Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  I gulp at me can and Rochey whacks me on the back and saunters into the front room, towards the Adidas girl. She’s just lookin up at him and the beginnins of a smile or howayeh are twitchin on her lips when I turn back into the kitchen. Ned pushes past me and into the hall, natterin into his mobile. I’m feelin the first effect o the drink now, a slight, nice wooziness. Quick glance at the clock and it’s twenty past ten, and a new, hundred mile an hour tune blasts from the stereo inside. Laughin and screechin from Paula and her mates. I grab another can from the fridge and Tommy Power comes shufflin up the garden with his girlfriend and a UN relief package-sized tray o lager. He nods at me and winks and eases the tray onto the kitchen table. Rochey pops his head into the kitchen and him and Tommy whoop and shake hands. Tommy’s girlfriend pulls out a chair and sits miserably.

  —Yeh alright, Denny?

  It’s Ned.

  —Yeah, cool.

  —Yeh look distracted.

  —Wha?

  —Isn’t that wha they say in films?

  —I’m grand. I’m not distracted-lookin am I?

  —Right then. Yiv a big sour puss on yeh. Ned takes a sup from his can. —Might never happen, Denny.

  —D’you know half o these people?

  Ned shrugs. —No. Well, you and Paula and Pajo. And Kasey.

  —And Rochey.

  —Yeah. Who let the steroid machine in?

  —Invited himself. Like most o the rest o them, probably.

  —D’yeh wanna head off somewhere else, Denny? I don’t mind.

  —Nah. Well, I wouldn’t mind headin but … yeh know? Wouldn’t know wha the fuck’d happen. No use leavin Paula in charge cos the place’ll be in fuckin ruins.

  —Fair enough. Look, just get a few drinks down yeh and yill be grand. It’s that bleedin hash and the pills, Denny. Has yeh paranoid. Best thing yill ever do is give that shite up.

  —I’ve done pills about twice or somethin, Ned. I’m not a pillhead.

  Ned knocks his head with his knuckles.

  —Yeah, but yiv got fuckin hash plants growin in yer lungs. Clear head, Denny. That’s wha yeh want. Won’t get anywhere when yer hepped up on fuckin goofballs half the time. Need proof?

  —G’wan.

  —Stick yer head round the door there. One word and two syllables.

  —Pajo?

  —Fuckin Blockbusters, Mr Cullen.

  *

  Darkness over the estate and the streetlights are on, givin everythin that weird, washed-out quality. Shadows deep and dark and freakishly long. Place is absolutely packed, now. Had to get out, felt a fuckin panic attack comin on. I’m leanin against the garden wall, Guinness in hand, stressed out. Hate when I get like this. Although it’s probably due to the hash, to be honest. I never used to smoke the stuff until I came back from Wales. I just tried it and it does calm yeh down. But it gives me the creeps sometimes as well. Ned’s right, I have to knock it on the head. And fuck it as well, I still can’t remember that girl’s name. Typical o me, that. I mean, it’s not that I forget names, exactly, it’s more that I forget to remember them. Although to be fair I probably wouldn’t even say anythin to her if I could remember her name, I’d be … I dunno, maybe I would say somethin. Actually, I’m probably subconsciously forgettin her name so I have an excuse to stay away. Wouldn’t surprise me. And then again, she could be an alco or a junkie or somethin. Or she could be spoken for. Or, like I said before, gay.

  I haven’t even so much as kissed a girl in, like … dunno how long. Back in Wales, anyway. Months ago. Wha d’yeh do, though? I mean, the whole approachin girls thing, it doesn’t sit right with me. I just keep thinkin to meself, it must annoy them. It’s all dead transparent. The chase, the lines, the buyin drinks. It’s a load o shite. It’d be nice, alright, to be with someone, but sometimes … I don’t see it happenin. Not to me. I feel like I was born in the wrong time or something; I wish I lived in Middle fuckin Earth.

  There’s a wave o raucous laughter and clappin and stampin o feet from inside. Ned must o managed to wrangle his ‘musical compromise’ cos The Pogues are pumpin from the open front room window and into the night. Streams of Whiskey, one o their up tempo ditties. The dance stuff’ll be back on soon enough so maybe I should head back in. Although, big crowds, yeh know? Specially when yeh hardly know anyone.

  Kasey’s slumped to me right, propped up against the wall by his elbows. Kasey’s always like this, up and then down. He’ll be fuckin manic in half an hour. Pajo’s swayin slightly in front of us, a joint juttin upwards from his lower lip. He draws deep and passes it to Kasey who takes it and regards it and guides it carefully to his scabby lips. Another long, deep drag. Me next and I hesitate before takin a quick toke, savourin the soothin mellow rush. That’ll do for now. Gettin a bit wrecked, like.

