The Companion

by Lorcan Roche

  He touched me lightly on the shoulder, as if it were a wand.

  ‘Ah. There ya are, me old segocha. Larger than life and well able to take on the wor-uld and his aunt, wha’?’

  And maybe it was delusional, but I could feel it lifting from me, like a snake shedding its skin. And I’m standing there marvelling at this minor Medjugore miracle – I mean, this particular bout had had me completely down and out – when suddenly I’m laughing again because off in the distance was the sound of him impersonating Tom Jones, badly: ‘Why, why, why, De- li-a-lah?’

  And here’s another rhetorical question: aren’t people like him, people like my mother, people like Ellie, the real poets and painters of this world? And isn’t it amazing how they can colour in a whole new season behind your head which, when you stop to think about it, is no longer revolving like a dish in a microwave with the same dull thoughts going round and round and round all fuckin’ day?

  Sometimes I’d talk to her quietly about the doubts and the low voices murmuring. And whenever I did Ma was always patting my hand saying shit like, ‘But you never hear them when you’re out running or swimming or laughing, now do you?’ And I’d say, ‘No, Ma I don’t.’ But I’d be thinking – I never fuckin’ feel them when I’m punching someone in the head or the ribs lifting them clean off the ground, I never hear them when I explode into action.

  And sometimes if we were out drinking on Mother’s Day, I’d tell her that the voices really and truly unnerved me. And that’s when she’d smile across and say, ‘But that’s the miracle of you, Trevor, that’s what separates you from all the little people milling around pointlessly avoiding reality and truth, do you not understand that’s the artist, the poet inside you, that’s what makes you totally unique’ – and I would want to tell her that unique doesn’t require any adjective – and, ‘Think Trevor, think what a dull, uniform place this weary world would be if we were all the same, if our minds all operated the same way, like … like bloody toll-bridges.’ But you see, I wouldn’t have minded operating in a different way, wouldn’t have minded if my toll-bridge lifted and lowered and let things in and out and under and over, and didn’t get stuck, and didn’t require massive leaps of faith to get from one part of the day to the next.

  And she’d still be smiling over at me, waving her hand around the restaurant drunkenly, ‘We’re not designed to be the same as the next guy or the next; for God’s sake Trevor, look at the state of these people,’ and we’d laugh aloud. Except sometimes I wondered if we hadn’t become stuck like two middle-aged men in golf clothes, cigar laughter drowning the sound of a world that has passed them by completely.

  Sometimes I really did think of the other diners.

  And sometimes, especially towards the very end, when we were stuck in the house and she was too tired to listen, she’d just sigh and say, ‘Well son, to thine own self be true.’

  But you see, it’s not that easy to know yourself. You might think you’ve cracked it when you’re standing up there in front of the class and they’re all grinning and you’re glowing with pride and you feel that you’re genuinely helping them to let loose, that you’ve turned the tide in their favour, and you can see in their crooked grins misty eyes and bulging foreheads that they’re suddenly more alive.

  Then inside your heart and your head you get this snide voice chiding: None of this is for their benefit, all of this is mere ego gratification, this is about control Trevor, yours over them. This is about the fact that you are nothing without an audience. It’s clear that what you are doing is trying, rather desperately, to substitute lack of control in your own life for total control in the classroom …

  And on it goes, on and on, coldly, and you feel heat and the joy evaporate, like spilled petrol on a hot day. And you’re not sure why you’re holding the sticky snooker cue for one of them in the smoky pub after work as they grunt and slide it forward clumsily with their pimply forehead; you’re not sure why you’re holding your mother’s hand in the morning; not sure why you’re bending crooked, meat-hook Ed back into shape at night you’re full of doubt about your purpose, you begin to question your performance, you’re afraid that it’s true, it’s all about Control and the reason you answered the ad in the first instance is because you knew, you knew in your heart normal rules would not apply.

