The Salesman

by Joseph O'Connor

  ‘There wouldn’t be the power in that shit-heap to power yer mott’s dildo,’ he said.

  He nodded at the sea. ‘Were y’in?’

  I told him yes.

  ‘D’say yeh got the bollix freezed off yeh.’

  I tried to summon up a chuckle. ‘It was cold right enough.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He took another slurp of his juice. ‘Not goin’ to work today, no?’

  ‘Afraid so. I’m in sales. I sell satellite dishes.’

  ‘D’say there’s big shekels in that, is there?’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s a living. They’re popular enough these days. Specially for the sports.’

  ‘I’ve a sister loves the telly,’ he said. ‘She’s into things about the olden days. Jane Austen, is it? Charles Dickens. All that auld English shite. I like the American Gladiators meself. That one Jet, wha’? Nipples on her like football studs. I’d prefer her to Jane fuckin’ Austen any day.’

  Again I did my best to laugh. ‘I read all those old things years ago. I don’t like watching them on the box. I always feel they’re not as good as the books.’

  ‘Never gave a shite about books m’self. In school I mean. Course we’d a right psycho teachin’ us English. Father Dalton. Head on him like a billiard ball. Prick-head Dalton, we used to call him, with him bein’ so bald. PHD for short. Fuckin’ psycho. Used to bite yeh if y’got a question wrong.’

  ‘Bite you?’

  ‘Fuckin’ sure he would. Make y’stand up the front of the class and bend y’over he would. And bite yeh. In the arse. Swear to Christ, he’d take a bite out of yer arse y’wouldn’t fit into yer hat. Redemptorist Father he was … Redemptorist cunt more like.’

  I was not sure exactly what to say at this point. ‘I taught English myself for a while actually, years ago. Before I got into the sales game.’

  But he wasn’t listening to me. ‘It’s like maths,’ he said. ‘I never gave a flyin’ fiddler’s mickey about maths either. I mean why the fuck d’y’want to know how long it takes to go from Dublin to Limerick on a train doin’ fifty miles an hour?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘I mean I never been to bleedin’ Limerick, sweat, and I’m not goin’ neither.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well.’

  ‘I met him afterwards y’know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Prick-head. I met him afterwards. Walkin’ down the street like. One night in town, few scoops on me. I was with a pal of mine, big lad, he’s a bouncer. Remember the night of Ireland versus England in Stuttgart? One nil? That night. Shapin’ down Grafton Street he was, aul PHD, some dame with him, dress up to her fanny. Fuckin’ bladdered he was, ossified. Couldn’t believe the luck, so I couldn’t. I told me pal to hang around, there’d be some right fun in a minute.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  A thin smile spread across his blistered face.

  ‘We fuckinwell decked him,’ he said. ‘We danced him into the cobblestones, that’s what we did. We gave him one goin’ over he won’t forget in a hurry. He was old, y’know, there wasn’t much he could do about it. He was squeakin’ out of him like a little stuck pig when we left him there.’

  He giggled into his juice. I began to feel very nervous.

  ‘We milled him,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a well-built man too,’ I said, ‘you look like an athlete.’

  He scoffed. ‘I dunno about athlete. But I can look after m’self OK. That’s for sure.’

  ‘I’d say that’s right.’

  ‘That is bleedin’ right. Me and my pals, we know how t’look after each other. Anyone wrecks my head, they know what they’re gonna get.’

  I noticed the little steamer out in the bay again, the smoke rising in a thin blue plume and being coaxed back towards the land.

  ‘How much for the milk?’

  ‘You can owe me,’ he grinned. ‘Sure fuck them, wha’?’

