The Salesman

by Joseph O'Connor

  At three in the morning I went to the front door and opened it. The dog was still there in the driveway. I could hear bells tolling in the old church up the avenue.

  I came back in here and put on another record. I did not come out again for the rest of the night.

  By dawn it was clear that she was not coming back, so I locked the door, turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed.

  One night near the end of August it rained heavily and I heard him slip in through the back door at about one in the morning, cursing and staggering into the furniture. He spent some time down in the kitchen – I heard the scrape of a chair on the tiles and then the sound of the taps running in the sink – then he came up the stairs and went down the landing into Lizzie’s room. I do not think he left it at all for a couple of days. Before long he had abandoned the stable completely. He never even discussed it with me, just moved right into Lizzie’s room, down the corridor from my own, bold as you like.

  During the days he seemed to sleep for hours. One afternoon I had to come home from work to collect a file and his door was locked. I could hear him snoring inside, a soft light snore like a child’s. He seemed to have the bloody radio on again, I could hear it playing in the room. He loved that radio.

  Often I would hear him walking around downstairs in the middle of the night. He seemed to watch the television for hours on end, the rock video channels or the late films, quiz programmes, old sitcoms, American cop shows, any kind of junk the satellite dish could suck down from space, he did not seem too fussy. What drove me half-crazy was not just the noise but the way he insisted on continually flicking around from one channel to another. Some nights it was almost impossible to sleep, with the noise coming up through the floorboards.

  Other times, when the television was off, I would hear him opening the fridge door or turning on the heat, looking in the cupboards or pulling out drawers. Often he would whistle or sing as he stalked the house like a ghost. It was usually close to dawn by the time he would come up the stairs and go to bed. I would hear his footsteps on the loose boards, he’d come padding down the landing, sometimes he would stop for a moment outside my room, before continuing down the passage and into his own. He would close the door and lock it. Sometimes he would jam a door against it. He would always – always – turn on the radio.

  One evening around that time I arrived home hungry at about six and went straight to the kitchen. I noticed with some surprise that he had tidied the place up a bit. The dishes had been washed and put away, the Aga had been scraped clean, the tiles around it polished. For the first time in some years I could actually read the words on that little plaque on the wall behind the Aga, Man does not live by bread alone. He had draped an old tablecloth over that pile of concrete blocks the builders had left beside the sink. The floor tiles were gleaming and the windows were clean.

  I prepared some food and came in here to eat it. Then I saw that he had clearly been in here also: the wooden planks had been stacked up in a neat pile by the wall, the bags of cement and plaster heaped into a corner, the carpet thoroughly hoovered.

  After I had eaten, I sat at this table and began to write. I wrote for several hours, the very first of these pages for you. I listened to records while I tried to think of what to put down. I remember Bessie Smith and Beethoven.

  On my way up to bed that night I went into the living-room to look for an old order book that I needed. He was sitting on the floor with the lights off, looking at the television, and he was barefoot. The cool blue light of the screen played across his face. He was drinking a can of beer and eating a plate of sausages. He sucked down the drink, his eyes on the screen, an American documentary programme about the background to the O. J. Simpson case. I could see by his movements that he was quite drunk.

  ‘You should stop drinking so much,’ I said.

  He laughed without looking up at me. ‘What the fuck would you know about it?’

  ‘I’d know a lot about it, son. I’m an alcoholic. A drunk.’

  He shrugged and kept staring at the television. ‘Drink a little wine for the sake of thy stomach. Saint Paul said that, Homer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we all get scuttered sometimes.’

  ‘Well, I scuttered myself into the ground, son. I was a great lad altogether, just like you. A mad bastard. I went down to the floorboards and then I crawled in under them. I’d a wife and two kids until I pissed it all away.’

  ‘Big deal, Homer. Now shut up, I’m watchin’ this.’

  His tone of voice irritated me. ‘It is a big deal, yeah, when you wake up in a cell with your trousers plastered in piss and shit. A grown man. I’ve been dragged into hospital and pumped out more times than I care to remember. I’ve seen things crawling out of the walls at me and rats coming to get me in the middle of the night.’

  ‘So bleedin’ what?’

  ‘So don’t tell me I don’t know anything about it, son. I’d have a wife and a family now if it wasn’t for what I know about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t take it out on me, Homer.’

  ‘I’m just saying, I know.’

  He picked up the remote. ‘Here Homer,’ he said. ‘I think you’re makin’ a mistake. I think you’re after mixin’ me up with someone else here.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘With someone who gives a flyin’ fuck about you. That’s who. Now I told y’to leave me alone, I’m watchin’ this.’

  The next night when I got in I saw that he had fixed the stairs. Seriously, love. He had found those oak floorboards in here and nailed most of them into place on the staircase. I walked up and down a few times, testing them, until he appeared before me on the landing carrying a toolbox.

  ‘Jesus, come up or go down, Homer,’ he sighed. ‘I need y’out of the bleedin’ way there, I’ve to tack the carpet back down properly.’

