The Salesman

by Joseph O'Connor

  —Are you gonna lemme out?

  —What do you think?

  —Just lemme out and I’ll go, I swear. There won’t be any trouble.

  Told him I couldn’t do that.

  Looked like he genuinely didn’t understand this.

  —Why not, for Jesus’ sake?

  It wouldn’t make me happy to let him go, is what I say. That’s all there is to it.

  Leaned his face against the bars so they pressed hard against his cheeks. Stayed like that for a while with his eyes on the ground. Then he looked at me.

  —I’ve money, he says. If it’s readies you’re after I can get them. Lemme outta here, and we’ll go and get readies right now.

  —Fuck you and your money.

  Blank stare.

  —Then tell me why I’m here at least.

  —You just have a think about that. You just have a good sit and think about that.

  He looked up at the sky.

  —Where are we?

  —Guess.

  Clocked him peering around the garden, at the stable and the broken wall behind him. Perhaps he hears the chuckling of the water in the stream, although it has grown faint since this hot spell began.

  —Is it in the countryside?

  —Yeah. It’s miles away from anywhere. So you can roar and scream all you like, son, because there’s no one out here to hear you.

  —What bit of the countryside?

  —We’re in Wicklow. Near Glendalough. The nearest town is ten miles away.

  Sat down on the floor of the cage. Soles of his feet all blackened with dirt.

  —Listen, I swear to Christ, man, y’re after makin’ some and mistake here. Me name is Niall Conroy. Lemme out and I won’t do anythin’. I’ll walk out of here and leave y’alone.

  I laughed.

  —No. You won’t do that. You won’t leave me alone.

  —Y’need help, pal. Y’don’t look well. Y’re not well in the head. I hope y’know that.

  —No. That’s true. I’m not well in the head. I get a bit mad sometimes. I don’t think you’d like me much when I get like that. I get very unpredictable. I can do dangerous things.

  —Y’need a doctor, pal, I’m telling yeh. Would y’not go and phone a doctor?

  —I’ve loads of doctors, Quinn. But they can’t figure out what’s wrong with me.

  —Why d’y’keep callin’ me that, man? That isn’t me fuckin’ name.

  Sat there on the grass and looked at him for a while. Time passed. Allowed the dreaminess of the hot day to come down over me so I’m half-asleep. Thought about Seánie in Lourdes, Lizzie, Franklin and the twins down in Australia, Hopper and O’Keeffe at loggerheads in the office, M in the hospital, me here in Glen Bolcain. Found myself trying to imagine all the people who have been in this garden over the years, all those who have passed through the house for different reasons, all shadows now, all shades. Like Grace.

  Next thing I know he’s standing up, face right against the bars.

  —Any chance y’d gimme a glass of water? I’m parched.

  —There’s water there, nodding at the trough.

  He looked at it.

  —There’s no cup.

  Shrugged.

  —Don’t be a bollocks. Gimme a cup, for fuck’s sake?

  —No.

  Crawled over and put his head down into the trough like the pig he is. Sucking sounds when he drinks. Don’t like the sounds, warned him to stop making them. Ignored me. I screamed a bit and that shut him up all right.

  Up to the house later to get a chair. Brought it down the garden, placed it in front of the aviary. Just sat and watched him for a long time, thinking all sorts of strange things. Seánie in Lourdes again; in a white shirt, leading a section of the torchlight procession down to the grotto. What a creepy place that grotto, with the wheelchairs and crutches left behind by people cured. The bells of the angelus are calling us to pray, Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria. Kind of eerie. M and Li hated it, the one time we took them. G amazed by the stone wall, worn down to the smoothness of silk. All the millions of hands. Incredible coldness of the holy water baths.

  Kept my eyes on him. Sometimes he drinks water, other times puts his head into the feed tank and gets a mouthful of birdseed. Every now and then asks me to stop watching him, but only makes me want to watch him even more.

  More time drifts. Now he’s asking me to take off his handcuffs and I tell him no, I can’t do that, can’t do that, can’t do that.

  Tells me he needs to go to the toilet. So go. Asks if I really want him to go to the toilet in his trousers. I don’t care where he goes to the toilet. Tell him where he goes to the toilet, on a scale of one to ten, is a pretty firm zero in my general view of things.

