Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  —He must be old.

  —He is. He has a handy life over there though, belongin to the emperor. He just takes it easy, sits around and that. The only thing was, when he got back to Japan, he wouldn’t eat bananas anymore; all he’d eat was oul crab apples from Ireland. Yer uncle Victor sends him one over every Christmas for a present, to say sorry for weein against his tree.

  That made me laugh. A crab apple from Ireland for Christmas. I wasn’t really sure about wha me ma told me but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t afraid anymore. That Christmas me and me ma sent a huge crab apple to Japan for the monkey as a present. Well, we wrapped it up and put a little tag and that on it, and addressed it to the emperor’s palace in Japan, and me ma took it with her to Ballyfermot when she was shoppin and said she’d posted it.

  So that’s wha I’ll keep tellin meself; that there’s fuck all under anyone’s bed at home, and that Paula’s ghost is nothin, fuck all, an escaped white-haired Japanese monkey.

  *

  There’s a tractor bumblin along in the field to our left, thick black smoke billowin from the exhaust. I’ve counted three dead rabbits on the road so far, squashed to bits, and four hedgehogs. Meself and Maggit have a game goin; he’s countin dead rabbits and I’m countin the hedgehogs. The winner’s owed a pint if we ever get back to civilisation. I’ve never seen a live hedgehog before, only dead ones, so I’m fairly sure the pint’s mine. Bit macabre, I know, but fuck it.

  —There’s another one, five.

  It’s in the bag. Yid think they’d learn, hedgehogs, acquire over time some race memory that tells them roads are bad, they’re populated by gleamin giants that screech and squash, AVOID.

  At a turn in the road there’s a furry, meat-streaked lump, smeared with dark, blackish blood.

  —Rabbit, says Maggit. —Four.

  —Bit big for a rabbit, I say. —The thing’s three foot long.

  —A hare then, says Maggit. —Four.

  —A hare’s not a rabbit though. I don’t get points for rats or wharrever. Yer still on three.

  —I think it’s a badger, says Pajo. He hunkers down beside it, then looks back over his shoulder at us. —Yeah, he says. —A badger. Pity, isn’t it?

  He straightens up and the three of us stand round the squashed badger. I feel sad or somethin. It’s weird, but a badger seems more relevant, somehow, than a rabbit or a hedgehog. More of a loss. Badgers, like, they’re noble, yeh know? Battlers. I saw a thing on telly where these pricks were makin them fight pit bulls, but the badgers were after havin their teeth and claws pulled out. Fuckin sick, like. They still gave nearly as good as they got, the poor fuckers, until these pricks stepped in with cruel-lookin, barbed shillelaghs and whacked them till they let go o the dogs.

  —That’s a point each then, says Maggit.

  —Wha?

  —One each for a badger.

  —What’s the point o that? It’s the same difference. Maggit shrugs. —Dunno. Bonus points.

  —Fuck it man, I say. —Leave it. I’ll get yeh the pint, yeah?

  *

  I mash up some holly berries and smear DUBLIN onto a bit o cardboard that Maggit found in a bush, but no one stops to pick us up. By eleven o’ clock we’ve been goin for nearly three hours and Pajo’s had enough.

  —I can’t go on, me foot’s gone queer.

  —Sit down then. Sit fuckin down and I’ll have a look at it, says Maggit.

  Pajo shuffles off the road and eases himself over a bit o mangled fence and onto a tree stump. Pure theatrical, like. He’s a bit of a hypochondriac. A while ago I called round to him and he was sittin in his gaff, wrapped up in a blanket and sippin a mug o green tea, watchin some David Attenborough thing on telly. He looked wretched. I asked him wha was up.

  —I have salmonella, he said.

  Salmo-fuckin-ella. He couldn’t even just say it was flu. Course, it turned out he had a bog standard cold, but there was no tellin him. He even debated it with Dr McSorley, quotin stuff from ER and Dr Hilary out o the Sunday magazines.

  Pajo’s mumblin somethin under his breath. It’s some sort o prayer by the sounds of it, made up as he goes. I’m not sure wha this whole religion thing is with him. I mean, wha comfort does pretendin to be a Buddhist or wharrever give him? What’s wrong with pretendin to be a Catholic like the rest of us?

  —Here, I’ll take it off, says Maggit.

  —Careful, says Pajo.

  And, surprisinly, he is careful, teasin out the clump o soggy knots. It’s a strange scene, Maggit a bowed and shaven-headed supplicant at the feet of a shiverin, green-haired waif on a country road.