  —Wha were yiz talkin about in there, Paj? I say.

  Pajo looks up at me, slow-blinkin jelly-boned stoner. —Spirits, he says.

  —Vodka, I say, just windin him up, like. And to steer the conversation away from Paula and this ghost bollix.

  —Ah no, no, says Pajo, shakin his head. —Ghost spirits. The paranormal.

  Kasey nods, eyes still closed. —Afterlife, he mumbles.

  They’re obsessed, these two.

  —Any conclusions then? I say.

  —Hard to say, says Pajo.

  Kasey nods. —Other than they do exist. The proof’s there, Dendrite. It’s incontrovertible.

  —Thing is, says Pajo. —Wha are they though?

  Kasey nods again.

  —That’s the, like, the real question, says Pajo. —Wha are the options? I ask.

  —Loads, says Pajo. —Could be, like, dead people stuck. Like for a bad death, so they can’t get away. Could be psychic energy. Where someone died and there’s all this … wha is it?

  —Like a stain, says Kasey.

  —Yeah. Left there. That’s not real, though. I mean, like, with that option, it’s not a soul, not a real ghost. It’s just like a replay. Yeh know? A psychic replay. So that’s just one option. Pajo shakes his head. —The world is so big. It’s mad, isn’t it?

  —Wha?

  —Dyin.

  —How d’yeh mean?

  —That yeh can die. That, like, yer not alive anymore, yeh know? There has to be somethin. There is somethin. I think so anyway. Pajo looks at the ground and then back up at me. —D’you?

  —I dunno man.

  Really I wanna say, no, there’s fuck all after yeh die. Yer gone, obliterated. But I can’t.

  —Be shite if there wasn’t anythin, I suppose, I say.

  Pajo looks pleased enough with this vague wisdom. He smiles and draws on the joint.

  —Any word from Maggit, Paj?

  —He said he’d drop up. After. I think he was callin up to Bernadette’s.

  A battered mini chugs past the garden, headlights briefly illuminatin the street. It turns at the top o the road and disappears, the lilac dark closin round it. Yeh can almost hear the whoosh as the dark sucks back in. The Sickbed of Cúchulainn kicks in, all wild fiddlin and Shane MacGowan’s drink-ravaged voice. Shapes flashin behind the front room curtains, bobbin heads and flailin arms.

  There’s a gust o cool and clean wind. A fella and girl wobble down the garden path towards us, cuttin through our smoke and conversation. Become a fuckin Mecca for wasters and drunks and druggies, this place has. Night after fuckin night, like; the house that never fuckin sleeps. There’s loads o people squeezed out into the hallway, drinks clutched to their chests. Laughin and whoopin. Ned’s the only one I recognise, sittin at the bottom o the stairs with a mobile stuck to his ear, noddin his head and knittin his eyebrows.

  I should go back in there, shouldn’t I? If I’d a set o balls I’d go up and talk to that girl, the one in the Adidas tracksuit. Before Rochey or some other shitebag has a chance to work their magic, if they haven’t already.

  I look at Pajo. Right, fuck it. I’m goin in. —Did you catch the name o that girl in there? The one in the Ad
idas tracksuit?

  —I think it –

  There’s a loud yeow! from up the road and Pajo stops midsentence, turnin his head slowly, lighthouse-style. I can see two figures weavin through the bollards at the top o the street. Scratch that, three figures, actually: Dave Dempsey pushin Dommo Power, Tommy’s brother, along in his wheelchair. Slaughter’s alongside them, laughin and throwin shapes and clappin and stompin in time to The Pogues. Bollix. Hope these pricks aren’t thinkin o stoppin. They’re closer now, Slaughter in his patched denim jacket, his shaven head grey-lookin in the dark. Dave’s guidin Dommo along, the legs o Dommo’s jeans tucked up under his stumps and a half-gone six-pack on his lap. Used to be a mate o mine, Dommo. Donkeys ago, when we were kids. Fell drunk on the tracks five or six years ago and a train ran over his legs. Sliced the fuckers right off. Dead fuckin bitter, like. He’s one o the biggest dealers in Clondalkin now. Keeps a stash of every kind o drug yeh can think of in a little compartment under the seat of his wheelchair, for emergency sales and personal use. That him and Slaughter are in cahoots these days is bad news.

  They stop at the gate.

  —Party? says Dommo.

  —Yeah. Well … yeah.

  —Tommy in there?

  Slaughter’s starin at me dead-eyed, machine-gunnin his head to the song’s frantic beat with a big mentalcase grin on his face.

  —He popped out about half an hour ago. Said he’ll be back though.

  —Fuck it, I’ll wait for him.

