by Colm Toibin
‘You were never a hurler,’ the man said quietly. His tone was friendly.
‘That’s right,’ Fergus said.
‘Conor was the hurler of the family,’ the man said.
‘He was good in his day all right,’ Fergus said.
‘Are you the brainy one?’
‘No,’ Fergus smiled. ‘That’s Fiach. He’s the youngest.’
‘Your father,’ the man began and hesitated. Fergus looked at him sharply. ‘Your father taught me in school.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I was in the same class as George Mahon. Do you see that dove on the wall there? George drew that.’
He pointed to the back wall of the funeral parlour.
‘He was to make a big painting when the place opened. That was just the drawing for it, a kind of preparation. He had to fill in the colours still.’
Fergus looked at the faint outlines in pencil on the wall behind the coffin, he could make out a dove, a few figures and perhaps a hill or a mountain in the distance.
‘Why did he not finish it?’ Fergus asked.
‘Matt’s wife,’ the man said, ‘died suddenly a few weeks before he was ready to open this place and he had to decide whether to coffin her himself or give her to the main competition. So he did it himself, even though this place wasn’t finished. It was fine, there was no problem with it, but the painting hadn’t been done. And once Matt’s wife had been laid out here, George Mahon said he wouldn’t come back. He’d be too frightened, he said. The space was all ruined. Or so he said. He couldn’t work. You’d never know what’d come up behind you, he said, when you’d be painting here.’
The man spoke in a monotone, staring at the coffin all the time. When Fergus looked away from him, he tried to picture his face, but he could not; his features appeared to fade as soon as Fergus turned. He would, Fergus realized, be hard to describe; tall, but not especially so; thin, but not very thin; his hair brown or sandy-coloured; the face was unremarkable and the voice disembodied. In the silence of the funeral parlour when the man had stopped talking, if someone were to whisper that this man had come to take away his mother’s spirit, it would not have seemed strange. It was, for a few seconds, the most likely possibility that this visitor had suspended time to utter banalities and tell stories while he was working to take Fergus’s mother away so that all that was left of her to be buried was her spent and useless body.
Soon, however, when the man had left and the others come back, and some neighbours called, the spell was broken and the man’s visit seemed ordinary, what was to be expected in a small town, not worth describing to the others, even though it had left its mark.
THE NEXT DAY, as they followed the coffin down the centre aisle of the cathedral towards the waiting hearse, Fergus kept his head down. He listened to the music, the last hymn to be sung for his mother, and tried not to think of the people congregated on each side of the aisle, standing now, studying him and his sisters and brothers and his aunt as they walked slowly towards the main door. When he came to the last few rows, however, he looked around him and was surprised to see three friends from Dublin, from his life at the weekend and from a recent trip to Amsterdam, standing sombre-faced, as though they were ashamed of something, catching his eye now, but not smiling or even nodding at him in recognition. He had never seen them serious before; this must be how they had looked in school when they were in trouble, or during job interviews or when questioned at airports or stopped by the cops. He was tempted to whisper to them, ask laughingly if they had any drugs, but by the time he thought of this he was out in the open.
In the graveyard, his father’s gravestone looked like history now, the carved dates already fading. The priest had set up a microphone and a stand at the other side of it. The early September sunshine made the day warm. There was no wind, but nonetheless the whole place seemed oddly windswept. He wondered why they did not grow trees in this graveyard, even evergreens. As the priest began to intone the prayers, Fergus noticed George Mahon the painter and decorator standing close to a gravestone in the distance. He was the only figure in the graveyard who did not come close, who did not huddle in the crowd standing close to the grave. He was over six feet tall and was resting his hands on the headstone. Fergus could feel the power of his gaze, and could sense that George Mahon had drawn an invisible line in the graveyard which he would not cross. He was, as the man who had come to the funeral parlour explained, afraid of the dead. He had known Fergus’s mother all of his life so he could not have easily stayed away, but his not coming near the grave, his keen study of the scene around the priest and the hearse and the coffin, the fierce independence of his stance, made Fergus shiver as the coffin was moved towards the open grave.
Afterwards, Fergus stood and shook hands with anyone who came, thanking them and trying to smile. He noticed that one of his sisters was crying. At the end of the line, shyly, stood Mick, Alan and Conal.
‘The three musketeers,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Fergus,’ Mick said and shook his hand. He was wearing a jacket and tie. The other two approached and embraced him softly.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Alan said.
Conal held his hand and shook his head sadly.
‘Will you come to the hotel for a bite?’ Fergus asked.
‘We’d love to, but we have to go,’ Mick smiled. ‘When are you heading back to Dublin?’
‘Thursday, I think,’ Fergus said.
‘Will you come around Thursday night, or give us a ring on the mobile?’
‘O?, thanks, I’ll do that.’
