The Companion

by Lorcan Roche

  ‘No. He’s an extremely white, bald Greek guy whose suits have very loud linings.’

  ‘And whose face have a lollipop stuck up in it.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the guy. He had a hit single once.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It was called “If.”’

  ‘Shit, I could write me that: if only I’d listened to mama, if only I’d studied in school, if only I hadn’t taken the easy way out, if only I hadn’t been a fool.’

  There’s a bit of a pause as we sip and stare. The whites of her eyes are unnaturally clear; I’d say she uses some sort of super strong drop and that’s when I spy the half-smoked joint on the sill.

  ‘Want some free advice?’

  ‘No such thing.’

  ‘Maybe. But you move in they own your lily-white ass if. Wake you up middle of the night if Ed wants to take so much as a leak, an’ most times he can’t squeeze more’n a drop from that miniature dick a’ his. Send you out to the all-night pharmacy ain’t a goddamn pill in the world gonna help that fucked-up rich boy. You got a girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You some sort of over-growed faggot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. You want some of my pie?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it, he say. Gettin’ fussy already. Blueberry ‘n apple.’

  ‘I could be tempted.’

  ‘Yes child, I believe you could. What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘Trevor.’

  ‘Trevor. Pleased to meet you. I’m Ellie.’

  She holds out her surprisingly small hand. When I hold out mine she slides her palm along, real slow, and our skin makes this excellent sandpaper noise, only softer. It’s the first time I’ve actually touched a totally black person (Sockets was light brown, like good firewood) except of course for this Nigerian woman on the last bus home from Dublin who had this incredible corkscrew hair like Bride of Frankenstein. It actually had currents of electricity running through it.

  I’m smiling now, partly because of all the fuckin’ fuss on the bus after I’d touched her hair and she screamed and everyone presumed I’d said something racist in her ear. But mostly I’m smiling because of the way Ellie said my pie as she stood up and rubbed the tops of her thighs with her small, strong hands. You can see even though she’s a good bit older that she really enjoys flirting and when she catches me examining her big old ass as she bends over at the oven she gives it a little shake, like an otter doing construction work at a dam.

  Ellie says she reckons there might be one or two things I’m good at, but sneaking a look sure as hell ain’t one. If I want to look I should just be straight up about it. Be a man. But she’s only pretending to be annoyed. Really she is chuckling away, in fact she’s having a rare old time to herself. I’m sorely tempted to ask for a swift hit off her joint, but I need to know someone properly before I can get stoned with them and remain, you know, comfortable in my own skin.

  She puts down the pie and a clean fork. As I tuck in she puts her chin in her hands and whenever I look up she is staring.

  In the big saucer eyes there’s nothing but warmth, maybe even acceptance. And when she smiles it’s one of those that leaves you no choice; you have to forget your cares, the pissy smell, the jellyfish eyes and the unsettling fact that so far no one has asked for a reference or even mentioned the fuckin’ word experience.

  Ellie asks me, ‘How it is?’ I tell her that without a shadow of a doubt it’s the finest piece of pie I’ve ever eaten. To prove it, I scrape the plate clean, then hold it aloft and lick it making num-yum noises. She slaps my leg, tells me I’m a crazy Irish fool, a jughead, maybe even a crackhead, who knows. ‘Some pretty weird peoples worked here.’ Then she gets me another beer.

  When I light up an after-dinner smoke she starts imitating Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, going tsk tsk tsk as she puts on the extractor fan and opens the little window. She turns around with a sea-shell ashtray in her hand she makes these big blowfish eyes you better not let them find out, but I just exhale as if to say, Fuck ‘em. And that’s when she sparks up her little joint, blows out blue smoke, says, ‘Yeah. You right about that, Clever.’

  When the Judge calls me in to talk money she says not to be ’timidated, not one little bit. That he’s a real mean little sonofabitch – ‘whatever figure he come up with, jus’ look him in the beady eye an’ multiply it by two’.

  ‘Remember, Clever. What you think of as money, they think of as change. Chump change.’

