by G D Sheehen
“We have some spare towels. You can come down for one later. And we have group sessions on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“Group sessions?”
“A counsellor comes in and we sit around comparing fucked up stories about our pasts.” He chuckled. “It’s good to get some of these things off your chest.”
Declan left Philip alone and disappeared down the stairs like a barrel rolling down a hill. The room had a single bed, a small wardrobe and a dressing table in the corner with a tattered black stool next to it. Philip laid down on the bed, the room span around him and he soon fell into a deep sleep. Being in prison taught someone how to sleep for up to eighteen hours a day with little effort.
He slept through to five the next morning and woke up feeling famished. He went downstairs but couldn’t get out the door which was double bolted from the inside. Declan shuffled in from the back of the ground floor, his eyes barely open with keys jangling in his hand.
“I thought that might be you, bud. I checked on ya last night. You were dead to the world. I don’t usually open the door at this time but I know you must be starving. There’s a twenty-four-hour garage down the road. Come back at six and I’ll let ya back in again.”
Philip stepped out into the bitter predawn chill, zipped up his jacket and headed towards the green hum of the neon roof. By the time he got there, he was drained and gasping. He scoffed down a BLT and slugged back a litre of milk and instantly felt revitalised.
His moment of calm was interrupted, however, by a scraping sound coming from the back of the garage, near the restroom. He paid little attention at first but was jolted by a sound like a large sponge being wrung out, water splattering off the cold ground, followed by a muted thump. He moved cautiously towards the corner to get a closer look when a shadow shot round the corner at an angle that seemed impossible due to the direction of the light from the forecourt. He stopped on the spot, not fully trusting his eyes. Could it be the medication playing tricks on my mind? The shadow swivelled and receded in a sleek movement, drawing Philip in a trance-like state towards it.
He rounded the corner that was bathed in sheer darkness making the shadow all the more impossible. No light source from either direction, the green light cut out by several metres of concrete wall. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness, and as he expected, nothing was to be seen.
“I want what’s mine, Cloudcrawler.”
Philip’s heart skipped a beat and he gazed, wide-eyed, in all directions. Nobody was there. But who could know this name I gave my alter-ego in one of my childhood stories? Cautiously, he took a few steps deeper into the void, the void offering nothing, only cold and emptiness. Then he approached the restroom door at the end of this side of the building, thinking maybe someone was hidden in there, never an inclination of retreat crossing his mind.
With a pang of trepidation and fear, he put his hand on the silver doorknob and was struck by how cold it was, like touching the inside wall of a deep freezer; he expected his hand to stick to it. Slowly, he turned it and pushed the door open. More darkness met him but after three seconds the light came on with a thunk and a buzz.
“I know where you hid it,” said the voice, coarse and deep, sounding under some strain to push out the words.
Philip flipped around, trying to catch a glimpse of his companion, but still nobody. He entered the single-occupancy restroom and soon determined that nobody could possibly be hiding in there.
He started walking back to the shop when his stomach churned at the sight in front of him. A large black dog lay on the ground in a shining pool of its own blood, its body deflated as if the air had been sucked out and the black eyes, which still appeared to have life in them, stared up at Philip, pleading in a way only dogs can do. He just about managed to hold down the sandwich and milk, turned away from the horrid sight and jogged towards the forecourt, passing a customer on his way. Seconds later a man shouted back from where the dog laid, lifeless.
“You sick cunt. Get back here, now. Somebody help. Some junkie just murdered me dog.”
As the middle-aged man began weeping, Philip ran as fast as he could away from the scene, taking numerous side streets on his way towards the halfway house. He couldn’t get the image of the dog out of his mind as he moped down St. Anne’s Road. It reminded him of his own beloved Fionn who was torn to shreds and left on the doorstep of his family home when he was a teenager. His parents blamed him and it was one of the final threads tying him to his family that snapped before he was finally kicked out.
His skin shook and rippled on his body and he never felt such an urge to shoot up as he did at that moment.
3
Philip reached the Mater Hospital half an hour before his ten o’clock appointment with Paul Walsh and waited in a bright white waiting room. The room was quiet and serene compared to the rest of the busy hospital. Philip had gone there reluctantly, but still fragile from the incident at the petrol station he decided it would be better than hanging around the house brooding and tempted to go into town to score. What the hell happened to that dog?
An elderly nurse appeared with a clipboard and assured him he wouldn’t have to wait very long and gave him a coffee and a copy of the Herald. He leafed through the paper and noted with a pang of familiarity that someone else had been shot dead in Dublin’s ongoing drug gang feud. Several family names were mentioned; the McConnell’s, Kinsella’s and Bresnan’s, who were the main families that controlled all the drugs trade in Dublin. Struggling with the sheer exertion of recollection, he scanned the tattered memories in his mind and could picture at least one member of each of the families he had come across during his street days. The thought of being involved with these people sent a shudder down him and he slammed down the paper as if to forcefully banish the malign fractured memories that had hold of him.