  It ate away at her spine, it turned discs and vertebrae to dust until in the end she couldn’t get out of bed or even hold her neck up properly, and the light in her eyes was dimming like a torch with a wet weak battery. I remember she was holding my hand and there was no squeeze left, none whatsoever. Then we were laughing one last time when she said, ‘I’m all shrivelled up like an old Egyptian mummy,’ and I said, ‘No, Ma, you’re all shrivelled up like an old Irish one.’

  She told me to try and meet a woman with the same sense of humour, if such a woman existed. Then she explained she had put a bit aside for me and that’s when she held me tight, well, as tight as she could manage, and I leaned in so as she could kiss my eyes and forehead. Then she put her lips to my ear, she whispered, ‘Would you be good enough now to send your father in, that’s the fellow. And remember Trevor, always try to turn the moment round, alright?’

  ‘Alright, Ma.’

  9

  Through the keyhole he kissed her long and hard, his hands were shaking when their lips parted, hers were so dry they stuck to his, like wallpaper you’re scraping in a really old house.

  She was looking up at him, there was this terrific light in her face like a saint in one of those old religious paintings – frescoes – then he put the pillow over her face and began to recite some poem I didn’t recognize, it must’ve been a poem he’d written for her when they were young and I could hear her voice all muffled behind the pillow saying the same thing as him, like a prayer.

  They call it ‘assisted suicide’ and in this case it really was, because her hands came around like wings they descended on his, and pressed the pillow in.

  And there and then I knew that I understood nothing about my parents, nothing about how the world worked and everything she’d said – no, everything I’d said and she’d agreed with – was a fat lie. She’d just been building me up, but really she should’ve said it was me that was the amadán because when you build someone up like that, when foundations are flawed, it all has to tumble.

  Brick by brick. Stone by fuckin’ stone.

  When someone you love dies, air in front and around you becomes thick and slow and heavy, and cutting through it costs more effort than it’s worth. Ignorant, blonde children in the back seats of massive MPVs stare and you’re forced to look away from inside the black stretch Mercedes coming back from the graveyard all posters, all advertisements, all concert and circus hoardings are outrageous. And when the butcher starts laughing in the kitchen it is personal and your head hurts, and your soul aches, and their mouths move crookedly to form spaghetti sentences that tumble out when they approach. And all you want is your hand back, please.

  To be fair, the odd time you can see one of them actually does understand because they too have felt the world shift beneath them. But the way I see it people live in neatly appointed, self-contained places where there’s no room to turn around and care, where there’s just enough space for their own feelings, their own little suitcase of hurt, a suitcase they hide under the bed and slide out only on special occasions.

  And yes, I know time heals all wounds, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel it still behind your eyes.

  And there is some little part, a child that was lowered alongside, some part of your heart that quietly gave up the ghost the day the beloved passed away.

  And that feeling of sluggishness tugging at your coat-tails is Morpheus, or perhaps his twin brother Phantases, calling Hello, anybody home?

  And he just wants you to give him some time alone in a room is all.

  And when your ear is his, you realize he’s not trying to seduce you or entice you to smoke or drink or think yourself to death, i
n fact he’s not half as bad as grief-stricken people often make out.

  He’s simply saying: If you want, you can always visit here, just don’t stay too long, OK?

  10

  I still see my mother, mostly when I leave Ed and his sighs and smells behind and open the door to my tiny, servant room.

  I see her in the Lazee-Boy recliner I reclaimed from a skip on Madison; she’s sitting there patiently her eyes asking, Are you OK, son? Are you eating properly? Getting plenty of fresh air? Are you making sure you get lots of exercise and get it all out of your system?

  After she died I didn’t really feel like talking for a while, leastways not to anyone in my family who were so fake it was fuckin’ frightening, knocking on the door of my bedroom all of a sudden tip-toeing in with toast and tea at all hours, patient smiles on pale faces. So I got back in touch with the shrink I’d seen before, except this time we didn’t speak about kicking guys on the ground screaming swimming coaches ticking away repressed rage, all sliding out of control.

