by Trevor Byrne
The fella on the till is young and snatches up each item and scans it without lookin. A little bleep. Monster Munch. Bleep-bleep. The milk, the cheesecake. Bleep. Sometimes it takes two scans. The packet o digestives takes three.
—How do Denwaldo?
I turn round. It’s Kasey, noddin his head and grinnin his big stoner’s grin.
—Heya Kasey. What’s the story?
—Here, will yeh get us twenty Blue?
Kasey splats a crisp fifty euro note onto me box of Cheerios. Then he looks at me and grins and hurries out into the foyer where he plonks his arse down on a miniature version o Postman Pat’s delivery van. He shoots me a big thumbs-up.
*
Me and Kasey stand under the Tesco’s awnin, smokin his cigarettes with me shoppin bags round me ankles. There’s a line o bristlin cars and buses stuck in traffic across the car park, the shitty 78a like a weird mobile zoo; a woman with a nose ring and green hair, a double-chinned man with a red potato for a nose, a teenager with a mobile phone glued to his ear. A taxi pulls up in front of us and a woman in a trouser suit clutchin a plastic container o pasta salad ducks in. The taxi pulls away, stoppin about fifteen feet up the road, the lights still red.
I haven’t seen Kasey since that day in Trinity. Although that’s nothin new, I suppose; always off on his travels, Kasey. He’s back in his usual attire, as well: the oul leather jacket and the near threadbare Anthrax T-shirt. He takes a huge drag on his cigarette, his dark green eyes on the slow-movin traffic. He taps his ash and looks at me, smilin slightly.
—Keepin OK so, Denstable? he says.
—Not too bad. After gettin a car.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. It’s only an oul banger I got off Gino but it does the job, like.
—That’ll do. So how’d the séance go?
Another big drag on me cigarette. —Dunno, really. Pajo went a bit … well, hard to say, like.
—Did yiz make contact?
—I wouldn’t wanna say, Kasey. Pajo started sayin all this mad shite but … I dunno. I reckon he was just …
—Puttin it on?
—Well, no. Not puttin it on. He wouldn’t lie. But he might o convinced himself.
—And is the ghost still there?
—Paula says it’s not. So … happy days, I suppose.
Kasey takes another drag from his cigarette, lookin thoughtful. I shrug and take a good drag meself, blowin the smoke out in front o me, the bluish-grey ribbons like spectral fingers.
—Yeh in the money or wha? I ask him, handin over his forty odd euro change.
Kasey shrugs and taps the side of his nose. —Well, yeh could say that, I suppose.
—Yeh workin?
Kasey laughs. —In a manner o speakin, Denethor. I’ve managed to come across certain substances that are much in demand in today’s affluent Ireland.
—Yer not fuckin dealin are yeh?
Kasey shrugs.
—In wha? I say.
He winks.
—Fair enough, I say. —Yid wanna be careful, though. Less I know, wha?
—You said it, compadre.
We stand and smoke for a bit. The sky’s turnin a bit dark, the clouds huge and sluggish.
—Wha had yeh up at a culchie doctor’s? I say. —Maggit was tellin me.
Kasey looks at the ground and shrugs. He scrapes the back of one runner against the front o the other, then shrugs again, lookin sideways at me.
—Boys in blue dropped me off, he says.
—How come?
Kasey takes another, final, gargantuan drag. It looks like the cigarette’s sucked into him, like some stage magician’s trick. The tip turns orange and smoulders and a pair o thin smoke trails tumble from his nostrils.
—Well, he says. —Long story short Denver, I was on me way to Donegal to see me sisters. Drivin up. I was drinkin and that, yeh know? Off me face on cider and pills. Wasn’t feelin the peachiest that week, yeh know? Can I be honest with yeh?
He drops the butt of his cigarette and looks at me. I nod.
—Pure bummed out I was. Rock bottom, as they say. And halfway there I just says to meself, out o the bleedin blue like — fuck this shite. I was drivin alongside some river and Gerry Ryan was on the radio talkin to this culchie farmer about bleedin irrigation of all the wide world’s subjects and I just ran the bleedin van into the river.
—Fuckin hell Kasey.
—Have yeh ever heard Gerry Ryan’s show?
Oul halfmad Kasey. A new unlit cigarette hangin slantways from the corner of his mouth. One hand in his jeans pocket, the other makin a fist and slowly openin again.
—Yeh alright Kasey?