  Looked at me for a while, through the bars. Looked back at him. Asked me to turn around for a minute. I did. When I turned back he was lying on his stomach with his face turned away from me. Wrists very raw from the handcuffs. Might have been crying but I don’t know. And I don’t care. Turned his face to me.

  —Please, mister. Me name is Niall Conroy. As true as Christ.

  —Say that again and I’ll shoot you, Quinn.

  —But it is. That’s the truth, pal.

  —I’m warning you not to say that once more.

  Just kept watching. Hours went. Couldn’t believe some of the things going through my head. Almost dark when I came in here and up the stairs.

  Into bed with S’s diary and started to write.

  This.

  Wednesday 13 July 1994

  195–171

  Week 28

  14th Week in Ordinary Time

  VESTMENTS

  Green

  HOURS

  Proper; Psalter week 2

  MASS

  Proper

  Amos 7: 12–15; Ps. 84; Eph. 1: 3–14; Mk. 6: 7–13.

  ‘He chose us in Christ to be holy and spotless.’

  Patron: St Henry.

  Thought For The Day: A smile costs nothing.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  Just before dawn now. Woodpigeons and starlings shrieking out the back. Am hot. Fingers sweating on the paper as I write, damp bedsheet wrapped hard around my limbs. Tongue feels like it needs to be scrubbed clean with a nailbrush.

  Wondering whether what happened with Q was a dream or flashback of delirium, which I’ve had more than just once or twice since the old days. A lie. I know it is real. Look at my hands. That’s my way of telling. They’re not shaking so I know I’m sober.

  Thirst like a fucking dredger. Want a drink. Will write more later.

  Another hot morning today. Sky full of haze. Light painful to look at.

  Lying face down on the floor of the aviary when I came out to him. I think that is thy grave for thou liest in it. Seemed to be asleep but of course very hard to be absolutely sure. Cunning enough to try anything.

  Had managed to peel back a corner of one of the sheets of wire mesh in the night. But metal bars far too narrow for him to get out.

  Kicked the wall of the aviary. Didn’t move. Kicked it again a few times. He stirred, rolled over, looked at me.

  —So, Mr Quinn. And how’s the hardchaw this morning?

  —Take the cuffs off me.

  I tell him no.

  —Please, man? For Jesus’ sake.

  —No.

  —The pains in me shoulders are killin’ me, pal. And I’ve a terrible pain across me chest. Please. I’m after havin’ the cuffs on too fuckin’ long now. I can hardly breathe.

  Shook my head.

  Looked around himself like he was getting desperate, which is a good thing, because I’d like him to feel a little desperation. Would like him just to feel what that’s like, to be in a situation you can’t control. Bruises on his face have got worse now. Flecked with dots of blood and pus. Skin around his nose thick with crusted blood too. Stared at me.

  —Who the fuck are yeh?

  —Maybe you’re dead, Quinn. You’re dead and gone to heaven.

  La
ughed.

  —Fuck off.

  —No, no, I could be your guardian angel, Quinn. Your guardian angel’s going to look after you really well. Don’t worry yourself.

  —Me name isn’t Quinn. It’s Niall Conroy.

  Looked scared and sick. Hair stuck to his scalp with sweat. Noticed the dye has begun to fade. Red roots. Light rusty beard.

  —Would you like a razor, Mr Quinn? Or are you thinking of growing your moustache again?

  He stared at the ground for a while.

  —What do y’want with me? How do y’know me name?

  Voice badly slurred, like his mouth full of mush.

  —Don’t you recognise me, Quinn?

  —I never seen you before in me life, man, I’ve told yeh.

  Went right up close to the aviary. Told him I wanted him to look at me very carefully.

  —There’s shite in me eyes. Take the cuffs off and let me clean meself a bit.

  Told him he could see me perfectly well. Managed to get on to his knees, swaying a little as he stared at me.

  —You don’t notice a family resemblance, Quinn, do you?

  Looked at me for a while.

  —No.

  —Ah, you do.

  Shook his head. Wide innocent green eyes like a baby. Colour of Heineken bottles.