  Dommo spits and Dave swivels the chair and pushes Dommo into the garden and along the path. Slaughter stomps along behind but doesn’t follow them into the house. Fuckin hell. This is gettin worse by the minute. Slaughter was tellin me a while ago about this Irish white power website, and how Ireland needs to be claimed back from immigrants and all this. Why he thought I’d wanna hear that is beyond me; I think in some ways he just assumes your allegiance as a white Irish male. He said Samantha Mumba should be sent back to Africa and that him and his mates were gonna saw the head off the Phil Lynott statue outside Bruxelles in town. Thank fuck Charly and yer man Donal are already gone.

  Slaughter winks at me. —How yeh doin, boy?

  —Grand. Yerself?

  —A fuckin 1, boy. Not a fuckin bother. —Good to be out, yeah?

  I’m referrin to the few months he did a while ago for bottlin some fella outside Eamonn Doran’s. Did it in full view o two gardaí and then tried to take them on as well.

  —Fuckin deadly, he says. —Borin in there. Still celebratin. Haven’t slept in four days, boy. Fuckin Colombian marchin powder, wha?

  —Cool.

  —Cool is not the word.

  Slaughter slaps his hands together and rubs them.

  —Any decent colleens in there? The fuckin Slaughter’s back in business, boy.

  I don’t know wha to say so I just open me mouth and make a noise and nod me head vaguely.

  —Sound boy, sound. Here, did yeh see yer man across the road?

  —Who?

  —Fuckin Iraqi or somethin. Sandnigger anyway. —The new fella?

  —Yeah, him across the road there. Prick. Need to have words there, boy.

  —He seems alright.

  —Alright?

  —He’s quiet. I think he’s a builder or somethin.

  —Fuckin builder. They’ll be buildin him a new set o knees. Slaughter guffaws and twitches his shoulders. —New set o knees, boy.

  —Chill, says Pajo.

  Slaughter looks at Pajo. —Wha?

  —It’s a party, man. Relax. Cool yer boots.

  Slaughter rubs his bristly head. —D’you fuckin want somethin? Was I talkin to you?

  —Just go on in, Slaughter, I say. —There’s loads o drink and that in the fridge. Rochey’s in there as well.

  —That queer? He’s never out o that pink fuckin T-shirt, is he?

  Another noncommittal head movement. Best way o dealin with Slaughter; don’t have too much of an opinion, like. Keep it vague.

  —Sure yer sister’s a fuckin dyke as well, isn’t she? No fuckin thanks, boy. Bent fuckin city in there. Tell Dommo I’m headin into town. I’ll see yiz so, girls.

  —Bye, says Pajo.

  Slaughter stomps out o the garden and looks quickly back over his shoulder at us as he passes the gate. I stand and watch him go, a hunched and hurryin silhouette bristlin with pent-up fury. After a few hundred yards he’s lost in the huge and poolin dark.

  *

  —Get out! Get the fuck out o here!

  The early hours and Paula’s screechin like a demented banshee at Shane, her voice jagged and high-pitched and meldin weirdly with the trance music pumpin from the stereo. Shane’s backin off, face slack and pale and shakin with anger or disgust, edgin with little stumbly steps out o the hall and into the garden. Surprised he hasn’t decked Paula, to be honest. Seen it happen before. Probably too many people around. He steps out o the porch and into the garden. His car’s parked across the road, the engine still runnin.

  —Fuck off, you! Paula screams. —This isn’t your fuckin home!

  Shane turns his back on her and walks to the gate, then turns around and looks at her. His sister. His only sister.

  —Yeh demented bitch, Paula, he says and reaches behind him, pullin open the door o the car. —We’ll fuckin see tomorrow, alright? We’ll fuckin see tomorrow. He shakes his head and crumples into the seat. The car pulls away, cuttin through the dark.

  —Prick! Fuckin poxy fuckin prick!

  I put me hand on Paula’s shoulder. —Leave it, Paula. C’mon.

  Paula wheels round on me, lip quiverin and her eyes dazed and wanderin. Totally pissed, like. Stoned as well, probably. She shakes her head, her face contorted, and pushes past me and back into the front room. It didn’t even look like she recognised me.

  Fuck, man, I hate this shite. Feels like we’re … ah, I dunno. Fuck it. Shane came bargin into the house sayin the Cunninghams next-door rang him and were givin out about the noise. Which is fair enough I suppose cos they’re gettin on a bit, Mr and Mrs Cunningham. Knew this’d happen. And Paula did as well. But there’s no way Shane was goin to get any kind o compromise out o Paula. Specially when he’s roarin his fat fuckin head off and double fuckin specially when Paula’s drunk. And Slaughter’s back as well, sittin at the kitchen table, a bottle o Jägermeister in front of him, grindin his teeth, his jaw protrudin. Must o popped a load o pills or somethin. Freaks me out, Slaughter does. Wha mad fuckin thoughts must run through his mind. When I think of his head I see a lopsided gothic church full o bats and shadows.

