Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  —Make sure yeh get a proper bunch, Maggit, I say.

  —Fresh.

  Maggit nods.

  —Make sure, I say.

  —Yeah, fuck sake. I will.

  —Right. I’ll meet yiz in an hour, yeah?

  Ned and Maggit nod. I take a last look at the strange and gory pictures behind the pro-lifers and hurry along O’Connell Street. Next stop Trinity College. I cross at Bachelor’s Walk, the dyin sun glintin orange off the Liffey as I cross O’Connell Bridge. Town’s still packed so I have to weave in and out o the crowd. Exhaust fumes and the wordless drone o hundreds o voices. Tacky traditional Irish music spills from the open shop front o Carrolls, the Polish workers behind the tills smilin and noddin to American tourists, and a huge black security guard mumblin into his walkie-talkie. There’s fuck all Irish people workin in shops these days. It’s pretty much all foreigners. Polish especially. There’s loads and loads o them. There’s even a Polish supplement in the Evening Herald — the Polski Herald. The thing that seems maddest to me, though, is that I’ve never even spoken to a Polish person. Ever. No one’s integrated here. When I was over in Wales that time it wasn’t too bad, yeh got to talk to people from all over. Well, in Cardiff, anyway — the Valleys were backwards as fuck, worse than here. I reckon there’s somethin nasty brewin in Ireland, though; yeh can feel it. People gettin angry, lookin for someone to blame for their woes. Mad bastards like Slaughter stewin over it, formulatin their twisted theories; the worst o them honin their arguments with broken logic and fucked up economics.

  Ah, fuck it anyway. Does me head in thinkin about it; it’s fuckin embarrassin to be honest. Although it’s helped the journey pass at least; I’m nearly at the Bank of Ireland when I clock one o them charity workers in front o me. A short, slightly plump girl with blonde hair and a bright yellow bib. I’ll have to make sure I don’t –

  Bollix. Too late, I’m after makin eye contact. Shite. I don’t have time for this. Or the money. Head down, Denny; look away. Just keep goin, look like yeh have a purpose, somewhere to be. Fuck that, I do have somewhere to be. I have an –

  —Hi, can I talk to you for a minute?

  I’m still a few feet away when she says it. Just keep walkin, Denny.

  —I like your hair.

  Me hair? I look up and make eye contact again and that’s it, game over, I’m fucked. I stop.

  —Thank you, the girl says. She has an accent. One o these hard-to-place European ones. She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles.

  —Do you have a couple of minutes?

  —Ehh well, I kind o –

  —Just a couple of minutes? Please?

  She tilts her head and smiles. It says BODIL on a tag on her bib.

  —It’ll only take a couple of minutes, I swear. She smiles again and raises her eyebrows. I glance over at Trinity and back at the girl.

  —Are you a student?

  —Me? Ah no, no.

  —Oh, OK. You look like a student.

  Do I? I don’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing. Bad, I’m inclined to think. Ah well.

  —I’m with Enable Ireland. Do you know anything about Enable Ireland?

  I shake me head. It sounds familiar, but no, I don’t know anythin about Enable Ireland. Course, I’m about to find out, even though I’m late and, worse, when we get to the end of her spiel it’s gonna be embarrassin for both of us cos I don’t have anywhere near enough money to open a direct debit or a standin order or wharrever.

  —Well, we’re a charity that helps with the education of young people in Ireland with difficulties of all kinds, including Down syndrome. We do really good work. Really good. Do you know that Ireland is the richest country in Europe per head of capita?

  —Ehh –

  I kind o shrug me shoulders. I’m not unaware of Ireland’s wealth, I’m just not party to it.

  —Oh it is, it is. There’s a lot of money in this country. And I mean a lot. I’m from Sweden and we have a lot of money floating around in Sweden but nothing to what we’ve got over here.

  I nod. Bodil, if that’s her name, which I assume it is, is beamin. She’s really into this. Fair play, like. Fuck, I wish I had the money to give but I don’t, I’m pure broke; penniless, brassic, near fuckin destitute if truth be told. If Bodil was some pushy student-type from Blackrock it’d be easier to break the news, but she’s not; she seems dead nice, dead genuine. And from Sweden, as well: a Swedish girl miles from home workin away for an Irish charity while I’m a native and on the dole, no good to anyone. It pops into me head to ask her about the gjengangers Pajo mentioned, just for somethin to say, but I decide against it.