  —Yeh OK? I shout over.

  Pajo nods.

  I stand in off the road and light meself a cigarette with a box o matches from Maggit’s rucksack. I have to shield the tiny flame from the wind with me jacket. A car rumbles towards us, muddy red water sprayin from the wheels. There’s a middle-aged woman drivin it, pudgy with black curly hair, and she looks worried when she sees us, alarmed nearly; three ravaged pilgrims in off the hills and bent on murder. I give her a big smile as she passes.

  —Yiz know wha? I say. —Bollix to this. I’m gettin a fuckin car. Bit o bleedin freedom, like. Independence.

  They’re not even listenin to me.

  —Will yeh stop movin for fuck sake? says Maggit.

  Pajo nods and then grimaces as Maggit teases the boot off his foot. There must really be somethin wrong with him, the poor sap. There’s a big hole in the heel end of his threadbare green sock.

  —That feels miles better, says Pajo.

  Maggit stands up, holdin the boot. I step over the fence and take a gander, tryin to assess the extent o Pajo’s war wounds. He’s rubbin his foot with both hands. A raindrop hits me cheek.

  —Yeh alright to go on?

  —Ah yeah, just, like, give us a minute.

  Maggit turns the boot in his hand and somethin falls out. Sunlight catches it, wharrever it is. Then somethin else. We look down and in the muddy grass there’s a small pile o coins.

  Our money.

  —The fuckin money’s in yer shoe, I say.

  Pajo looks up at me, genuinely amazed to see the coins spillin from his boot. I swear to god, I have never met a more addled, oblivious fucker in me life.

  —The money’s in yer shoe yeh clown.

  Pajo bites his lip.

  —Yeh stupid bleedin cunt, says Maggit, and the boot clonks off Pajo’s head.

  PLAYSTATIONS ARE STUPID

  I’m trampin along Moore Street, shoulders hunched up against the rain, neon and fairylights flashin in the puddles and dodgy-lookin dancin snowmen in every shop window when I hear someone callin me.

  —Denny, yeh bleedin deaf or wha?

  I turn and it’s Ned, half-hid behind a bockedy oul dealer’s stall. This used to be the nearest yid get to old Dublin — old Dublin women with harsh inner city accents cryin out the price o their bananas or fresh fish, shawls on their heads and their faces weathered and furrowed. It’s the centre o the new Dublin now, though — the oul stalls are still there but they’re surrounded by Chinese or Polish food stores and African hairdressers, brightly coloured and festooned with wild drapery and strange symbols, and everywhere a mad hubbub of duelling accent and language. Probably symbolic o how some Irish people feel — like they’re surrounded by outsiders in their own land. But things change though, don’t they? I suppose Ireland’s just been slower to realise that. I mean, we’re an island and we’re right out at the edge o Europe; even the Romans never made it this far. If yeh thought Japan was a closed society then think again, Ireland was yer quintessential cut-off island — up till I was about twelve I’d never even seen a black person in real life. The only non-white person I knew as a kid was a little fella fromVietnam and everyone, even the older kids on the estate, was afraid of him cos they assumed he was some kind o martial arts killin machine. He couldn’t throw a karate chop to save his life, though; all he was interested in was Transformers.

  Anyway, Ne
d’s rubbin his hands together feverishly. This isn’t usually Ned’s style, he’s more into coldcallin with dodgy, probably-robbed-somewhere-along-the-line-but-now-untraceable vacuum cleaners or mobiles phones. And he’s usually one for shirts and shoes, as well. But not today. Here he is, in a tracksuit and a roughed-up leather jacket, huddled under a red and blue tarpaulin and grinnin from ear to ear. There’s boxes and boxes o chocolate, Twixes and Mars Bars, Bountys and Curly-Wurlys, piled up in front of him. And a load o selection boxes under the table as well.

  —Where’d yeh get all this?

  Ned winks.

  —Never divulge yer sources Denny. Not good for business.

  —What’s wrong with it then? Dog chocolate or wha?

  —Nah. Turns yeh into a zombie.

  —Voodoo chocolate. Quality.

  —That’s it.

  I get in under the stall. Ned’s beanie is pulled down over his ears and a few blond curls are stickin out. His eyes are a clear, cold-lookin blue. His beard’s grown out a bit and he looks like yer man off Aston Villa, Olof Mellberg.

  —Yeh doin alright? I say.