—Grand, Denno. Grand. He laughs again. —Bleedin van only went halfway in, sure. I thought it’d be like the films, yeh know? The way they just go flyin off the road and the car sinks and that’s that. End o story. Trust bleedin me though. I was left sittin on the bank with freezin bleedin water pourin in over me runners. Stayed there for ages, like. Listenin to Gerry Ryan and drinkin me cider.
—Wha, and the police saw yeh?
—Yeah. A squad car pulled up on the motorway and these two coppers came down. They thought I robbed the van. They pulled me out and dragged me up the embankment. This pig hits me a smack in the head and then I was in the back o the car. They said they were sick o the likes o me comin up from Dublin, wreckin the place. I told them it was me own van and that I was tryin to kill meself and me ma was from Donegal. I thought I was in for a night in the cells and a bop in the head, yeh know? Bate the brass monkey or wharrever. But wha did they do only bring me to a fuckin mental hospital. Said I was a sadcase and a bleedin waste o time and they’d other things to be dealin with.
—Fuck.
I can’t think of anythin else to say. It may sound a bit mad, like, but the casual admittance of attempted suicide isn’t that much of a shock to me. Not when yeh know people like Kasey. I wouldn’t say it happens every five minutes or anythin but it’s not earth shatterin, either.
—Fuck is right. It took me another day to come down, I’d popped that many pills on the drive. I was away with the bleedin fairies Del. That’s when this culchie doctor tells me I’m unwell. He should know I suppose, with all these certs he had on the wall. He said I needed help. All I need’s a valium and a shite, I says to him. Ran off that night. Hitched back to Dublin with this truck driver from the Liberties, slept in Stephen’s Green and got the bus home. The gardaí towed me van out o the water for me. They rang me ma. I’ve to go up and collect it. It’ll probably cost a few bob but –
—Kasey. Yer alright though, yeah? I mean, yer –
—Sound, Dennicus. Sound as a pound. Or sound as a euro. Sure yeh can probably claim somethin for bein mad. Off the council or the government or somethin.
He points up at the sky.
—Silver linin, he says. —Always, Den. There’s always a silver linin. Anyway I’d better head. Stay cool Denzerino. Don’t let the bastardos bring yeh down.
THE EXISTENCE OF MONSTERS
The steam’s puffin up from the kettle and it’s like a parade o spooky jellyfish or somethin, chuggin up and out, each puff gettin bigger and hazier the nearer it gets to the smoke-stained ceilin and then it’s gone, exorcised or absorbed although there’s always more behind, pushin on the one in front, a puffin procession ghostly and never-endin. And the way it billows as well, it’s –
The kettle clicks and the little red light goes off. They say a watched kettle never boils but it just takes fuckin ages.
I take up the kettle and pull open the greasy press with me other hand. Grab a cup. And two more. Have to put the kettle back down cos it’s gettin heavy. Put too much water in, which me mate Pajo wouldn’t approve of cos it’s a waste o energy and wha have yeh, which is right I suppose. I burrow me hand past the digestives and Bisto and Pringles and fish a couple teabags from the battered blue tin in the corner o the press.
—Growin the tea leaves yerself in there?
That’
s Paula. Watchin EastEnders in the front room with Teresa. Well for her, like. Talk about women o leisure. Yid have to surgically remove them two from the fuckin sofa. Actually, nah, I take that back — Teresa works so I can’t say anythin, really. All the nice plants round the house are hers, as well; they’re the only healthy-lookin things in the place. Paula has no excuse, though; fuckin bone idle, she is.
—Wha did yer last servant die of? I say.
—Overwork, says Paula. The two o them laughin. Phil Mitchell’s threatenin someone in his gravelly, gobshitey voice on the telly. Hate that prick.
I pull at the fridge door handle and there’s that suck and give as the door pops open. Hardly anythin in it cept drink for Paula’s party. Paula and Teresa went to Kilkenny for the weekend, saw Falter Ego play, and now that they’re back Paula wants to celebrate the house’s new ghost-free status. She said the party’s gonna be massive, which means a massive fuckin headache. Shane’s deffo gonna hear about it. Symbolic or not, I think this party’s a bad idea. I should just fuck off, really, for the night, wash me hands of it.
Ah, I dunno. Seems like –
Fuckin hell, lookit this. Must be four dozen cans in here, at least. Heaven forbid anyone put food in the bleedin fridge, like. Bottles o wine as well, alcopops, a bottle o Baileys. Fuck. Foodwise, there’s a brick o rockhard butter squeezed between two six packs o Bulmers and a few carrots wrapped in misted cellophane on the bottom shelf. That’s it for solids. I take out the milk. Check the sell-by date.