The white door in front of him opened and out stepped Walsh. A tall strong man with black, greying hair, parted at the side, he smiled warmly at Philip and extended his hand moving towards him. Philip rose from his seat as if on command of a prison officer which caught Walsh’s attention judging by a fleeting backwards motion. They shook hands.
“Welcome, Mr Quinlan. May I call you Philip?”
“Of course,” he replied taken back by the formality.
“I’m glad you could make it. Many new releases never show up.”
“I’d like to sort out a few things that have been bothering me. And I really want to stay off the gear. It’s ruined my fucking life.”
“That’s the perfect attitude, to begin with. Please come in and have a seat.”
He followed Walsh into his small office. It was similarly bright and relaxing like the waiting room, with a desk on one side, a bookshelf crowded with books next to it, and two armchairs on the other side of the room. Walsh gestured for Philip to have a seat near the window.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
Philip didn’t answer but took the prescription out of his pocket and handed it to Walsh.
“I’d like to know what the side effects are of this medication?”
Walsh sat down and took the scrunched up paper from him and had a close look.
“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t prescribe medicine so I’m no expert, but I do know this is fairly powerful stuff. Why? What’s been happening to you?”
Philip fidgeted. “Nothing. I’m just wondering what it’s going to do to me if I take it every day.”
“I think its benefits will far outweigh any adverse side effects. You may need to take this for the rest of your life. Do you realise that?”
“I don’t think I’ll need it for the rest of my life,” Philip answered with obvious obstinacy. “Just till I get back on track.”
Walsh didn’t argue with this.
“I see from your file you have a sister in Waterford. Does she know you’re out?”
Philip shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and took in the room once more. A slapping sound, he soon figured
to be wings flapping, came in from outside the window, then a crow crashed into the window. Philip seized up and after a few beats turned to Walsh, unsure if he’d even noticed the bird.
“I don’t think so. We haven’t talked in a very long time.”
Walsh sat cross-legged, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands clasped together while Philip slouched uneasily.
“One of the most important roads to recovery is making up with those closest to you. People that maybe you’ve wronged in the past.”
“I’m not sure if she’ll ever talk to me again.”
“Our loved ones can be very forgiving.”
“I wasn’t there for her when our parents got sick. And when I did show up, I gave them nothing but heartache and grief.”
Philip was surprised by how open he was being with someone he’d just met but was feeling increasingly vulnerable by sharing this information. Could it be used against me if I end up in court again? They’ll know what a cruel bastard I was to my own family and lock me up forever next time. He was tempted to get up and leave, never to return at that point. What good can possibly come from talking to a stranger?
“I believe that if we get back on the right path, no matter how long we were astray, even people who are no longer with us can offer us forgiveness and solace.”
“Wow! Are you a priest or a counsellor?” They both laughed at this, easing the tension a little.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t talk like that here, but I believe the road to redemption has many paths that lead to a variety of places.”
“That’s deep for this hour of the morning.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Walsh said with a smile Philip found to be sincere and trustful.
“Did you always want to do this job?”
“I always wanted to do something to help people. How about you? What did you want to do more than anything when you were young?”
Philip squirmed in his chairs, a bashful smile conveying his discomfort.
“Ah, it’s foolish. I don’t want to say.”
“Was it foolish back then?”
This question made Philip picture himself sitting on the cliff edge writing a story, with Rodge throwing stones into the sea below.
“I wanted to be a writer. I constantly wrote stories when I was young. I used to read them to my best friend and my sister.”
“What kind of stories did you write?”
“Mostly horror stories about mythological creatures I’d heard about when I was young. Celtic demons and spirits. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds interesting. When did the dream fade?”
“I can’t remember,” he said with an air of sadness and regret filling him.
“If we can trace where our dreams died, we can often identify a crucial period in our lives that shaped us or brought negativity into our being. Maybe you can have a think about it before our next session.”
“I’ll try my best.”
A silence swept through the room, both men lost in their own thoughts.
“Have you heard or seen anything unusual since being released?”
Fuck. He knows about the dog.
“What do you mean? Can this medication make me hallucinate?”
“Does that mean you have seen something?”
“No,” Philip said shakily.
“It’s just a routine question for someone with your condition. Maybe if you do have such experiences you can write them down and tell me about them when you’re ready.”
“I’ll do that. Are we nearly finished here?”
“We’ve just started. The session is an hour but you’re free to go any time.”
“Ya. I have to be off soon. I’m starting work tomorrow and need to pick up some clothes.”
They talked for another twenty minutes about Philip’s experience in the medical unit in Mountjoy. He struggled to recall the treatment he received and was more than hazy about the details of daily life there. Walsh didn’t press him too much but urged him to make a note of any memories that flash back, no matter how minute. Walsh touched on the fact that mental illness had affected his own family so he had an understanding beyond his qualifications and experience in the field.