  We spoke about my mother. And one Tuesday he suggested I speak to her myself and I was like, ‘Eh, hello, she’s dead, remember?’ Except he shook his distinguished polar-bear head and said, ‘No, what I want you to do is visualize her in the chair opposite. I would like you to see her there. I would like you to tell her all the things you’ve told me.’

  I’m still not sure that was the best strategy for someone like me, I mean it only took two seconds for her to materialize like Captain Kirk coming in through the transporter room. I started to tell her how much I missed her, and I literally couldn’t stop crying. And his secretary had to come in and hold me for at least three-quarters of an hour there was a hole that got opened up in my soul I could feel vast emptiness pouring in; I swear to God it was depth of the deepest, coldest ocean.

  The secretary had this white uniform on and I blubbered so much all over the front that she could have entered a wet uniform contest but she just smiled throughout and at the end when I literally ran out of tears she held my face in her speckled brown hands and with her amazing, calming voice said, ‘You are a brave young man, but like the doctor says, it is time for you to go out into the world.’

  And he was sitting there, nodding away with this really encouraging smile.

  And I suppose that’s when I decided to fly to New York, although looking back on it now maybe I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.

  And maybe neither should they.

  Before I left for America the doctor told me I needed to realize there were several dozen random thoughts arriving, uninvited, into our heads every moment of every day. They were being relayed through our systems by memory and mayhem, by plasma and blood, by electrolytes and neurotransmitters; what I needed to do was close my eyes and sift through them much the way, say, a baker sifts through flour. Yes, I needed to let it all fall through my fingers, I needed to decide which particular thoughts and impulses to conduct, which ones to dispel.

  It was quite good the first time we did it: we took half a dozen destructive thoughts and negative impulses about fear and loneliness and as we breathed them away, as they exited my electrical system like steam from a subway vent, I began to smile.

  I could picture myself in a brighter future with people curious to know me, I was this experienced older guy and as they stood around in a semi-circle listening to my tales of derring-do they were nodding and smiling quietly in agreement. In the background with her shoes kicked off was this striking-looking woman with a black polo-neck and white-blonde hair, the sort Hitchcock might have cast in The Birds, the sort who doesn’t need a fat rich bald bloke to take care of her, who even at sixty would smile each time you took her hand when you set out walking with your Weimarner hunting dogs while behind you in the lit-up architect-designed house the party for your fortieth anniversary was twirling, like a majorette’s baton tossed high in the sky of endless possibilities.

  You know what I mean: the Disney dream.

  The foolish, childish hope you carry. High up in your heart.

  Imagine you’re an oak, Trevor, an Irish oak; imagine your roots delving down into the dark Irish soil, becoming embedded there, finding a home; imagine them growing down and out, thickening, strengthening. Finding water and essential minerals. Now, imagine the branches up above, your branches, responding with newfound confidence, opening out, reaching for the Sun.

  This was one of the Looney Tunes exercises the head-shrink used to get me to do. I’d sit there in the leather chair with my eyes closed thinking, Maybe I’ll study psychiatry instead of the priesthood, I mean this guy has a pretty handy number, probably doing the fuckin’ crossword while I’ve my eyes shut. Then I’d feel it, my rootlessness, and I’d panic a little and remember what he had said the week before, how this exercise was designed to counter the fact I had too many distractions, was too easily swayed, spurned, turned into something we weren’t altogether happy with, now were we?

  ‘No.’

  I breathed in through my nose and felt my roots sink into the ground. Then it was all speeded up, shoots and roots flashed into damp black soil, and down, penetrating, pushing past igneous rock into the volcanic core where straggling fibres flared photo-white, and bridal.

  Oak to ash.

  When I opened my eyes he smiled and said, ‘How did that feel?’ And I lied and said, ‘Actually, that’s pretty good Doc, I’ll definitely give that a lash next time I feel confused, next time I get into one of those, you know, situations.’