  He pats his pocket. —Tidy sum in here, mo chara. Tidy oul sum.

  —When yeh knockin off?

  Ned looks at his watch.

  —An hour or so. Yeh up to anythin?

  —I’ve to meet Maggit. Supposed to be droppin into Bernadette’s with him.

  Ned makes a face. —Wouldn’t fancy that.

  —Yeah, well. It’s little Anthony’s birthday.

  —That’s right.

  —Yeah. Maggit doesn’t wanna drop in on his own, so … I said I’d go, like.

  —More fool you, Den.

  A woman and a little youngfella wander over to the stall. The youngfella’s wearin a huge pair o glasses. Fuckin titanic things. His eyes are like poached eggs behind the lenses.

  —How much are the selection boxes? says yer woman.

  —Three for ten euro love, says Ned.

  —Wha ones are they? Are they good ones?

  —Cadbury’s, says Ned. —A Dairy Milk, Dairy Milk Buttons, Curly-Wurly, them little animal ones, a Fudge and a Crunchie.

  —Is there no Toffee Crisp? she says.

  —That’s Nestlé love.

  The woman looks like she’s makin a hard decision. Tryin to psych Ned out, like. She kind o twists her mouth and looks over at the side entrance to the Ilac Centre, as much as to say, I dunno, I could probably get a better deal in there.

  —The Ilac Centre, says Ned, just that and nothin else, but the way he says it it’s like the woman’d be a gobshite to go in there. Crafty fuck, like.

  —Ah go on, then, she says, turnin back. —I’ll have the three.

  Ned sticks the boxes in a plastic bag and takes yer woman’s money and hands her the change.

  —Wha yeh gettin off Santy? I say to the youngfella.

  —A Playstation 2 and games and two joypads, says the youngfella. Rattles it off. Must be sayin it to himself before he goes to bed or somethin, like a prayer or a mantra. I used to do that meself.

  —Deadly, says Ned. —Yeh must o been very good, so.

  Then somethin occurs to Ned. If yeh squint yeh can nearly see the cartoon lightbulb over his head. He looks up at the woman.

  —If yer lookin for a few games for the youngfella I’ll be here on Stephen’s Day. All the top titles. The new Grand Theft Auto and FIFA, everythin. Just gettin them off me hands, like. Brand new.

  —We’ll be alright, says the woman, wrinklin up her nose. —Santy’s gettin him loads o games. She takes the youngfella’s hand and walks off. The bottoms of her pink tracksuit are soakin and dirty-lookin from the rain. Ned looks at me.

  —That sounded a bit ropy didn’t it? Fuckin FIFA. Shite. Need to work on me technique. Haven’t been on a stall in ages. This is fuckin below me, man. Fuckin Curly-Wurlys.

  —Yeh were grand.

  —Fuckin demeanin though. A man o my talents.

  He spits and tugs his beanie down a bit further.

  —Ah sure fuck it anyway, he says. And then he smiles. —Sure them selection boxes aren’t worth a shite. They’re all out o date, lookit.

  He shows me one o the boxes. Points at the date.

  —Yeh cheeky bastard, I say, but I laugh as well.

  Ned winks.

  —I was gonna ask yeh, I say. —D’yeh fancy poppin round the house in a week or so for somethin to eat? You and Sinead.

  —Yeah, sound.

  —I’m makin a dinner. A Christmas kind of a dinner. I’ll ask the rest o them as well.

  —Yeah, sounds cool Denny. I’ll say it to Sinead.

  I pick up one o the selection boxes. —That’s Maggit’s dessert sorted, anyway.

  Ned laughs. A couple with bulgin shoppin bags stop at the stall for a few seconds and Ned’s just about to start his spiel when they turn and head off. I’m startin to cramp his style now, so I better run. I dunno why, but I feel compelled to mention the séance before I go. Ned’s fairly balanced compared to most o me mates, like.

  —Did yeh hear about this séance thing?

  Ned looks at me for a sec, eyebrows furrowed. —Séance?

  —Yeah. Pajo’s gonna be doin one at the house. For Paula, like. She says the place is haunted.

  —Haunted?

  —Yeah. A ghost house, she calls it.

  Ned shakes his head.

  —Tell me about it, I say. —Expect a shout from Pajo, anyway. He said he wants to get a few of us together. So there yeh go, yiv a dinner and a séance to look forward to.

  —Never a dull moment, wha?

  —No fuckin chance, Ned.

