts world. Not to say de rigueur.’
‘You were impugned.’
‘Impugned, Hayding. His only begotting son. Him wit his genius and you wit your leprechaun suit.’
Hayden sank into the sofa as they leaned over the gadget and pressed tiny buttons with their equally tiny fingers.
‘We cut a bit here. Opening drawers. Riffling, riffling, riffling.’
‘Wit accompanying voiceover rant. A veritable tesaurus of naughty words.’
‘Next bit. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin.’
HAYDEN: Are there no fucking matches in this house? I mean, Jesus! Does no-one fucking smoke anymore?
SOUND OF DRAWER BEING PULLED OUT AND SEVERAL OBJECTS SPILLING TO THE FLOOR. A DERANGED CACKLE.
HAYDEN: Is this a hacksaw I see before me, the handle towards my hand?
SOUND OF CELLAR DOOR CREAKING OPEN. FRANTIC SAWING AND MANIC GRUNTS.
HAYDEN: Artist Descending into Hades? He’ll descend into Hades all right. His son and heir will see to that.
SAWING CONTINUES. GRAVELLY SNORES IN THE BACKGROUND. ANGRY SOBS. THE FRONT DOORBELL TINKLES. SAWING CONTINUES. DOORBELL TINKLES AGAIN. HAYDEN GROANS DRUNKENLY. SAWING STOPS. DRUNKEN FOOTSTEPS. DOOR OPENS.
BRAM: (MUFFLED) Late shift. Thought I’d drop by, see how you – bloody hell, had a few scoops, have we?
VOICES MOVE CLOSER.
HAYDEN: Juss a couple. Pour yourshelf a drop there, with you in a tick. Bit of a job to do first.
SAWING CONTINUES.
BRAM: You seem a bit upset.
SAWING INTENSIFIES.
BRAM: So, like, what exactly are you up to?
HAYDEN: What do you think I’m up to? Isn’t it obvious what I’m fucking up to?
BRAM: Fair enough. Tell you what. Why don’t you just leave it there for now, hoh? Take a break. Quick snooze maybe. You can always get back to it later.
‘Oh, very emollient, Hayding. Good old Abraham.’
‘He finally manages to settle you down. Cut to –’
A knock on the door. Hayden sat mesmerised. What now? What could possibly add to his misery? Another knock.
‘That’s not the tape knocker, Hayding. The tape is stopped. That’s the now knocker.’
Hayden snapped out of his mesmeric state. ‘Oh, right.’
He went to answer it. Bram. ‘Late shift. Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier. Good gig?’ He followed Hayden into the living room. ‘All over, is it?’
‘Well! If it isn’t little Abraham!’
‘You’ve certingly shot up. And wearing long trousers to boot.’
‘Quite the young gentleman about town.’
Bram heard this as white noise. Hayden was staring at him. Why? What had he done? He’d only just arrived. Hayden pointed an accusing finger at him.
‘You knew all along. And you never said – you never said a word.’
Bram had his more-confused-than-usual face on. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Knew what?’
‘I sawed through the ladder. I. Killed. Eddie.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Bram. ‘But sure you knew that. I mean, you were there at the time.’
Hayden stared at him, incredulous. ‘I was stocious,’ he all but wailed. ‘Flootered. Steaming.’
The three aunts nodded their heads in unison.
‘As drunk as a skunk in a bunk wit a monk, Abe.’
‘But,’ – Bram was totally stupefied – ‘that’s why I suggested the plot backwards device. You know who did it, so you work back.’
‘That was the novel, Bram,’ said Hayden, his voice plaintive. ‘That,’ he sighed, ‘was fiction.’
‘Was it? Oh. Right.’ Bram scratched his wispy head. ‘Was it?’
Hayden ignored him. He’d gone to a place beyond understanding. The three aunts put their mini sound system back in the handbag.
‘So there y’are, Hayding. You managed to kill your very own daddy.’
They suddenly looked concerned.
‘Ah, will you look at him, the poor boy.’
‘You’re like the Wreck of the Hesperus, Hayding.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have told him.’
‘But don’t worry, Hayding. There’s no shame in it. Stalin twenty million, Hayding one.’
‘See? You’ve got to put tings in perspective.’
‘And while we’re on the subject, Hayding, how’s this for a double whammy?’
‘Your mammy wasn’t your mammy.’
‘Gas, hoh?’
Hayden flumped onto the sofa. No. It wasn’t gas. For him, at least, it was the opposite of gas. He put his metaphorical head in his metaphorical hands. In reality, he sat staring into nothingness. Catatonic.
‘Ah, will you look at him. The poor boy.’