Grand.
Pour it in and stir. Let the mini-whirlpools settle. Grab the jar o coffee from the top o the fridge. It’s beside the fruit bowl which to be honest has seen better days: the two apples in it are covered in them horrible squashy pulpy brown bits and the less said about the shrunk, multicoloured orange the better. Fuckin hell. Me ma would never o let the place get like this; she was dead house proud. When me ma was cleanin up — say, doin the hooverin, or washin up or wharrever — she’d blast Rod Stewart on the stereo, and kind o dance around the place as she went. Paula used to love that when she was younger — she’d be up and dancin with me ma, soapin up the plates. Me ma’d said it was borin cleanin the place without a few choons, then sing along to Maggie May. Me da used to look at her like she was mad. Before he fucked off, like. Even after that, though, me ma never let things get on top of her. She was dead strong, she got on with things. She kept the place spotless and played her Rod Stewart albums. The house was alive back then.
I spoon the coffee into the last cup, Teresa’s cracked Thundercats one. Pour in the hot water and stir. The sun’s settin over the back garden. It’s dead overgrown out there now, all wild and webby. Grass to yer arse and nettles and stingers and lowhangin branches. Can’t even get into the shed anymore. Could be a witch livin out there, mutterin her nasty incantations in the gloom, hook-nosed and gammy-eyed, hair thick with spiders and grease. Layin curses on the house. Some foul, evil oul hag, a consort o the ghost.
Yer milk soured.
Yer Cornflakes chewy.
Probably why I can’t get a job, some witch’s hex. Well, that or the fact I never filled out them forms at the FAS office. Still though. Imagine. A witch surrounded by ancient rusty saws and bollixed hammers and shufflin in the dark, a wizened jaloppy-boned crone half-lost under a mound o shiftin rags. Her eyes cat-like in the dark. A hiss and –
Jesus Denny. Fuckin give it a rest will yeh? I freak meself out, sometimes.
—D’yeh need a hand or somethin?
Paula.
—No, I’m grand. I’m comin.
I hook the handles o the teacups with me index finger and grab the coffee with me free hand. Push open the front room door with me arse and shuffle in backwards. The place is messy and stale and sad-lookin. Reeks o cigarettes. There’s kids still playin on the road outside. Heads n volleys or somethin. Paula’s head on Teresa’s shoulder, their feet tucked under them on the sofa, Teresa’s socks white and Paula’s mismatched pink and blue.
—Thanks, Denny, says Teresa.
—That’s lovely, says Paula.
—No prob. Your turn next.
I can see Pajo strugglin at the front gate as I set the cups on the coffee table. First o the guests, unsurprisinly. Ever eager to kiss sobriety goodbye, our Pajo. He’s jugglin a packed Spar bag and tryin to reach the lock, a deep and serious look on his face.
—Go out and help him, says Paula, eyes still on the telly, cup o tea clasped two-handed below her chin. The drums start thumpin on the telly. Phil Mitchell looks vaguely befuddled or angry or both and the map o London fades in.
*
—Dance music?
—It is a party, Denny, says Paula.
A thumpin beat’s poundin from the speakers and Paula straightens up from the CD player. She waves an empty CD sleeve in front o me. SUMMA CHOONZ 4 WINTA BLOOZ, it says. Free with the Daily Star.
—Yeah. Dance, though?
—Yes. Dance music. For dancin to. There’s no way The Clash or The Ramones or fuckin Johnny Cash is goin on tonight.
—Wha about Mastodon? I say, just messin, like.
—Them with the mad fuckin demon singin? Supposed to be singin, anyway.
—It’s progressive metal.
—Bit o Leonard Cohen, says Ned from the armchair, winkin at me, his hands danglin over the six-pack between his feet. —Just in case we start feelin too happy.
—No way, says Paula, roundin on Ned. —No chance. Don’t even mention Leonard Cohen tonight. He’s banned. Fella’d put bleedin years on yeh.
Synths kick in. Bit o bass and a stream o sampled YEAHS. Hate that stuff. I knock back the last o me Guinness and set the empty on the CD player. I can’t get me head round music with no guitars in it. Ned shrugs his shoulders and mock sighs.