  I tell her relax, I’m not easily ’timidated, except she’s staring straight at my crotch while removing a bit of grass from her piano-key teeth. She sees me swallow then all of a sudden she just bursts out laughing, her shoulders shaking like Tommy Cooper. As she touches my cheek gently she says, ‘I’m jus playin’ with you, baby. Princip-lee ‘cause I like you. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  And I haven’t even started, not officially, but already this is looking like an excellent job possibly even better than the Clinic where some days your ribcage would ache from laughing at the things they said they’d do to their relatives and carers, if only they could lace up a pair of hob-nailers or wield a blackthorn stick for sixty seconds.

  And sometimes they’d get so frustrated trying to talk about their pent-up emotions that they’d tie themselves in knots. One day, one badly-bearded bloke who cut himself a million times whenever he shaved, just gave up in mid-sentence and started imitating Bruce Lee instead, screaming hiiii-ya, hiiii-ya, doing this Woodie Woodpecker movement with his head. And in our imaginations we could see sandalled nuns and soutaned priests, disinterested doctors and cynical social workers flying through Chinese paper walls, one white-coated uppity doc getting his whirly stethoscope wrapped round his neck in tune to a whistling cartoon effect.

  And The Captain is staring at me waiting, so I say, ‘OK, if you got the use of your arms and legs back for one day, and one day only, what would you do with them?’ And it wasn’t as if there was a strict syllabus I had to adhere to, alright?

  ‘I’d play a game of hurling, let them know who was Boss. After, I’d enjoy a nice, slow pint. Or two. Then, I’d drive up this leafy lane that runs behind my father’s farm …’

  I’m thinking, Christ where’s this going?

  ‘I’d park, put the handbrake on, then I’d turn to her and touch her face with my fingers, gently. I’d run my hands through her brown hair, softly. I’d hold her there against my chest for as many hours as I had left. That’s what I’d do, alright? Are ya happy now, ya dozy fuckin’ cunt ya?’

  No one said anything for five full minutes I could feel this lump in my throat, as if it were cement hardening. Then he nodded slowly and I walked over, except it was one of those extremely long ones, like when you’re walking down a hospital corridor after hearing bad news. I leaned down and hugged him, except hugging someone with no arms really is hard, seriously, you don’t know if you’re overdoing it or when to let go or anything. The Captain seemed relieved though, and he whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Trevor’ into my ear.

  So I whispered into his, ‘Me too.’ But then I added, ‘Even if you had two arms, I’d still kick your culchie ass ‘round the fuckin’ barna with my two tied behind my back.’ He laughed out loud, and the awful thing was he owned this perfect set of Tom Cruise teeth.

  Anyway the others, especially Dalek who hero-worshipped the guy, saw that The Captain and I were finally destined to be friends. And there was this lovely release of tension. That was the great thing about the Clinic: when you stepped out after a day’s teaching, it wasn’t just that you realized how fortunate you were to have all your bits and bobs intact. No, you were nearly always empty of Fear. And if Fate put something in your way, some small opportunity, say a good-looking bird at a bus stop in the rain when you’ve an umbrella and she doesn’t, then you wouldn’t have to think twice, you really wouldn’t give a shite if she said, Eh, no thanks all the same. You might even do a little jig in front of her, hopping up
and down off the kerb singing a makey-up song about being all warm and dry under your brolly while she stood there doing a pretty good impersonation of a drowned rat.

  I’m serious, when you work even for a little while with really sick people, people at times too tired to eat or smile or lift up their heads or hands, when you arrive in late one Monday and everyone is all eyes down like dray horses, and they tell you that over the weekend someone you really liked slipped away peacefully, and there’s another empty chair to contend with, well, that’s when you realize how crude and abrupt this shitty life is. And you decide formally inside your head that you will never go in for regrets recriminations or any of that wishful thinking crap.

  The little phone tinkles once again. Ellie stands and says, ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh,’ bit like a distracted Elvis Presley.