  —The problem is, says Bodil, —not a lot of that money is being set aside for the people who need it most. It’s a really bad system, really unfair. I mean, education is not only there for people with money, or people who just happen to have been born without any difficulties.

  Me mobile briefly buzzes in me pocket; a text.

  —Enable Ireland is really trying hard to take up the slack. It organises all kinds of events and offers all kinds of support to the families of people with learning difficulties. It’s –

  —Sorry, emm … I’m gonna have to go. Sorry.

  Bodil blinks, then kind o nods her head. She clutches her clipboard to her chest.

  —Oh, OK, she says. —You’re in a hurry?

  —Yeah. Well, like, I don’t have much, emm …

  Why am I even explainin all this? All I have to do is say I’m late and fuck off.

  —Like, I’m not workin at the moment, so …

  Bodil smiles. —That’s OK, that’s fine. Thanks for listening.

  I stick me hand into me pocket and fish around for change.

  —Do yiz take donations, like? I can –

  —No, sorry. It has to be a bank thing, like a debit or something like that. It’s a pain in the butt, I know. That’s OK though, thank you.

  I stand there for a second, not knowin wha to say. I feel like a gobshite.

  —You’d better go, she says, and winks.

  —Yeah.

  I take a few steps sideways and then hurry on. Behind me I hear Bodil tellin someone they have cool shoes and in front o me the sun is settin over the walls o Trinity. Better get a move on.

  *

  The main courtyard o Trinity is cobbled and I like the feel o the smooth bumps through the soles o me runners. There aren’t that many people about. I feel weird about that whole Bodil thing. It’s crap bein broke all the time. But that’s not it, really. It’s more to do with … I dunno, like … bein broke’s one thing but bein on yer own’s worse really. In a relationship sense, I mean. I … well, it’s not as if I’ve always been with someone anyway, like I’ve stumbled from one relationship to the next. I dunno though. Sometimes I’m just not bothered. Or I think I’m not. I am really. I think some part o me head’s broken. It’s like I’m waitin for everythin to fall into place; some mad, impossible story to unfold. It’s dead easy for other people. Ned and that. Even fuckin Maggit.

  I turn right and cut through the courtyard, through the little narrow alley and walk up the steps to the arts block. The automatic doors pull back and I step inside. There’s a security guard so yeh have to be careful. He looks up from his little glass-walled booth and then looks back down at his Evening Herald.

  There are still a few students millin around. They all have that semi-American, well-to-do, Bob Geldof-style accent. I walk up and down the wide corridor, lookin for … what’s the name of it? Shit. Emm … oh yeah, the Edmund Burke lecture hall. I take a left turn and, aha, I have it. I peek in through the glass in the door and the room’s full. Sound; the lecture must o run over or somethin. I sit on one o the weird, uncomfortable, square seats in the corridor and wait for a few minutes. A cleanin lady with huge, hoopy earrings is pickin up crisp packets and apple cores and wha have yeh, and dumpin them into a black plastic bag. I nod at her as she passes and she nods back.

  I pull the phone out o
me pocket. Forgot about the text I got while I was squirmin in front o Bodil. I click on MESSAGING, then INBOX. It’s from Pajo.

  DONT FORGET THE OTHER THING, C U AFTER. P.

  The other thing? What’s he on about? I don’t have any credit so I can’t ring him. Can’t even text him back. Ah well, it’s his own fault; Pajo’s texts are notoriously oblique: he doesn’t send messages like, he sends fuckin clues.

  The phone buzzes again and another message comes through. From Ned this time. Here we go again, MESSAGING, INBOX.

  THE STILETTO IN THE GHETTO.

  Yet another name for the Spire. That’s a new one to me. I stick the phone back in me pocket. Then the door to the Edmund Burke lecture hall opens and students start pourin out. I sit and watch the crowd pass me by. After a few seconds I spot a familiar face. There he is, the very man, Kasey Cassidy.

  I wave and Kasey ambles over to me, grinnin. Every time I’ve ever seen him he’s been wearin a leather jacket and a T-shirt with the logo o some hicky metal band like Iron Maiden but today he’s wearin a suit. A fuckin suit. The fuck’s that all about?