ON THE NIGHT after the funeral, he and his siblings and his brother-in-law drank until four in the morning. Most of them stayed over the next night, promising each other that they would go to bed early, but over dinner they began to drink wine and then went on to beer and whiskey until there was nothing left but more wine which Fergus and his sisters and brothers drank until the dawn had long appeared. He did not wake until the early afternoon. It was Thursday now and time to leave. He had planned all along to stop at the graveyard on the way out of the town and stand by his mother’s grave and offer to her, or receive from her, some comfort, but he was tired and drained. All night they had laughed until there were no more funny stories left. He felt a gnawing guilt at her death as he drove past the graveyard, as though he were implicated in its cause. Rather than move closer to her, he needed to get away from her house, her grave, the days of her funeral. He drove directly to his house in Stoneybatter, dreaming that he would never go out again, but would sleep once darkness was down and do this night after night.
As he was preparing for bed, the phone rang. It was Mick.
‘It doesn’t matter about tonight,’ he said. ‘It matters about tomorrow night. We have something special for you. The lads are coming. It’s a beach rave.’
‘No,’ Fergus said. ‘I’m not coming.’
‘You have to come,’ Mick said.
‘I’m too old for techno,’ Fergus said. ‘Actually, I take that back. Techno is too boring for me. And I hate beaches.’
‘This is special. I said it was special. Bring two warm pullovers and a big towel.’
‘No.’
‘Nine o’clock at my place. I’m driving. If it’s boring I’ll leave with you. But please come.’
‘Nine?’ Fergus asked and laughed for a moment.
‘Nine sharp,’ Mick replied.
‘And we can stay for half an hour?’
‘It’ll be nine in the morning and you won’t want to leave,’ Mick said.
THEY SET OUT from the city when night had fallen. It was warm as they drove north; they kept the windows open until Alan lit a joint and then they closed them so they could enjoy wallowing in the smoke. Already, in Mick’s flat, they had each snorted a line of cocaine, which had made Fergus feel sharp and nervous, and oddly lucid. He pulled on the joint with all his energy, taking too much smoke in, and then concentrating on holding it, relishing the t
aste and the power as he closed his eyes; he felt almost faint. He put his head back as a thrill of weakness coursed through him. He was ready to sleep, but it was a readiness which came with darting thoughts which led nowhere. He tried to relax in the back of the car, taking pleasure in the battle going on between the golden lethargy which the dope brought and the sweet electric shock of the cocaine.
‘You know something?’ Alan said. ‘I felt so bad after your old lady’s funeral that I decided I was neglecting mine. So I bought her flowers and went out to see her.’
‘A small step for mankind,’ Conal said.
‘I should have phoned her first,’ Alan said, ‘but she’s no good on the phone, she treats it like it was a poisonous snake.’
‘How long was it since you’d seen her?’ Mick asked.
‘June. And the time before that was February and she kept nagging at me about it and I said: “Well, I’m here now,” as though that would make up for everything. And she nearly bit me. She kept saying: “That’s all very well.” She gets very narked very easily.’
‘Is that where you get it from?’ Mick asked.
‘So I turn up with the flowers and there’s no one there and Miss Bitch next door appears in her apron and shouts at me that I’m not getting the key. “And your mother’s in Italy,” she says. And on a beach, if you don’t mind, one of the trendy places, with oul’ Mrs Kingston, buying up property the two of them, or new earrings.’
‘What did you do with the flowers?’ Mick asked.
‘I fucked them into the bin beside the bus stop.’
‘Jesus,’ Conal said. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of Fergus. Are you all right, Fergus?’
‘I’m fine,’ Fergus said. He had his head back and his eyes closed.
‘There’ll be more white powder when we get there,’ Mick said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I’m ready for bed,’ Fergus said. ‘When I was a kid I used to love staying in the car while the rest of them went down to the strand.’
‘Well, you’ve grown up now,’ Mick said.
Mick drove slowly, once he was off the main road. Fergus guessed that they were somewhere between Drogheda and Dundalk but heading directly towards the coast, or driving parallel to it. He noticed that Mick had difficulty seeing in front of him because of patches of thick fog which appeared at intervals. He stopped several times and switched on the dim overhead light so he could consult a page of elaborate directions.
‘We’re very near now, but I have instructions not to ask for directions from anyone or behave suspiciously,’ Mick said. ‘I’m looking for a second bungalow on the right and then I have to turn down a narrow, sandy lane.’
‘Are you sure someone isn’t making a complete eejit out of you?’ Alan asked.
‘Yeah, I am. It’s the same crowd who did the last one. They’re sound.’
He stopped at the second bungalow and got out of the car to check in the fog that there was a lane to the right.
‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘Down this lane and we’re there.’
Briars and brambles hit against the body of the car as they drove along the narrow lane, so rutted that a few times something seemed to cut through the underbelly of the car and Mick was almost forced to stop. They were silent as though frightened as the car rocked from side to side more than it appeared to move forward. When the lane ended, Mick opened the window and they could hear the roar of the sea. He parked the car close to a number of others. Once they opened the doors and stood out in the night the sound of electronic music came clearly towards them from the distance. Fergus noticed that there was a mild, warm wind coming in from the sea, like a summer wind, even though the summer just ended had offered nothing but low skies and constant rain.