  Then she hangs up and says the Judge wants to see me in his room. As I’m walking out she adds, ‘He also say he had to ring his wife who didn’t know the hell you’d disappeared, then he had to ring up Ed who guess correctly you in the kitchen, eatin’.’ But like I point out, what’s the Judge getting all het-up about, it’s not like he’s calling long-distance now is it?’

  And you can still hear her cello-laughter playing all the way down the hall she is calling things out ‘bout the slippery Irish, how they been pullin’ wool over people eyes for hunnerts of years, yeah, all the corruption in Boston, Philly, Chicago – you name it – slippery Irish always be at the epicentre of it.

  The Judge doesn’t invite me to sit, so I do.

  He slides across a two-page document then produces a really nice fountain pen, one of those ones that can write upside down in an airplane. And because he expects me to sign on the spot I tell him I’ll take it home and study it, if it’s all the same.

  That’s when his grey eyes flash, and I wonder how much of him is left in Ed, and is that what’s keeping him alive, sheer fuckin’ determination?

  ‘Normally, we pay fifteen dollars an hour.’

  I’m excellent in these situations that basically involve just staring at the other party with a frank and honest face. It also helps if you visualize yourself as younger and more innocent, say an altar boy, or a tragically drowned version of yourself in your communion suit; if that’s not working just picture this golden light around you, like in a painting by Leonardo.

  ‘There are, he-hem, certain considerations for night and weekend work. As well as national holidays.’

  Still I say nothing, just smile benignly. And to give Il Judgo his due, he’s pretty good with the old silent treatment; it’s like that scene in another spaghetti western, you know the one with the musical watches playing. So I’m smiling, and he’s staring back, and the watches are tinkling, and in the end it’s me that silently says ‘uncle’, which I have to admit is extremely unusual but I was starting to get a right rictus pain in my cheek.

  ‘Thing is, your Honour, the situation we find ourselves in is anything but normal.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘In respect of the fact that your son is dying, sir. And needs someone with, you know, special talents.’

  ‘And you’re confident you possess such, he-hem, attributes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have particular qualifications in this area?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And it depends on what you mean by qualifications. I mean, I don’t have a piece of paper stating that I’ll clean up puke and crap, or that I’ll mop sweaty brows with distinction, or hold damp hands at night, or listen without judging to dreams that will never unfold. But then I’m not aware of any universities handing out such certificates in the first place, are you?

  There’s a bit of pause. I’m not sure who’s in control of it but whoever speaks next will lose.

  ‘He-hem. In that case, shall we say twenty dollars an hour?’

  ‘Sorry, but this is not a situation I feel comfortable haggling over.’

  ‘I see. Then without further ado, I propose twenty-five dollars an hour.’

  ‘Forty. And forty-five for night and weekend work.’

  ‘Thirty. And thirty-five for weekend and night work’

  ‘Thirty-five, and forty for weekend and nights.’

  ‘If you insist. I also propose a trial period. Six weeks?’

  ‘Again, I have no wish to appear difficult or, you know, contrary …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the nature of this work is well, quite intimate and intense.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, both your son and I will know in a very short period whether or not it is going to be successful.’

  ‘I see. What timeframe do you suggest?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Agreed. However while the probationary period is ongoing, your salary will be, shall we say, fifty per cent of the full amount?’

  ‘No way, José.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible, your Honour. You see I have prior financial commitments.’

  ‘Might I inquire as to what those commitments are?’

  ‘Certainly …’

  And of course I leave a little pause so as his imagination – if the little fucker actually has one – starts running away with itself.

  ‘I’m helping to educate one of my sisters. Back home.’

  You should see the look on his face.

  ‘He-hem. Well, that is indeed laudatory. In that case, shall we say seventy-five per cent?

  ‘Agreed. Full amount to be paid retrospectively once the trial period ends. Successfully.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘It will.’

  He’s smiling now, in fact I’d say it’s the most fun the guy has had in a long time. He says, ‘It’s always refreshing to encounter someone who knows the true value of their work,’ so I say ‘And this work being practically vocational, it is especially valuable.’