  —You do, Quinn. Look hard.

  —I don’t know what y’mean. Why don’t y’just tell me what y’mean? Or what y’want with me? Am I after doin’ somethin’ on yeh?

  Left him there. If he wants to be like that, fine. I have all the time I need.

  Came into the house and rang the office. Hopper picked up, surprised to hear me. No, I told him, didn’t make it to Lourdes, came down with the summer flu. Yes, it’s getting a lot better. But going to stay out for the two weeks, I’ve decided, just going to stay in bed and get myself better. Hopper agrees with me that this is a good idea. Things are quiet in the office anyway. O’Keeffe acting the prick, as usual. Came in yesterday with new hairdo which Hopper says is like a madwoman’s armpit. Male menopause, Hopper’s theory. Wants to hire full-time secretary. Issued memo to head office saying we need full-time secretary. Agree with Hopper about menopause.

  After I’d finished on the phone, into the car, drove down to Dalkey. Sat in the church car park for a while looking at the kids kicking a football. Then into the Dukes. Bought a bottle of whiskey, a half of gin, a couple of bottles of wine and some crisps and nuts. Man behind the counter as fat as a beach-ball on legs. Gaped for just a second when I asked for the whiskey and gin. Small town. Knows me well and remembers me of old. Glanced into my eyes for a second, like he was going to be stupid and try to talk me out of it, but then I got out the cash and put it on the counter and he nodded and turned and took the bottles down from the shelf. Starts on at me about his water rates bill and his gay son and the horrors of being married to a woman who’s mean. She’d peel a fuckin’ orange without takin’ it out of her pocket, Mr Sweeney, and that’s the gospel truth. It is Mr Sweeney, isn’t it?

  —Yes, it is.

  —From Glen Bolcain, isn’t it? Up the hill?

  —Yes.

  —I thought it was. We were all very sorry about your news that time. Last year.

  —Thank you.

  —How is she, anyway? Your poor daughter.

  —Well, she’s the same.

  —Dear, dear, Mr Sweeney, that’s an awful cross for you.

  —Is there any change?

  —I’m sorry, Mr Sweeney?

  —I said is there any change?

  —Well, isn’t that what I’m after asking you, Mr Sweeney? But you said she’s the same.

  —I meant is there any change from the fifty I gave you.

  —Oh, of course. Sorry, Mr Sweeney. I’d forget me head if it wasn’t screwed on.

  Started up then about the will of God. Words were bouncing away from me. Didn’t care what he was saying. Knew I was going to drink when I got home, for the first time in nearly thirteen years.

  Home to find the telephone ringing. Let the machine answer it. Hopper again, wanted to know something about an order. Waited for him to finish talking, then plugged out the phone. In the living-room put the whiskey and the gin sitting on top of the television. Put the bottles of wine under the sink. Put on a record. Spanish music. Tango.

  Sat on the back steps in the sun, opened the peanuts and ate them. Should have been feeling worried but I wasn’t, just felt resigned to something. Came inside, opened the bottle of whiskey and poured out a full glass, almost up to the brim. Left the glass on the television for a while. Tried to find some programme to watch but nothing much on. More bloody world cup. Big deal. Got the glass and sniffed the whiskey. Sour mashy odour of rot. Can still smell it from my skin now.

  Started to drink it down.

  Stung my gums and made my eyes water. Swilled it around my mouth and had more. Finished the glass, poured another. Then another. Drank about half the bottle in fifteen minutes. Managed to get up here and lay on the bed. Room spun and lurched. Felt it seep slowly through me. Soaking into me like a sponge, a hard-baked garden parched for the want of rain.

  It felt good then, but doesn’t now.

  Must have fallen asleep for a while. Woke up a few hours ago with my head pounding. Not sure where I was. Took a few moments for me to steady myself. Up, went to the window and looked out. There he was in the aviary, standing now, but still with his back to me. Had another small drink and more peanuts.

  Have just come in from the garden where I brought down a length of chain and a padlock. Looks very distressed and malicious now. Know he’s been charging hard at the aviary gate because I heard him earlier as he battered into it. Perhaps he thinks I’m deaf. I said nothing. Just wrapped the chain through the gate and padlocked it.