  And all the while I’m sitting there smiling over at him, making him feel better because he couldn’t make me feel better.

  And I’m thinking the only time I ever felt fuckin’ rooted was when I looked through the keyhole and felt the world beneath my feet catch fire, when I felt understanding being burned into me, when I felt I was being branded.

  ‘Breathe in now, Trevor. Close your eyes and hold on to the memory of what we’ve achieved here today, hold on to the feeling – good, that’s it. Now breathe slowly out. Good. Excellent. So, same time next Tuesday, it doesn’t clash with your swimming practice or anything does it?’

  I’d already told him twice I no longer swam competitively.

  ‘No, Doc. It doesn’t clash with anything at all.’

  Maybe Rain on Me Baby hit the nail on the head.

  Maybe you’re the kind of kid people teach weird shit to.

  Maybe I’ve been teaching myself a lesson or two in the dark, maybe I’ve stopped at the point where brittle bones settle back into place, maybe I’ve wanted to keep going.

  Maybe I’m tired.

  Of making the sacrifice.

  Maybe I just want to go home, or on a date with someone nice, or on a long, hot holiday where people smile and fetch things for me for a change.

  But for the moment I’m stuck. For the moment there is no escape.

  11

  There never was a trip to India, no bus lurching, no baby crying, no bracelets jangling, no silk rope, no Socket eyes, no ululations – just too much time alone on my bed and in my head the thumping need to venture somewhere else when my mother died I couldn’t cope with the grey world swirling.

  Then closing in.

  And I’ve never been to Stuttgart, never worked in Mercedes Benz nor listened to a soothing voice underground, nor knocked back apfel-schnapps on Konigstrasse with a shaven-headed Turk; by the indented shore I invented him between waves crashing. I often designed alternative lives, often saw another Trevor walking away in another, neater body, in another sweeter family, in another less chaotic schoolyard. And in another mirror I saw myself a house-painter on Mykonos, a tour guide in Athens, a circus strongman in Rome, a perfectionist pizza-maker in the red-roofed, over-restored city of Dubrovnik.

  But always I’ve had to come home. Always I’ve had to face the organ-grinder’s music.

  Don’t know where I learned to arm-wrestle. Some things just come naturally.

  The pills I gave to Barry that overturned, turkey-burned Christmas were
mine, not Ma’s. And they weren’t sprinkled on the cake, all three were slipped into his drink sinking slowly I wanted someone else to feel like me for a while.

  And it wasn’t Kylie on the radio, it was Bob Dylan, and Bob was nasally asking, ‘How does it feel?’ And a new calm voice was saying, Feels weird, Mister Zimmerman, now that Barry is down there on the Persian rug having a fuckin’ existential crisis and I’m the one floating free, watching the scapegoat flailing from on high.

  And they’re not called sirs Ma, they’re called SSRIs – they’re selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors – and yes, they’re light years beyond the aggressive tri-cyclicals, but they’re not perfect because, believe me, in the pharmaceutical world one size does not fit all.

  Off them, you hear crackled things stuttered on the radio after it’s been switched off in the morning you can’t pass bus stops in the rain because sheltering people whisper your demise beneath black mushrooms twirling slowly the rhythm of casual conversation eludes you along echoing corridors in college. At crashed parties you go to fetch a cold beer for a girl who seems really nice, except, when you come back to where she said she’d be, there’s nothing, just black space, white time and music you can’t dance to.

  Techno. Tangible tension. And laughter.

  Moments don’t turn round, they go on forever groaning children twist their rubber necks impossibly in the back seats of massive MPVs and you’re forced to look away from people in the street who can see clearly now that all you have is your physical strength, seeping. And all you know for sure is that somehow memory is trapped in bone and marrow and muscle, and that the pain is contained in the stone of your heart, sinking.