  He coughs and says, ‘Indeed, he-hem, point taken.’ Then he says he will trust me to keep a meticulous record of my hours, and that he believes that concludes our business for the time being unless of course I have anything further.

  I say, ‘Actually, I’ve a few things I’d like to get off my chest. How many people have worked here? As companions?’

  ‘Quite a few.’

  ‘More than a dozen?’

  ‘In the last three years, yes I’m afraid so. Yes.’

  ‘How long do they last, generally?’

  He winces. ‘You make them sound like light bulbs. Generally not too long.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ed is…’

  He looks over at me now he is no longer Il Judgo and the silver pocket watches have ceased to chime in the desert there is no bearded Clint, no Indigo, no Colonel Mortimer. There is just the father of a pathetically sick, impossibly sad young man. He puts his hands to face, he covers his little cave of a mouth as if he were about to scream; it’s abundantly clear he is at his wit’s end and he hasn’t a clue what to do except, unlike his fat fuckin’ wife, he’s not all dismissive just because he’s no longer in the driver’s seat.

  He takes his hands away and stares at his dainty doll fingers.

  ‘Ed is … difficult.’

  ‘’Course he is, sir. I mean, I’d be pretty difficult too if I was his age and saw that I’d been cheated.’

  ‘Cheated?’

  ‘By Life. By Death. By the Man Above.’

  ‘Ah. Is that how you perceive it?’

  ‘Yes it is. How do you see it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He sighs and takes off his glasses then he polishes them with a little yellow cloth and you can see he’s the sort of person who likes to have books to refer to, rules and regulations to adhere to and he’s not nearly as tough as he’d like people to think, though to be honest I wouldn’t like to appear in front of him.

  Sometimes small men can’t help being vicious with bigger ones.

  He leaves his glasses off, looks up and
asks me my name, so I tell him and he says, ‘Well, Trevor, as you can imagine it hasn’t always been particularly easy here in this house,’ or maybe he says abode, but anyway he looks over at the oak-panelled door and lets you know he’s referring to both his big huge wife in her sick bed, and his tiny little son in his chair.

  And I can’t help but feel sorry for the dusty old bookworm, but at the same time I’m determined to take him for every nickel I can.

  ‘I can’t promise it will work out. That’s as much up to Ed as it is to me. But I’m genuinely good at this type of thing and I swear to you I will use all my available resources to try and well, lift his spirits. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know precisely what you mean.’

  He sits his glasses back on his soft little caterpillar head, except his dry-skin ears are so small he has to feel around for them like someone playing Blindman’s Bluff. Then he says he is, in general, a very able, a very he-hem capable man, but he is not sure he ever possessed that ability, and here’s where his little insect mouth whispers as if he were in chapel – the ability to lift spirits.

  ‘It’s easier when you’re not blood.’

  Which isn’t strictly true.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, em, Trevor.’

  ‘I’ll sign now. If you like.’

  He passes the pen, I sign, and it feels very symbolic, like some sort of age-old ritual – he even blows on the signature. He thanks me and when I stand he seems genuinely relieved, he’s even trying to smile up at me, although all he manages to do is add a few more wrinkles to his forehead. And the problem with guys like him is they cut themselves off from ordinary people so much that they lose sight of the fact we can have this balming effect on each other, even if it’s only temporary, what the hell.

  And you can see by the new set of his shoulders that he feels lighter and not so bogged down in the mire. And when I ask him for an advance, ‘just to keep me going, like,’ he nods, slides open his desk drawer and takes out a huge leather-bound cheque book. Excellent.

  He asks my surname without looking up and he’s writing now with real gusto genuinely enjoying the act, his hand coming up in the air at the end of his signature like a long-haired conductor in Vienna. When he passes it over it’s for $500 and I’m thinking, yep, there’ll be some good times ahead negotiating the terms for not paying it back, because I have no fuckin’ intention. There might even be the odd afternoon sherry, a vintage port, maybe a nice Cuban cigar. Monte Cristo. Romeo and Juliet.