‘It’s a lot to take in, Hayding. But it’s very simple at root.’
‘Your mammy who isn’t your mammy wanted a babby. Your daddy – ditto – wanted one too.’
‘A small boy. Just like him.’
‘Hayding Junior. It
’s a man ting.’
‘So they done what you do.’
‘Copulacious activities over a lengty period.’
‘Nutting.’
‘Tried everyting. Kama Sutra. Naughty fillums.’
‘Still nutting.’
‘Resorted to the inexplicable power of prayer.’
‘“Oh Lord, we don’t believe in a deity, benevolent, biblical or udder, but if you could see your way to giving us a babby or, if you will, to bringing fort issue in the case of McGlynn and McGlynn –”’
‘“– we’d be happy to reconsider in the light of said munificence.”’
‘More nutting. So, in steps, Eddie. Unattached male. Blood relayshing. High sperm count.’
‘Language please. There’s a schoolboy present. Kindly remove your ears fortwit, Abraham –’
‘– although on second toughts, he has to learn some time.’
‘Very true. Ears as they were, Abe. Only don’t say we told you. Anyway, Hayding, your daddy didn’t want the fruit of your mammy’s womb to come courtesy of his younger sibling brother doing the actual deed.’
‘The shame, Hayding. The shame. It’s anudder man ting.’
‘But wait. Furder complication.’
‘Shortly afterwards – the will of God according to the received wisdom of the time – your mammy had a hysterectomy.’
‘The Big H. Bote parents infertile, which brought your dearly beloved aunties into the mix.’
‘To wit ourselves.’
‘And we know what you’re tinking. Isn’t that a bit incestual?’
It hadn’t been what he was thinking. It was now. How much more chilling could one family saga get?
‘Relax, Hayding. Dere’s a biblical precedent – tink Adam and Eve – so it has the Almighty seal of approval.’
‘Besides, it was all very discreet. Nutting fornicatious. They decided on Eddie’s naughty stuff, artificial insemmilation.’
‘Exackly. You were a test tube babby.’
‘And besides, look at you. You turned out well, all tings considered.’
‘Anyway, Hayding, one of us was the surrogate mammy. Only we can’t remember which one on account of we tink we’ve got dementia.’
‘Hard to tell any more. Could be just the passage of time’s wingèd chariot. It plays havoc wit your mental facilities.’
‘But the babby. No records, it goes witout saying. Ireland in those dark times, Hayding. It remained, until this very moment, a closed fambly secret.’
All three possible mothers beamed up at their equally possible son.
‘So in conclusion, Hayding, there you are.’
‘One dead da, tree mammies.’
‘What are the chances of that?’
This set them off on a fresh fit of giggles.
Hayden glared at them. ‘What? Why are you laughing?’
‘Oh, nutting, Hayding. Stop it, Dottie.’
‘Dodie.’
They continued to ripple with repressed mirth.
‘You killed your da, Hayding. Very Oedipal.’
‘Wait for it, Hayding. All togedder now, ladies.’
‘Oedipal Schmoedipal. Who cares, as long as he loves his mammies.’23
And they were off again. Bordering on hysterical.
Hayden stood up and towered over them. ‘Not funny. Besides, this whole story is patent nonsense. You’re all well into your nineties. Work it out. You were well past it when I was, well, you know. Conceived.’
‘Not so, Hayding. We may have lied about our age.’
‘Difficult to remember after all these years, what wit the dementia and the passage of time from one millennium to anudder.’
‘I mean, everyone’s an octogenaireeing these days, so we may just may have tought – why not skip the eighties? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, ninety.’
‘Real ages wit-held.’
‘But to address the point at issue, Hayding. When you were born, we were fruitful and abundant.’
‘Well, one of us was.’
‘QED.’
Hayden sighed and sat down again. This explained why his parents had moved to Waikiki without him. They weren’t his parents. Either of them. It must have been eating away at them all that time. No wonder they were cold and distant.
And – Eddie? Had he really killed his own father?
He put his head in his hands. Real head, real hands. The three aunts moved protectively closer.
‘Ah, will you look at him, the craytur. What’s the matter now?’
‘There, there. Tell your mammies.’
‘I – I don’t even remember the trip over, let alone killing anyone.’
‘I gave you a lift from the airport,’ said Bram. ‘Remember? I dragged you out of the Nautical Buoy at midnight. You were pretty Scrabstered to be honest. Dropped you off at Eddie’s. Didn’t see you for the rest of the week, until –’
Hayden shook his hands-held head. ‘I don’t believe this.’
The three aunts fell uncharacteristically quiet. Almost meditative.
‘Believe it, Hayding. What was it the immortal bard said?’