“I wish you the best of luck, Philip,” he said after they rose to end the session. “I really believe you can have a meaningful life if you avoid temptation. You’re clearly a smart chap and I think you can see beyond the drudgery of life on these streets.”
“I don’t know about that Mr Walsh, but I truly think this is my last chance. I can’t survive all that darkness again.”
“Have you got yourself a phone yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Here’s my card with my contact information. You can call me any time, day or night. If you’re on the edge of that chasm, call me and I’ll be there.”
Philip took the card from Walsh and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. They said their goodbyes and Philip made his way back through the hospital feeling a cautious sense of optimism.
4
“Do you think you’d die if ya fell in there?” asked Philip peering over the grassy cliff in Dunmahon.
The boys’ village sat half a mile back from the Copper Coast on the stark shores of County Waterford. The cliff edge waved up and down, varying in height along a twenty-kilometre expanse of millions of years of walls coarsely shaped by wild ravaging seas. The cliffs were topped with sprawling expanses of green fields, as far as the eye could see.
“I’d say you have a good chance, but it’s definitely survivable,” replied Rodge looking in the other direction.
The waves folded gently over the jagged rocks below leaving a white foam that Philip always stared at until it disappeared completely.
“Where does it go?”
“Where does what go?” replied Rodge turning around and joining Philip on the cliff’s edge. “Are you talking about that foam again?”
“I think it disappears into the rocks and makes them stronger.” He turned to look at his best friend. “Do you want to hear my new story?”
“Not if it’s messed up like the one you told me yesterday. I couldn’t get to sleep for ages last night. I kept thinking there was a vampire staring in my bedroom window at me.”
“How do you know there wasn’t? These parts are full of them you know.”
“Ah, get lost. They’re only foolish stories. Imagine. We’ll be in sixth class after the summer holidays and then it’s secondary school in the big smoke.”
“I know. It’s mad, isn’t it? I can’t wait to see what else is out there in the world.”
Rodge burst out laughing. “Out in the world? In Waterford city, ya mean? It’s hardly New York or London.”
“Ya, but it’s better than this little culchie shithole.”
Rodge swung his long sinewy arm and connected beautifully with a dead arm, making Philip wince in pain followed by uncontrollable laughter on Rodge’s part.
“You bollix, that hurt. That’s two I owe ya.”
“No way man. You insulted my people. That doesn’t count as a real one.”
“Your people? Farmers? It bloody well felt like a real one.”
“Don’t bite the hands that feeds ya,” said Rodge as stoically as an eleven-year-old could muster.
They looked out across the sea and saw clouds rushing across the horizon.
“Tell me the Cloudcrawler story?”
“Nah. It’s not finished yet.”
“Do you know what we should do?” asked Rodge conspiratorially.
“I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“Let’s do it. We’ll ask Mr Richards if he needs help cutting the grass or trimming the hedges.”
“That place is so overgrown you’d need the whole school to get the job done. Anyway, you only want to see her. Admit it,” mocked Philip, throwing a punch that Rodge evaded easily.
Rodge sprang to his feet and began walking along the worn path, down the incline tow
ards the narrow road below. Philip tried to hold out for as long as he could but accepted that he wasn’t going to return, so jumped up and ran to catch up with his friend. The road wound across the coast and after ten minutes walking, they turned onto another country road, flanked by three-metre-high hedges that led into the village.
Before reaching the village there was a large estate with high grey surrounding walls and towering trees that all but locked out the view of the house inside. The house was a nineteenth-century landlord’s residence and loomed over the village like an ominous shadow, a reminder of a darker past when people of the village struggled to survive through starvation and rebellion.
The house was now occupied by Benjamin Richards, the principal and teacher of sixth class in the local primary school, his wife Evelin and their daughter Eve, who was the same age as the boys. Rumour had it that Mr Richards was a direct descendant of Lord Sutcliffe who was the notorious landlord that built the house in 1843, just before the Great Famine struck Ireland. Local lore claimed he would help feed local poor people but only in return of one of their children; apparently, his wife could bear none. Other stories claimed he was a monster who fed on those at the door of death, and yet others maintained he was a kind and courteous man who helped the locals and was responsible for the low death rate in the locality during the famine.
Evelin Richards was rarely seen around the village but when she was she moved around with a regal air of sophistication and knew everyone she met by name. Rumours abounded that she was sixpence short of a shilling. Eve stood out in their primary school as being mysterious, slightly tanned all year round and sophisticated beyond the understanding of the other kids.
“Is it locked?” asked Philip from behind Rodge who was standing with his hands on the iron rails of the gate like a prisoner trapped in the real world he wanted out of.
“No. Will we go in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t want us bothering them. They’re probably acting out some Shakespeare play or reciting poetry together, or something. Let’s just head to the shop for a cone.”