  *

  —Don’t tell me. Yeh robbed it, didn’t yeh?

  Maggit shrugs, closes his Nike bag and looks at his watch. We’re waitin for the 78a out o town. Been here fuckin ages, like, standin outside the Boots on Aston Quay. Least it’s stopped rainin. There’s a stale chemical smell comin up off the Liffey across the road and some mentalcase Cork chap’s rantin and ravin about eternal damnation and all sorts o shite down near O’Connell Bridge. He’s a good hundred yards away and I can still hear him. Psychos, those fellas. Wired to the fuckin moon, like, spittin and splutterin and wreckin everyone’s head. Where do they get the neck? Well, from God, I suppose. Or that’s wha they’d say, anyway. Divine gift o the Hard Neck or some other shite. Must be weird to have that kind o faith. Like a suit of armour, yeh know? Yer bulletproof, like. Or yeh think yeh are, which I suppose brings its own dangers.

  I turn back to Maggit. He’s diggin a finger into his ear and workin it round in sharp little circles.

  —I betcha yeh did, didn’t yeh? I say.

  Maggit inspects the greasy brown smudge on his finger, then sniffs it.

  —And yer point is? he says.

  There are loads o potential answers to this, o course. The first would be that accordin to the Bible and all that bollix, robbin is inherently and soul-compromisinly wrong. Hell and damnation awaits. Pitchforks, worms for yer dinner, Whitney Houston on the radio twenty-four seven, the lot. Another more practical reason would be the couple years in Mount Joy Maggit could end up with, given his previous. He did a few months for bein caught with a shitload o Tommy Power’s hash while Tommy was in Venezuela a couple years ago. I remember visitin him and some cunts from Mayo had given him a hidin after a hurlin game on the telly. His eye was out like a rotten golf ball.

  —Yeh don’t give your only son a robbed fuckin … wha is it?

  —Some kind o … hang on … He looks into his bag.

  —Some computer yokeybob. Playstation is it? Lookit.

  He pulls apart the lips o the bag and sticks it under me nose. There’s some grey box thingy with wires and buttons inside. I’ve never bothered with computer games and that kind o thing, really.

  —Wharrever, I say. —It’s robbed. That kid looks up to yeh. Which leaves him fucked if yeh ask me.

  Maggit clutches the bag closer to him and knits up his eyebrows. He fiddles with the l
ittle silver cross hangin from his ample left ear.

  —Sure Ned was just sayin about games and that, I say. —Yeh could o got one off him instead.

  —They’d still be robbed.

  —Not always. Sometimes he just gets them cheap.

  —Wouldn’t be beholden to that cunt, says Maggit.

  —Wha d’yeh mean beholden? He’s a mate for fuck sake.

  Maggit spits. I shake me head and lean back against the wall. There’s a gaggle o bus drivers to our left, on their tea breaks. Standin in the middle o them there’s this mad fella I always see around here. He’s kind o like a silent counterbalance to the ranter by the bridge. He looks like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man and he’s always wearin the same shabby suit. I reckon he’s obsessed with buses and bus drivers. Every time I’ve ever waited for a bus he’s been here, smilin, hangin out with the drivers. I wonder where he lives? Probably in some sort o care home or wharrever, yeh know, one o these houses where loads o mad people live and they’re watched over by nurses and that? Hope he doesn’t, though. Hope he has some sort of independence, some little flat say, filled with bus timetables and notebooks packed with odd insights into the secret codes o bus routes. It’s mad, isn’t it, the weird obsessions people have?

  —You bought that dodgy mountain bike off Tommy Power so you can say fuck all, says Maggit.

  I shrug. I’m not lookin for an argument, like. And I’m not tryin to paint meself as some saintly character anyway. It’s just like I said, foolish thing to do given his criminal record. And he’s got a son and I don’t.

  —Yeh sound like Bernadette, says Maggit, goaded by me silence. —Where’d yeh get this, where’d yeh get that? Fuck sake. Rather chop me bleedin ears off. It’s only a bleedin computer, Denny. He won’t even know it’s robbed.

  —Without a box? No even manuals or anythin?

  —I’ll say it was on display or wharrever. The last one in the shop.

  —Gerra grip. Anybody’d know that was robbed. Sure it’s got fuckin stickers on it and everythin.

  —I’ll peel them off.

  —And wha about the kid who owned it? Is he not gonna miss it?

  Maggit thinks about this. He looks into the bag again, like he might o robbed the answer as well by accident.