  Chapter Seven

  When I check my recollection against my diary I see that I drove out to Bray as usual on the evening of 10 May last, expecting nothing much out of the ordinary. I remember a warm spring evening, airy and pleasant, there was a mossy smell in the air and the journey had been brightened by the cherry blossoms all along the central island of the dual carriageway being in full, glorious bloom. Arriving into the town I found him very quickly. He was loitering just outside the church on the main street, where he often was at that time of night, specially when the weather was particularly fine. Yes indeed, of course he was there, staring up at the stained-glass windows and nervously clapping his hands. I congratulated myself on anticipating him so accurately. I had even guessed correctly which clothes he would have on; his faded blue jeans, his docksider shoes, his Barcelona FC T-shirt, light hound’s-tooth sports jacket

  A good salesman has an instinct for anticipation.

  I parked the car further down the street, hoping not to lose him. I got out and put on my hat – I had taken to wearing one of those fishermen’s hats with a low flopping brim to cover the top third of my face. He was still there when I looked, still hanging around in front of the church, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets. I pretended to stare into a shop window.

  Before very long, a track-suited boy of about fifteen approached him. I saw them exchange a few quick words. The boy gave him some money. Quinn glanced up and down the street several times before reaching into his jacket and pulling out an envelope. The boy took it, shoved it down the back of his track pants and strolled quickly away. Quinn lit a cigarette.

  A couple of minutes later – no, four and a half minutes, the diary tells me – he walked down Quinsboro Road and went into a snooker hall. I crossed to the far side of the street and stood in a doorway, wondering what to do. I did not like being indoors with him, it made me feel panicky and a little out of control. Still, I was just about to go in after him when suddenly he came storming back out, walking very quickly down in the direction of the sea. I waited until he was maybe thirty yards ahead of me and then I began to follow. Something told me we were in for a surprise tonight.

  About half-way down the esplanade an attractive girl of nineteen or twenty was waiting for him outside a pub. She had on a short red skirt and black tights. They kissed for a long time. This confused me, I have to admit it. I had not seen her before. He put his hand up the side of her sweater. She laughed and pulled back from him. They turned and walked away from me, down the sea front. I followed. They stopped at a stall and bought sticks of candyfloss. He took a bite out of his, but then threw it away almost immediately. She laughed again.

  I remember thinking that she would not have quite so much to laugh about soon.

  I waited outside the ghost train while they took a ride. Three minutes and forty seconds later, their carriage shot back out through the black doors. The girl got out, tottering on her high heels, making a great show of pretending to faint. Quinn caught her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. They left the arcade. At this stage, naturally, I was expecting them to head back up in the direction of the town. But they did not. They turned and went to the right, down towards the very end of the esplanade. I crept along behind them, wondering where they were going now. There are no pubs that far down the sea front. This really was a departure.

  For a moment or two they almost had me confounded. But then suddenly I realised precisely what they were doing. Of course. They were going to walk up to Bray Head. This was surprising. This was new. Once again, I told myself, I had been correct.

  But then a good salesman will expect the unexpected.

  The path up the Head was very steep and winding. On my left was the sea, on my right a low wall, then thick woods and long scrubgrass. Far above me I could see the cross at the top of the hill. I climbed up on the wall and got in behind a clump of thorn bushes. I waited for seventeen minutes. I remember lighting up a cigarette and promising myself that I would know what to do by the time i
t was finished. But in fact, when it was gone, I lit another on the end. After another quarter of an hour there was still no sign of them coming back. I got down from the wall and continued walking up the lane towards the summit. Snatches of music from the sea front drifted up on the wind, the crazy waltz of hurdy-gurdies, the thud and smash of heavy rock.

  I walked slowly and quietly, keeping in as close to the wall as I could. This was risky, I did not want to meet them there in the lane. But then if I heard them coming, I told myself, I could jump back over the wall and disappear into the thick trees again. As I walked further, the music seemed to die away. There was no sound at all now, except for the swish of the waves down below me. I climbed over the wall again and waited. After forty-one minutes there was still no sign of them. I clambered down and walked up the path a bit more, the brim of my hat well down over my eyes.