—Ah we’ll be grand, Den. Get enough o that Guinness down yeh and she can stick the bleedin Spice Girls on. He sinks back into the armchair and knits his hands behind his head. —Fuck it like. Sure it’s all relevant art isn’t it? I mean, Famous Blue Raincoat on one hand, Spice Up Yer Life on the other. Can’t fault it man. All good stuff.
—Well when yeh put it like that. Is Sinead comin up?
—Should be, he says. He pulls one hand free and looks at his big, colourful watch. Presses a few buttons. —Depends wha time she can clock off college at. Exams like.
—Cool.
—Yeh heard from Maggit?
—Yeah, I say. —He said he’ll drop up later.
—Sound. The old gang, wha?
Yep. The old gang. Some things never change, man. Never.
*
The place is startin to fill up. Paula and Teresa are throwin shapes and tossin their heads beside the fireplace, cans miraculously still in the maelstrom. Pajo’s standin in the doorway, face set and serious, shuckin his shoulders and wrigglin his fingers as he spews some no doubt half-mad tale at Kasey, hunched and longhaired on his haunches below him. Kasey’s head’s tilted and noddin sagely, a can o cheapo Dutch Gold hooked and danglin from his index finger. Two urban seanchaí deep in their impenetrable musins. Or a couple o half-drunk wasters, take yer pick. Four o Paula’s mates are squashed onto the sofa, gigglin and pawin each other and jiggin up and down in time with the beat, drinks held up and out in front o them. Three girls and a fella. One o them’s Charly, who lives not far from us. Just round the corner from The Steerin Wheel, actually, which is dead handy. She’s gay as well, most o Paula’s girl friends are, and she’s black but she was brought up in Dublin and she has a stronger Irish accent than me. Paula introduced the other two but I’m after forgettin their names already. Bollix. The chap has a feminine look and voice, and his legs are crossed kind o girlishly. Donal or Donald or somethin, I think Paula said. Proper, expensive-lookin haircut as well.
The girls are all pretty in their own way but the one on the end’s an absolute stunner. Curly, liquorice-black hair and a darkish complexion. Her Adidas tracksuit isn’t exactly doin anythin for her, like, but not even that can do her much da
mage. Does she look foreign or somethin? Spanish, maybe. Or Italian. Eyes cool and pennydark. Donald or Donal leans and whispers somethin into her ear. She smiles and ducks her chin, laughs with her bottom lip between her teeth.
I squash past Pajo and Kasey and into the kitchen, catchin Pajo mutterin somethin about ectoplasm on the way. Kasey says, check under the beds. For fuck sake. There’s two more female unknowns leanin against the kitchen table and chattin to Rochey from up the road. He’s like a fuckin shark for this kind o thing, Rochey is; he can taste any perfume in the air in a five-mile radius. He smiles and winks as I pass him, his arms thick and veined. Proper gym rat, Rochey, mad into that MMA stuff and on the juice and everythin, chest bulgin beneath the show-offy pink T-shirt. I pull open the fridge and grab another can and out the open front door I can see a big red van pull up across the road. Scatters the kids. The door slides back and that new fella ducks out. Dunno where he’s from. He looks Middle Eastern or somethin, his tanned face and arms pokin out from his shiny yellow high-vis vest. He leans in and says somethin to whoever’s still hid in the dark o the van before it pulls off. I snap open me can and take a swig. The two girls Rochey was chattin to walk past me and head upstairs.
—Denny, says Rochey, grinnin.
—Wha?
—C’mere. Check out the talent. Her there. She’s a fine thing, isn’t she?
Rochey points surreptitiously through the door and I amble over. He’s pointin at the girl in the Adidas tracksuit. She’s sittin on the edge o the sofa now, cigarette in one hand, can o lager in the other, laughin raucously at Pajo, who’s performin a skittery jig somewhere between breakdance and epileptic fit. Everyone else is standin round, clappin and breakin their shite laughin.
—Isn’t she? Her there. Savage bit of arse. They’d have to dig me out of her.
—She’s nice, yeah, I say, feelin annoyed at his fuckin terminology. I mean, she’s nice, but … I dunno. The way fuckin fellas go on. I mean, I’m a fella as well, like, but … ah, wharrever. No point in sayin anythin to Rochey, anyway. Not unless I want me brains sprayed all over the wallpaper. Probably go all fuckin roid rage on me, the malletheaded prick. And anyway, she’s probably gay, the Adidas girl, so Rochey’ll be in for a knockback if he tries anythin.