  I slump down onto the bottom stair. The toilet flushes above and a few seconds later Pajo’s stoned face hovers into view.

  —What’s up?

  I look up at him. —Here, man, I say. —Sort me out Paj.

  —Yeh OK?

  —Cool, man. Just … give us somethin, yeah?

  —To calm down, like?

  —Yeah. Actually, no. Fuck it. An upper.

  Pajo bites his lip and scratches his head. —Yeh sure, Denny? I mean, that’s not really your thing –

  —Pajo, yer not me ma.

  —Well. I –

  —Pajo. If yeh have somethin just gimme it. I’ll give yeh the bleedin money.

  Pajo reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a little wad o newspaper, unwraps it carefully.

  —What’s that?

  —Just pills. Got them at that trad festival last week.

  —Cool. Yeah, wharrever. That’ll do.

  Pajo puts a small white pill between his front teeth and snaps it in two.

  —I’ll have the other half, he says. —Yeah?

  —Grand. I won’t die of a fuckin heart attack now, will I?

  Pajo’s right; pills aren’t me thing, like. Bit suspicious o them.

  —Ah no Denny. Just drink a bit o water. Keep yerself hydrated.

  —Right. Water.

  —Yeah.

  I pop the crumbly crescent into me mouth.

  * />
  Fuckin hell this is deadly. A few more pills popped and I’m boppin away like a mentalcase. I usually hate dancin. I feel dead self-conscious and lame but I don’t give a bollix how stupid I look now. And I do look stupid, sure I can see meself in the mirror and I look like a total spazzo with me arms pumpin and me legs kickin and faces spinnin round me laughin and whoopin and clappin but everyone else is dancin as well, a meaty thudthudthud from the speakers, total tuneless bollix but fuck that as well, who gives a fuck? Pajo with his mad breakdancin routine beside me, his badges clackin away and Paula weaves through the faces towards me and grabs me hand and twirls me and laughs, her eyes weird and floaty and then she’s gone and into the kitchen. Fuckin hell, this buzzin energy. I’m dancin away and starin at the ancient teary-eyed harlequin me uncle Victor found in a field in Germany and gave to me ma one Christmas, the tiny fine-boned black and white face sat on top of a ruffle o monochrome frills and a black tear on her cheek that must o been hand-painted by some Bavarian sprite it’s that small. Tiny foreign weepin clown that’s sat on the mantelpiece for years and years unnumbered and someone slips their hand into mine and I turn and it’s the Adidas girl her hair and skin and eyes so dark so fuckin fantastic. Her teeth white and her lips turned back in a slight and gorgeous smile and she winks at me and I wink back and then we dance, her like the girls on Ibiza Uncovered with her arms thrown over her head and me like a court jester all floppin limbs and shufflin feet but sure who cares? Thudthudthud o the stereo and shadows hoppin and flailin on the walls, Rochey stiff and angry-lookin in the corner but fuck him as well, Ned ruined drunk stood on the armchair reelin off old Irish poetry his eyes half-closed and hand on heart and the Adidas girl’s face so close to mine, the tiny lines at her eyes and her lips shapin strange underwater words I can’t hear, can’t fathom at this immeasurable blissful depth and we dance and dance with each tune bleedin into the next, ages and ages we’re here, hours, time tickin slow-motion and backwards, her warm breath on me ear and the lacquered crispness of her hair against me neck and she drags me through the faces and into the kitchen past Paula and Teresa kissin by the table and the army o empty cans on the window ledge and the throng of arms and feet and voices and laughter and drunk faces and thudthudthud in the hall and up the stairs stumblin and laughin, her hand on her mouth and onto the landin and her embrace, the two of us rollin together along the banisters, towels fallin on revellers below and her warm body against me, her back to the wall now and the zipper of her tracksuit top a tiny stiff pinprick against me bony chest as her hand twists the door handle and pushes it open and we halffall into the blackened room thudthudthud through the floorboards and I pat the wall for the light switch, I dunno why but I do, there could be monsters I used to think, slaverin long-toothed freaks under the bed. Me palm hits the switch and the bedroom is summoned up in front o me and me skin crawls cos fuckin hell monsters do exist, a clan o thin and slowly peddlin wraiths with white eyes on the bed and on the floor, Slaughter lyin beside one o them, a girl, his hand down the front of her jeans. There’s a small spike protrudin from her arm, a belt lashed round her thin bicep and she’s completely out of it. Slaughter looks up at me, eyes amphibious and a grin on his face.