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave…’
‘… when first we practice to conceive.’
Bram chuckled quietly. ‘Well, that explains the visits to your one anyway. The head doctor.’
Hayden ignored this. He looked, instead, at the three miniscule women d’un uncertain âge, all now beaming up at him. He was reminded of the French horror classic, Les Tantes, in which – but it didn’t bear thinking about.
So he didn’t.
* * *
23 Prof. Larry Stern, Beyond a Joke: Comedy and Irish Mothers.
33
Hayden is about to go through the dark night of the soul. After the aunts and Bram leave, he draws the curtains and takes to his childhood bed. He slumbers fitfully through the witching hour, then slips into deep and disturbing dreams. Example: he’s a small boy. Marina is beckoning him into her ‘treatment room’. Her choice of lingerie suggests there might well be a bed in there. Hayden is terrified but simultaneously captivated. He can’t help himself. He enters, mesmerised. The door closes. Marina has metamorphosed into the three aunts. One body. Same lingerie. Stockings.
Hayden woke to the sound of a long, silent scream. He was sitting up on the bed, mouth open, his face a mask of terror. He lay back down, whimpering, and fell into a deeper, dreamier sleep. In the morning, he woke again; bleary-eyed, washed out, wan. A shaft of sunlight angled through the curtains and rested, lovingly, on a bottle of Uncle Eddie’s Sweet Amnesia24 lying on his small boy duvet.
This I found almost too much to bear. I, too, have known the shaft of sunlight, the tempting bottle, the darkened room; but not the phone call summoning our tragic hero to his final humiliation. Hayden ignored it. Good decision. He was in no fit state for further debasement. It rang again. He took it.
‘Ay.’
Hayden was in no mood for name banter. ‘Rich.’
‘Last chance saloon, Ay. Fing is, Foetus won Manitoba Comedy Festival’s New Act of the Year Award, you didn’t. Foetus is hot, you’re not. So. Tour. Foetus plus support. I tried Special Guest but they said, “Ayden oo?” Anyway, decent moolah, not great, what say?’
Hayden may have been going through the Seven Stages of Disintegration at this point.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Triff,’ said Rich.
End call.
Back to the shaft of sunlight, the bottle, the room. Uncle Eddie’s Sweet Amnesia. Would Hayden succumb to its seductive blandishments? As he clutched the top of his childhood duvet, I could hardly bear to watch.
Hayden languished there for some time, attended by the sad-eyed, ever-faithful Rusty. The bottle, thankfully, remained full, the sun still illuminating its cont
ents, but less aggressively. The angle somehow more muted. Crisis over. For now. Hayden groaned and stretched. He looked both agitated and stuporous.
He staggered over to the window, drew the bedroom curtains back, squinted at the light. He was about to totter back to bed when he spotted the thick brown folder on the desk by the window. It seemed totally out of place in a child’s bedroom, so why was it there? He picked it up and took it over to the bed. Sat down. Opened it. It was full of clippings from the past. His, Hayden’s past. Reviews. Publicity shots. An in-depth interview in The Irish Times when he’d first broken through. Eddie had cut them out. Correction. His father had cut them out. He’d cut them out because – because he was secretly proud of his only son?
Hayden welled up. Eddie had been looking out for his career from a distance, unable to ever admit to being his dad. He’d tried to guide Hayden in the right direction – he’d been right about the leprechaun suit ad! – and how had Hayden repaid him? The Oedipal way. He should have been too old for that, but there’s no time limit on killing your father, which is exactly what Hayden had done. He’d killed his father. He felt a deep sense of shame and, suddenly decisive, he dressed quickly, grabbed his jacket, ignored Rusty in passing, slammed the front door behind him and set off down the drive. Pascal, around the side of the house, stopped pumping Eddie’s tyres.
‘I just killed Mammy,’ he said.
Hayden didn’t turn back.
‘Of course you did, Pascal,’ he muttered. ‘Of course you bloody did.’
He set his face towards the Garda station, and didn’t stop until he’d arrived and asked to speak to Detective Inspector Lou Brannigan about a subject of the utmost importance.
He wished to confess to the murder of Eddie McGlynn.
Lou Brannigan sat with his feet on the desk, poking at his ear with a toothpick. He flicked it at the bin as Hayden was ushered in.
‘So, what’s this about you and the bould Eddie?’ he said, motioning to a seat. The tone was laconic, a suggestion of amused disbelief. Of having all the time in the world. Of waiting to be entertained. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to confess to a few more while you’re at it. Help us clear up the books.’
Hayden sat down. ‘Just the one,’ he said.
SLOOT Page 17