  In your bedroom a new door had been hung – he explained to me that he had taken it from the boxroom downstairs and found a set of hinges out in the stable. Up in the bathroom he had fixed the shower curtain back to its rail and cleaned the toilet. The carpets on the landing had been vacuumed. He had opened all the upstairs windows to let in clean air. There was an ancient sheet of yellowed notepaper pinned to the door of my room. I read the letterhead: Reverend W. F. McCracken, MA, Glen Bolcain, Dalkey’. Underneath, in blue biro:

  ‘Dear Homer, it is like a SHAGGING STY in there. You are ONLY AN ANIMAL. Do you want me to do it out for you?’

  The weather was rainy and a bit cold that night, and in here it can get quite chilly anyway with the damp in the front wall, so I lit the fire in the grate over there and ate my dinner without taking off my jacket. I could hear the television blaring through the walls but I did not do anything about it. I was trying to concentrate on what I would write to you later and had no heart for a confrontation. Instead I closed the door and put on a record – I think it might have been Dave Brubeck – and when I had finished eating I began to write, as was my habit by then.

  Around eleven I was reading back over a few pages and drinking a Coke when he knocked on the door. I was a little surprised by this, to tell you the truth; etiquette was never exactly his strong suit. But then he knocked again, more firmly but still politely. He came in with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits which he put on the table beside me. He sat back against the stack of planks and lit a cigarette.

  ‘What’s that you’re writin’, Homer?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s an awful lot of nothin’ then. You’re in here every night doin’ it.’

  ‘It’s just something I’m doing for work.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ve somethin’ t’say to you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He blew a globe of smoke. ‘I’m sorry about what happened your daughter.’

  I put down my tea. The wind whistled in the chimney. The curtains moved in the draft.

  ‘And were you sorry when your scumbag mate hit her with the iron bar?’<
br />
  He stared at me. ‘She gashed her head on the edge of the till, man, I swear to Christ. Nobody hit her.’

  ‘Don’t talk shite, Quinn.’

  ‘Listen, I had to do the job. I’d no choice, man. I’ve a sister borrowed big dough from a bloke out in Tallaght, a shark, and he had to have it back. He threatened her kid otherwise. The kid’s four years old. This toerag said he’d get him out of the school and fuckin’ molest him if he didn’t get his dough back and pronto.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say that in the court?’

  He shrugged. ‘Never got the chance. Anyway, what d’y’think he’d’ve done to the kid if I had? This guy’s one sick, twisted fuck. The things he said he’d do to the kid, they’d turn your stomach over. I’d no choice.’

  ‘Is that right? And what about my kid? What about her?’

  ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ to explain.’ He got up, went to the fireplace, peered into it. He picked up a log and threw it into the spitting flames. ‘When we arrived into the place that night she saw us straight away. She tried to go for the alarm and we had to stop her doin’ that. We had to. I didn’t know about the syringe till Kelly pulled it out, I swear to Christ. I knew he was a psycho all right but I didn’t know he’d pull a stroke like that.’

  ‘I saw the security video in the court,’ I told him. ‘I heard what she was saying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know damn well what.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘She was asking you to spare her life. She was begging. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that.’

  He shook his head and brushed some dust off the mantel-piece. ‘She was scared, that’s all, man. She didn’t know what she was sayin’, the words were just … We weren’t gonna touch her, that’s the truth. I swear to Christ.’

  He tossed his cigarette into the fire. ‘I never hit a woman in me life, I swear to God. I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh right. Big man, aren’t you? Gentleman Jim.’

  ‘Well, lookat, I’m sorry anyway. All right?’

  He came over and held out his hand.

  ‘And I’m supposed to be impressed,’ I said.

  ‘Lookat, I’m tryin’ to say I’m sorry, that’s all. And I am.’

  ‘Oh right. She’s lying in a hospital bed for the rest of her life and you’re sorry?’

  He looked at the floor. I laughed.

  ‘You know, Quinn, one thing I never took you for before is a gobshite. But all of a sudden I’m beginning to wonder.’

  He stepped towards me, looking angry now. I found myself covering my writing with my hands.

  ‘Look,’ he snapped, ‘do y’want me to be sorry or not, y’stupid prick?’

  ‘I don’t care any more,’ I told him. ‘And that’s the truth.’

  ‘It’s a fuckin lie y’mean. I know your type, pal, I’ve met them before. Never happy unless they’re miserable. Yeah. That’s it. And y’won’t be really happy till yer six foot under and feedin’ the fuckin’ worms.’

  I sat back and folded my arms. ‘Go on, son,’ I said. ‘That’s it. You tell me all about myself.’

  He pointed at me. ‘Did nobody ever have to forgive you for anythin’, no? What are you, pal, some fuckin’ saint? St Homer. Well, for a saint I don’t see too many people beatin’ the door of this kip down to see how yer doin’ these days.’

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ I shouted. And to my surprise, he did. After a moment the television was turned up loud again next door.

  Around one in the morning he was sitting at the kitchen table when I went in for a glass of water. He was drinking a cup of tea and cutting pictures out of a magazine with a scissors. I emptied my leftovers into the bin and rinsed off my plate. When I went to get a glass I noticed that they had all been cleaned and dried and neatly put back into the cupboard. I got my water and drank it down. I remember the buzzing of the fridge. He reached to the floor and picked up a pile of magazines and newspapers. He began to look through them, cutting out more pictures and arranging them into small piles on the table.