  Before long I came to a clearing in the woods on my right. In the moonlight I could see the girl standing under a tree. Her jumper was up around her neck and he was mauling her, his thigh between her thighs, his mouth on her breasts. Her hands were above her head, her fingers grasping at the low branches of the tree. I could hear her moaning out a name as he shuddered against her. ‘Niall. Oh, Niall.’ The deceitful bastard hadn’t even told her his real name.

  I turned and headed back down the hill. The sea was a strange shade of purple. Far out towards Howth I saw a huge black cargo tanker, the size of a building, moving very slowly.

  Suddenly I saw two men striding quickly up the hill in my direction. Two men in dark donkey jackets and heavy-looking boots. One of them scuffed his boot on the path and sparks flew from it. He had a knife in his hand, I could see it quite clearly, a long thick knife like a machete. I felt my heart thud. I looked around. The wall was too high for me to climb, I was stuck there in the laneway. There was nothing for it except to walk on. I stared out at the sea as though I was preoccupied. They came closer. I could hear them straining and panting with the effort of the hill. I looked out at that sea, love, like I was expecting it to fuckingwell talk to me. I could see them staring at me as they passed me by.

  I drove home fast with the radio on loud. I wrote in my diary for a while.

  That night, once again, I had the most terrible nightmares – your mother and yourself trapped inside the ghost train and pitifully calling out for me to come and find you. I woke up clawing at the air. It must have been half-four in the morning when I went out to the garden. I remember looking up at the sky through the trees, the feel of the grass under my bare feet. It was a beautiful clear night, a real balmy spring night. The flowers seemed to fidget in the breeze, it was almost as though they were alive. I walked right down to the back wall where the ground was moist and springy from the stream. In the moonlight I saw forget-me-nots, knitbone, honeysuckle, white bindweed, yellow bryonies, all swishing in a tangled mess. For some reason, it felt important to recall their names. I remember saying their names out loud.

  The moon slid behind a cloud. Inside the aviary the swing perches creaked in the breeze. Then silence fell down on the garden, a silence so intense it was as though it had been caused by some act of shocking violence. Everything around me was dark. Even the flowers stopped moving. Suddenly I began to have a strong sensation of being watched. I was sure that there was someone in the garden, looking at me. I thought that I could smell cigarette smoke and hear breathing. I felt my heart throb.

  I turned and walked quickly back up towards the house, terrified now, absolutely certain that I was being observed or even pursued. I broke into a run, stumbled into that thick blackthorn bush by the rockery. I felt the thorns gash me and rip my pyjamas. Every time I moved the pain was worse, it was as though the bush had come to life and was attacking me. When eventually I managed to get inside there was thin watery blood all over my face and hands, and the soles of my feet were badly cut.

  I was half-way up the stairs when suddenly everything became clear to me.

  I was still awake at dawn, my head actually buzzing with pain, my throat and pulsing adenoids shot from all the smoking I had done the night before. Although a dribble from my lips had somehow moistened the sleeve of my pyjamas, my mouth felt completely parched. I got up and took a long cold shower to steady my nerves. I threw on some clothes, got into the car and drove down to Sandycove. Everything was quiet. I swam for a while and dried myself in the early sun. Then I walked up and down the lane for a while, looking at the dewy gardens. I remember for some reason their wonderful smells, fresh crisp salad, moist warm hay, somehow so poignant that early in the morning. Truly, those aromas brought me close to tears.

  When the milkman turned up in his float I waved to him. After a moment he waved back.

  ‘Sorry, pal, didn’t see y’there for a sec.’

  ‘You look rough,’ I told him.

  ‘I feel rough as a bear’s arse,’ he laughed. ‘Was out on the pull last night.’

  ‘And? Were you lucky?’

  He grinned. ‘Lucky enough. But sure one swallow doesn’t make a summer, wha’?’

  I did my best to laugh.

  ‘Anyways,’ he went, ‘what can I do yeh for?’

  Here it was. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about something?’