  I haven’t seen Kasey around for a while. He’s a good mate o Pajo’s, a junkie occultist. He’s funny, like, and harmless. Pajo and Kasey used to be shootin buddies when he was on the gear. Kasey’s still usin as far as I know. He’s a fair few years older than me. I remember him and Paj havin a drink in Bruxelles, that bar off Grafton Street, for his thirtieth, and that was a year or two ago. His brown, greasy, shoulder-length hair is tucked behind his ears.

  —What’s the story Den Quixote? says Kasey. —How yeh keepin?

  —Grand. Yerself?

  —Very well indeed. Tip top me man.

  We sit down on the square things and Kasey sniffs and blinks and yawns, a frazzled smile on his face.

  —What’s with the tin o fruit?

  —Ah, just a tryin to keep up with the Joneses, yeh know?

  This is a bit of a sketchy explanation but fuck it, it’s probably better just to let it slide; don’t wanna end up implicated in anythin. Kasey’s known to be a bit of a scammer.

  —Fair enough, I say. —Lecture any good?

  Kasey shrugs. —OK, Denzel, OK. It wasn’t wha I’d call a spectacular affair now. Good though. So so. Bit above mediocre. Sure yeh know yerself.

  Kasey’s been doin this for years, smugglin himself into lectures all over the city. He was in UCD last week for a talk on banshees. Or bean sídhe, to be precise. No one clocked him. It’s all about havin the balls, apparently; yeh walk in actin like yeh belong and no one says a word. Kasey reckons he has a few degrees stored in his head at this stage, even if he doesn’t have them on paper.

  —Wha was the lecture about?

  —Bram Stoker Society ran it, says Kasey. —So it was quite decent. So so. Vampire myths in different cultures kind o thing. Interestin. Wasn’t mad on the angle, though.

  —No?

  —Nah. Bit wishy-washy. So here, have yeh got me stuff? I don’t mean to seem rude Denver but, like, I’ve a bit of a cravin on me, yeh know?

  —Yeah, that’s alright. I have it here. Were yeh talkin to Pajo?

  —Yep. He rang me this mornin. Very rare object he was after.

  —Yeah?

  Kasey nods.

  —Sound, I say. —So d’yeh wanna …

  —Get outside first. Don’t wanna blow me cover Dennicus, they’re showin some rare film about demonic possession next week. Catholic Church was down on it in the seventies.

  —C’mon then.

  We get up and head back outside. Kasey chats away about all kinds o mad stuff while we’re walkin, gesticulatin wildly, everythin from ghosts to the CIA’s shady dealins in Nicaragua. When we get to Temple Bar we find a seat outside the Bank of Ireland HQ, beside the huge bronze sculpture thingy.

  —So yeah, as I was sayin, says Kasey. —The CIA were in it up to their necks. Them and Reagan. Never trust an ex-filmstar US president, Denville. Take it from me.

  I smile and nod.

  —Serious Denzig.

  —I know, yeah.

  I surreptitiously pass Pajo’s bottle o methadone into Kasey’s jacket pocket.

  —Sure he wasn’t even that good of an actor, says Kasey, winkin hugely as he passes the short, thick candle into me own jacket pocket. —If I had to pick an ex-filmstar for a US president I’d go for Clint Eastwood meself.

  Kasey pats his pocket, smilin.

  —They got up to all sorts over there, Denly. Terrible stuff altogether. Blew up a pharmaceutical plant. All them drugs. Wha a waste. But sure they’ll get their just desserts on the other side, wha? The lake o fire.

  I stand up and so does Kasey.

  —Yep, I say.

  Kasey slaps me on the shoulder and winks again.

  —What’s so special about this candle? I ask.

  —Baby goat fat.

  —Yeh serious?

  —Yep.

  —Baby goat fat? How the fuck d’yeh get baby goat fat?

  Kasey taps his nose. —Goat babbies are mortal like the rest of us, Dendelion. Be a sin to let them go to waste.

  —Yer mad.

  —True. He grins. —D’yeh wanna lift?

  —Yeh in the van?

  —I am indeed.

  —I’ve to meet Ned and Maggit at the Spire.

  —The pin in the bin, says Kasey.

  I laugh and we make our way back across the river.