‘We should have a snort here in the car so the wind won’t blow it away,’ Mick said.
They sat back into the car, closing the doors and the windows, and Mick laid out the lines neatly on the surface of a CD cover. Having waited his turn to snort the cocaine, using a fifty-euro note which Mick recommended, Fergus relished the sour taste of the powder as it made its way towards the back of his throat. He swallowed hard so that he could taste it better and then, since he was the last, he put his finger on the CD cover to absorb any stray grains of white powder and rubbed them into his gums.
In a holdall, they carried pullovers and towels, bottles of water and cans of beer, and a bottle of tequila. They stood watching as a set of headlights appeared and a car approached and parked and six or seven dazed figures emerged from it. Mick lit a joint and passed it around.
‘We’re not too early and we’re not too late,’ he said.
With the help of a torch, he guided them along a headland towards the music, which came from a sheltered cove, down a set of steep stone steps from a field which they had crossed.
‘The music is boring,’ Fergus whispered to Mick.
Mick handed him the joint again. He pulled on it twice and then handed it back.
‘I want you to close your eyes and open your mouth,’ Mick said. He shone the torch into Fergus’s face as Alan and Conal stood by laughing. Fergus saw Mick biting a tablet in two; as he closed his eyes, Mick put one half on his tongue.
‘Swallow that,’ he said. ‘It’s what doctors recommend for boredom.’
THE ORGANIZERS must have been working all day, Fergus thought, as soon as he saw the lights and the generators and the powerful speakers and decks. They had set up an elaborate, instant disco in the cove, with throbbing lights and loud techno, but far away enough from the nearest house or road that if they were lucky they would remain undisturbed all through the night. It was still early, he knew, and even though the Ecstasy tablet had not begun to affect him, the cocaine, the dope and the fresh sea air made him feel exhilarated, ready for a night which would not end, as nights in the city invariably ended, with bouncers shouting and places closing too early and no taxis in the city centre and nowhere to go save home.
As they joined the crowd, leaving their belongings in a safe place in the darkness, about thirty people were dancing. Some of them looked like friends who had travelled together, or maybe they had just become friends, Fergus thought, as they coordinated their movements while also remaining tightly apart from each other.
He stood at the edge of the dancers sipping from a can of beer which Mick had handed him, aware that he was being watched by a tall, skinny, black-haired guy who was dancing to a beat of his own invention, pointing at the sky and then pointing at Fergus and smiling. He was glad that he had spent enough time among straight people to know that the dancer had taken Ecstasy; he was happy and was smiling to show this. It was not a come-on, even though it could seem like one; there was no sexual content in what he was doing. He was like a child. Fergus pointed his finger at him to the stark dull rhythm of the music and smiled back.
He noticed that his nose and chin were tingling with pins and needles as the Ecstasy made its way through his body with its message of support. He began to dance, with Mick and Alan and Conal dancing close by. He was pleased that they were beside him, but he felt no need to look at them or speak to them, or even smile at them. Whatever was happening now with the drugs and the night and the tinny piercing sounds as the tempo rose and the volume was turned up meant that he was wholly connected to them, a part of the group they had formed. He needed only to feel that connection and a rush of warmth would go through him and he hoped that he might stay like that until the dawn and maybe after the dawn into the next day.
When he and Mick had shared another tablet and drunk some water and smoked a joint together, the music, in all its apparent monotony, and then its almost imperceptible variations, began to interest Fergus, pull him towards it with a greater force than the faces or the bodies around him. He listened out for changes in tone and beat, following the track of the music with the cool energy which the night, as it wore on, offered him. He kept close to the others and they to him. They pushed against each other sometimes in moc
k aggression, dancing in strange and suddenly invented harmonies, smiling at each other, or touching each other in reassurance, before stepping easily away, each of them dancing alone in the surging crowd.
Mick was in control, deciding when joints would be lit, more pills taken, beer sipped, water swigged, or when all four of them should retreat from the crowd, lie on their towels on the sand smoking, laughing, barely talking, knowing that there would be much more time to dance, and that this was a small respite which Mick thought they would need from the shifting beauty of the music and the dancers.
ALL NIGHT they moved around each other, as though they were guarding something deeply playful and wonderful that would disappear if they ceased to remain close. Fergus could feel the sand in his hair and embedded in the sweat down his back and in his trainers. Sometimes he felt tired, and then it seemed that the tiredness itself was impelling him, allowing him to sway with the music, and smile and close his eyes and hope that time was passing slowly, that this cocoon of energy had been left alone for the moment and could enclose him and keep him safe against the night.
It seemed hours later when Mick took him aside and made him move away from the lights and showed him the first stirrings of the dawn in the horizon over the sea. It resembled grey and white smoke in the distance, no redness or real sign of the sun. It looked more like fading light than the break of day. They joined the dancers again for the last stretch under the frantically flickering lights.
As the first rays of sun hit the strand, the light remained grey and uneasy as though it were building up for a day of low clouds and rain. Shivering, they walked over to where they had left the pullovers and towels and began to swig from the tequila bottle. At first it tasted like poison.