  ‘Look,’ I found myself saying, ‘I’m sorry for throwing the head with you earlier. I’ve been thinking about it and I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, y’can go shag yerself now. I’ve nothing else to say about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t there that night. I know that. And I believe you, what you said about the syringe.’

  ‘Just leave it,’ he said. ‘And don’t be annoyin’ me.’

  I poured myself a cup of tea from the pot and sat down at the table. I watched for a while as he cut the photographs out of the magazines. Outside in the garden I could hear the cry of an owl. The wind threw leaves against the kitchen window.

  ‘Homer,’ he said. ‘I phoned the mother today.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I told her I was in London, didn’t leave a number. She said it was just as well I was over there.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Someone in the flats is after tellin’ her there’s a contract out on me.’

  ‘A contract?’

  ‘I’m after fallin’ out with these lads in town. Some dough from a big enough job went for a fuckin’ walk a while back. The word’s out it was me knocked it off.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘No. But I’m after gettin’ the blame. The mother says they’ve been lookin’ around town for me. She’s astray in the fuckin’ head about it. Five grand, Homer. That’s what they’re givin’ for whoever does me.’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe y’should do me yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t go to England,’ I said. ‘You’d be safe over there, from whoever it is that’s trying to get you. Nobody’s going to do anything to you over there. You know that. And you know you can’t stay here for ever.’

  He was silent. Just snipped harder with the scissors.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll even give you money, all right. As much as you need. And I’ll drive you myself down to the boat.’

  He glared at me. ‘Oh yeah, y’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m stayin’ here as long as I like, man, and there’s fuck all y’re gonna to do about it.’

  I took a few swallows of tea and tried not to lose my temper. ‘Listen, you give me all this stuff about the Provos being after you. And these merchants as well now. But the Provos aren’t running around London, are they?’

  ‘Oh right. No Provos in London. I can see you’ve been readin’ the papers lately, Homer.’

  ‘You know well what I mean. OK, there’s a few Provos in London, but not like here.’

  ‘I know, all right?’

  ‘So why don’t you just go to London then? I’ll give you money.’

  He turned a page of his magazine. ‘Because I don’t know anyone over there,’ he said. ‘Now. Are y’happy?’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know anyone?’

  He glared across at me. ‘Did y’never hear of fuckin’ loneliness in your life, man, no?’

  He got up and walked from the kitchen. I heard him storming up the stairs. He went into his room and slammed the door closed. A moment went by. He opened and slammed it again, so hard that the windows in the kitchen shook.

  And then the radio went on.

  Two or three days went by without a single word. And then one evening he was in the garden when I got home, up to his knees and digging with an old shovel in the drainage trench. He had taken off his shirt and was sweating heavily as he worked, a mound of wet black earth behind him. He grunted hard as he sliced the shovel into the ground. When he caught my eye he did a cautious nod.

  ‘I thought I’d have a go at your sewer. I was bored.’

  ‘There’s really no need. I’ve decided to get the builders back in a while.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not gonna be thick enough t’get the same crowd from last time. Shower of useless cowboys. Shagged off without finishin’ the job.’

  ‘It wasn’t their fault,’ I told him. ‘We ha
d a row. It was just before the court case and my nerves were bad. I lost my temper with them. But you needn’t be doing that. I’ll get them back in the new year.’

  He wiped his wet, tanned face. ‘Yeah, well I was bored out of me skull anyway. And the jacks is gone baw-ways in there. I’m after flushin’ up a breakfast y’must’ve had six months ago.’

  He rummaged in his jeans pocket. ‘Oh yeah, lookat. Little present for yeh, Homer.’

  He handed me a wad of tissue paper. I opened it and stared inside. A small imitation emerald brooch shaped like a bird sitting on a twig. At first I did not even remember it. Just some cheap trinket someone once threw away, I told myself, some worthless bit of tawdry junk one of the travellers had flung in over the wall. And then, slowly, it began to down on me where I had seen it before.

  ‘My Jesus,’ I said. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Was in your main sewer over there,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘Caked in shite and all. But I saw it glintin’ up at me. Picked it out and washed it down under the tap. Thought it might be worth a few bob.’

  ‘This belonged to my wife,’ I told him. ‘It was an anniversary present.’

  He shrugged. ‘Happy anniversary so. That’s nice for you to have it back.’

  He went back to work on the sewer, cutting deep into the earth, throwing shovelfuls over his shoulder.

  PART IV

  Chapter Seventeen

  On the morning of 20 September, your twenty-fourth birthday, the Jewish feast of Tabernacles, I was on my way down the driveway when I noticed the chestnuts on the heavy sagging branches. Some had even fallen, I saw, green spiked bombs on the dark gravel. I knew then that the summer was well and truly over. For the last few weeks there had been fewer flycatchers and willow warblers in the garden. The chaffinches had started to flock together, the way they always do when the sharp weather is on its way. The night before a convoy of wild geese had flown honking in a V over the roof and in the direction of the South. The redwings would be here soon, I told myself. And there was still no sign of him going.