  *

  Everyone’s in the kitchen. It’s like a weird three wise kings scenario; I bring in Kasey’s baby goat fat candle, followed by Paula with a bottle o Jack Daniel’s she picked up in Super Valu, followed in turn by a scowlin Maggit with a bunch o daffodils from the garage in Cherry Orchard. Pajo’s sittin at the head o the kitchen table, a sombre look on his thin face, the recipient of our strange gifts. The curtains are drawn and the doors to the sittin room are pulled over. Ned and Teresa are already sittin. Teresa’s just in from work and she looks knackered. She did a twelve-hour shift at the factory and her eyes look bleary. Her thick brown hair’s tied back in a short ponytail, revealin the half dozen or so little rings in her ear.

  —Where d’yeh want these? says Maggit.

  —Emm, put them, like, in a vase, says Pajo. —Yeah? In the middle o the table, if yeh can.

  Maggit shakes his head, lookin annoyed and uncomfortable with the flowers in his hand. —Have yiz a vase for these? he says.

  —Just leave them there, says Paula. —I’ll get somethin.

  Maggit tosses the flowers onto the table beside Ned. Ned’s grinnin.

  —Don’t say a word, you, says Maggit.

  —Wasn’t gonna, says Ned, still grinnin away.

  —Wha about the baby goat candle? I ask.

  —Light it and, like, put it in the middle as well, says Pajo. —And open the whiskey and put it beside it.

  Paula’s rummagin under the sink. She turns and looks back over her shoulder. —Are we not drinkin the whiskey?

  Pajo shakes his head. Paula stands up with a pint glass in her hand. She fills it with water and comes back over, placin the glass on the table. She takes the daffodils and pulls off the paper and cellophane wrappin and puts them in the pint glass.

  —We not havin a shot even, no? says Paula.

  —No, says Pajo. —It’s, like, for them. Yeh know?

  Maggit shakes his head again.

  —Can we not have a drink at all? says Paula. —There’s absinthe in the fridge.

  We’ve had the absinthe ages, which is a bit of a minor miracle. Paula’s been savin it up — she got it cheap when her and Teresa were in Turkey. A good while ago, this was. Before ma died.

  Pajo bites at his thumbnail and thinks for a second. —Emm, yeah, OK, he says. Then he seems to warm to Paula’s misplaced assumption and nods, smilin. —Yeah, like, we’ll all have a shot, he says. —One each. That’ll start us off, yeah? No more after that, though.

  Paula goes and gets the absinthe from the fridge.

  —I’m grand for a drink
, love, says Teresa. —Seriously, I’m shattered.

  Pajo shakes his head. —No, if it’s part o the ritual, like, we all have to do it. Just have a little one, Teresa.

  Teresa rolls her eyes. —G’wan, so.

  —I’ll only do yeh a small one, says Paula.

  Paula winks at her and she sets down a tray with six shot glasses and the bottle of absinthe. She fills out the shots, Teresa’s noticeably smaller than the others. I light Kasey’s candle and open the whiskey, then sit back down, between Paula and Maggit. I look at me watch; it’s half ten. I feel a little bit nervous. Dunno why, like. Fuckin ghosts, it’s all bullshit.

  —Right, emm, thanks for comin, says Pajo.

  —It’s not a fuckin weddin reception, Pajo, says Maggit.

  —Shhh, says Paula.

  Paula looks a bit … I dunno … fraught or somethin. I can tell by lookin at her that she’s … I dunno, edgy, maybe. Or a combination of edginess and excitement. She’s not afraid, anyway, put it that way. It’s mad but I’ve never known Paula to be afraid. Not properly afraid, anyway.

  —OK so, says Pajo. —Emm. First off, I think … well, oh yeah, yiz’ll have to turn off yer mobiles. Yeah? Like, no distractions and that.

  Everyone fumbles for their phones and there’s a couple o seconds where the room’s filled with mingled ditties as the phones shut down.

  Pajo has the same kind o look as Paula, nervous and kind o hopefully expectant at the same time. He runs a thin hand through his hair and then places his palms flat on the table.

  —Right, before we start we should go through some stuff, yeah? Just to, like, make sure everyone’s kosher. Everyone nods and mumbles.

  —OK. Emm. Right. First off, no one’s to be afraid, yeah? Bad vibes can attract bad spirits. So everyone should like, chill. Emm, actually, the shots’ll be good coz they’ll loosen us up.

  —Will we have them now then? says Paula.

  —Eh, yeah. Yeah, might as well.

  Each of us lifts our shot glass, the green liquid glintin in the light o the bulb overhead.

  —Do we do a toast or wha? says Ned.

  —Emm, nah, says Pajo. —OK so, down we go.