  —Gimme a glass of water.

  —Oh right. Would you like that?

  —Yes.

  —Well then, I’m not going to do it.

  Noticed that he had been been crying. White lines through the muck and grime and dried blood on his cheeks.

  —Please. Tell me why yer doin’ this to me? Please?

  So OK. I mean fair is fair. I don’t want to be unreasonable, after all, I wouldn’t give him that to say about me.

  Pulled up the chair and sat down with my arms folded. Sun in my eyes. Shielded them with my hand.

  —I’m doing this to you because last August you robbed a petrol station in Stillorgan, you little scumbag. Do you remember now? Last August? My daughter worked there. Maeve Sweeney, yes, think hard, I’m sure that does ring a bell. Well I’ll remind you. You and your pals took a syringe full of your filthy blood and threatened to stick it into her. Then you battered her with an iron bar. She begged you to stop but you didn’t. You wouldn’t. So that’s why I’m doing this to you, Quinn. Only I haven’t started doing anything yet. I’ve big fucking plans for you, son.

  Silence. Face showed maybe the first flicker of real fear.

  —I dunno what yer talkin’ about.

  I grabbed the bars and rattled them hard. He fell over on his back, whimpered with pain. Rattled the bars again.

  —Do you like birds, Quinn?

  Panting. He did look scared then, definitely fear in his face. If his hands weren’t cuffed I’m sure they’d’ve been shaking.

  —What d’y’mean, do I like birds?

  —It’s a simple question, son. Do you like birds?

  Thought about this.

  —Well, I’m not a bleedin’ queer or anythin’.

  —I mean proper birds. With feathers and beaks.

  Stammering then.

  —No. Or I d-d-don’t know. What do y’mean? I’m confused.

  —Me, I like birds, Quinn. I’m something of an ornithologist actually. Used to win prizes for it as a kiddie. And tonight, in a little while actually, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go out and buy meself a sparrowhawk. Big hungry bastard, the sparrowhawk is. Eats flesh. Carrion. Rotten flesh, it actually prefers
to good stuff. Not fussy what. Doesn’t care what little pox-ridden hoor’s flesh it eats. There’s one lives in the back field. I was going to try and trap it, but it’s too tame. Not fierce enough because the knackers feed it. So I’ve ordered one from a guy I know breeds them for hunters. I’ve ordered it and everything. I’ve the licence for it up in the house. You’d want to see what a sparrowhawk’s beak can do, Mr Big Man Quinn, ’specially when he’s hungry. Oh Jesus, he’d take the eyes out of your head. Seriously. Like pluckin’ a grape. And its claws, dear oh dear, its little claws. They’re like knives. You’d be interested in that, I know, you take a keen interest in knives. And all I have to do is collect it. And then, of course, it’ll need somewhere to live, won’t it?

  —Will it?

  —Oh it will, Mr Quinn. So I was wondering might you’ve any ideas for me? About where it might live?

  Turned around and walked up the garden. Heard him rattling around the cage and shrieking like a mad thing. Made me laugh out loud.

  There it is again.

  Thursday 14 July 1994

  196–170

  Week 28

  14th Week in Ordinary Time

  VESTMENTS

  Green, White

  HOURS

  Psalter Week 3

  MASS

  Of choice

  Ex. 1: 8–14, 22; Ps. 123; Mt. 10: 34–39

  The people of Israel are oppressed by Pharaoh and cry to God for deliverance.

  HOLIDAY (France)

  Patron: St Camillus de Lellis (1550–1614).

  Thought For The Day: Can I help another to carry his cross?

  Stayed in the house all morning. Drank the wine, then the last of the gin.

  After that felt tired and hot and had to rest. Perhaps the lie I told Hopper about the summer flu is turning out to be unlucky. Feel feverish and nauseous. Shirt is sticking to my back, even now, though the evening is cool enough and the window is open.

  A few minutes ago in the bathroom I took off my clothes. Skin stinging me. Naked, standing sideways in the mirror, I looked pregnant. Held my stomach in my hands. Then touched my breasts. Turned to look head on in the mirror.