  ‘It’s a free country,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it? Thanks to Michael Collins and all them cunts?’

  His narrow ruined face looked as if his eczema scars might have been bleeding in the night.

  ‘It isn’t strictly legal,’ I said.

  He smirked and licked his lips. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at me, an expression of malevolent delight in his eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d be well set up for that,’ he said. ‘In your line of work?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, is it the videos?’

  ‘The videos?’

  ‘Don’t gimme the babes-in-the-wood routine, head. D’y’not know what I mean, no?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He beckoned me closer to the driver’s cab, where I saw a plump black sports bag sitting on the floor. He threw another suspicious glance around the laneway, unzipped the holdall and pulled out a handful of videos, all with lurid colour-photostat covers of naked women being penetrated by engorged, tomato-red penises. These he showed me with the reverent silence of a jeweller displaying precious gems.

  ‘The brother-in-law does them for me. Gets them on the satellite and tapes them. Has it rigged up special like. I thought y’mighta heard. I do a rake of them around here.’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, bleedin’ sure I do. They do go mad for a bit of filth down here. And they’ve the readies to get it too.’ He snickered. ‘There’s an auld English judge lives above in Glenageary there, you’d want to see what he gets off me. D’turn your stomach.’

  He picked one out and offered it to me.

  ‘That’s good one there now,’ he said. ‘Dutch. There’s a mott in it with a mickey. Serio. Fuckin’ langer on her the size of yer own. Hung like a hoover hose. Lovely-lookin’ bird though, I’ll say that for her, knockers on her like the mountains of fuckin’ Mourne.’

  He took out another and peered at it.

  ‘And there’s a cracker there. Bloke in it can suck his own cock. Not jokin’ yeh. Strides down, head down, nob in the gob, gobblin’ away till he nearly gets shaggin’ lockjaw.’ He peered dreamily out at the sea, shaking his head and sighing. ‘Jesus sake, if I could do that I’d never leave the fuckin’ house, would you?’

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘It isn’t those I was interested in.’

  He scrutinised me for a moment. ‘I do the gay as well,’ he said, then. ‘Twenty pound each, two for thirty-five.’

  I shook my head. I suppose at this stage that there was at least some doubt in my mind, I have to admit it. But I mean, what was the very worst thing that could have happened? He could have laughed, I suppose, or thought I was joking. Well, that would have been fine, I had considered this possibility
, I would simply have told him yes, that’s right, I was only joking. He could have said no and told me to take a hike. Big deal, no loss really. And what then? What if he involved the authorities. If he went to the guards, I told myself, they would never believe him over me. Would they? Realistically? Him over me? Not a chance. And anyway, I felt sure he would never go to the guards. It was simply not in his face.

  A good salesman can read a face.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘what you told me a while back? About how you gave that fella a good going-over? The priest you met in Grafton Street that time?’

  ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  I turned and glanced at the beach. Suddenly there were three women up to their fleshy thighs in the water. I felt a shudder ripple down my back.

  ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘I’ve been thinking, there’s a certain fella I’d like to get a good going-over too. The thing is, he’s a bit younger than me. I couldn’t really manage it myself.’

  Behind me, I heard the women laugh and shout.

  ‘I don’t know, if you were able to help me out at all, I’d make it worth your while.’

  He stared at me. He climbed out of the van with a weird look on his face. For one long moment I actually thought that he was going to hit me. I found myself stepping back from him and feeling for the steak knife in my pocket. But then he just reached into his coat, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I took it.

  When he offered me the cigarette I knew that he had bitten. I had closed him. Always be closing that’s what they say. A good salesman will always be closing. A good salesman knows what ABC really stands for.

  ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘Just this little get who’s coming between me and my sleep. It’s a long story. It’s about my daughter.’

  He reached out his lighter. ‘What about her?’

  I sucked at the flame.

  ‘I find it hard to go into the details. Let’s just say he’s after causing her problems.’