by Trevor Byrne
—Paula?
No answer. I knock again. —Paula.
I twist the handle and push open the door. Poke me head in. The curtains are pulled and the room is sweaty and messy and dark. A shape shifts under the duvet.
—Paula.
—Wha?
Paula’s voice is dry and husky. The bang o sweat and cigarette smoke in here’d knock yeh fuckin out. Empty cans everywhere.
—Who’s the manatee downstairs?
—Whose humanity?
—Listen. The manatee. Who’s that on the sofa downstairs?
—Is he fat?
—Yeah.
—Frankie.
—What’s he doin? I wanna watch the telly.
—Tell him to go home. I don’t even like him. Big fat head on him.
—You tell him to go home. I’m fuckin sick o this.
—Just turn on the telly. Don’t mind him.
Paula shrugs the duvet up over her head and turns away from me. A thin strip o light from the gap in the curtain’s cuttin through the murk. It’s Sunday so Teresa’s in the bed as well; there’s a bit o her hair stickin out from under the duvet.
—Have you heard anythin from Maggit recently? I say.
—No.
—Have we any dogfood?
—No. Dogfood? No.
—They’re takin me car on me.
—The gardaí? I’m not fuckin surprised, Denny. Yiv no insurance.
—It’s gypsies. Cos o Maggit.
I hold up the pup, like he proves somethin. Like he’s evidence o the gravity o what’s happenin. —Lookit, I say.
Paula’s wildhaired and bleary-eyed head pops out from under the duvet.
—What’s that?
—A dog for fuck sake. Lookit. A puppy. A gyppo told me to give it to Maggit. Is that some kind o mafia thing, would yeh say?
Paula yawns with one eye open. —He’s lovely.
—I’m not askin yeh if … yeah, well. Pajo can look after him. I’m callin round to him now and yer mate better be off the sofa when I get back. Ninja Warrior’s on soon.
*
I stick the puppy in under me jacket and hurry out to the car and then hurry back cos I forgot to turn off the grill and then back out again. In and out like a blue-arsed fly, me ma used to say. I hop in the car and cut through the estates to St Marks and pull up outside the house. I leave the puppy yappin on the backseat and haul the bag o Pajo’s chickenfeed out o the boot. Weighs a fuckin ton, tellin yeh. I hoist it up into me arms like a fireman carryin some unconscious child (conked out by smoke inhalation, I assume) and take two steps before feelin a shootin pain in me back. The chickenfeed slips out o me arms and hits the ground with a dull whump.
I pull the cigarettes out o me jeans and light one up and stand there like a hunchback at the garden gate, smokin in the lingerin snow and rubbin me spine. Definitely somethin wrong with it. I take a huge drag and flick away me cigarette and hobble to the door and knock.
No answer.
I look at me watch and it’s half eleven. A young woman with a red scarf scurries from her garden and across the green, her hands in her pockets and her head down, like somethin from a Christmas card.
I knock again, then stand back and grab a little loose chunk o concrete and lob it carefully at the front bedroom window, a little shootin pain hoppin up me spine. The concrete clumps against the glass and I catch it on the way down and lob it back up. There’s a shuffle behind the curtains. I knock again and I can hear footsteps on the stairs and then there’s a blurry shape shamblin towards me. The shape fumbles at the door. It’s Pajo. His hair’s plastered to one side of his head and his eyes are sunk and red. He’s topless and scrawny and wearin a pair o Glasgow Rangers shorts. He smiles and yawns and scratches his shoulder.
—Mornin, he says.
—Heya. What’s with the shorts?
Pajo shrugs. —Just shorts, Denny.
—Rangers, though?
—Lettin me skin breathe.
—Lettin yer skin breathe?
—Yeah. I saw it, like. On some telly thing. Like, some lifestyle thing or somethin. American I think, on MTV.
—Is Maggit in?
Pajo blinks and rubs his eyes. —No. He’s, like, down the country I think. Wanna come in out o the snow?
I point back up at the gate. —Drag that in for us, it’s for the chickens. And I have a present for yeh in the car.
Pajo looks at the feed. —Deadly. I only had Monster Munch for them yesterday, Shawn nearly choked.
—I’ll stick the kettle on, I say, and squeeze past him and into the hall. Pajo’s huggin himself in the doorway, grinnin. He looks dead happy and excited. Easily pleased, Pajo. I hand him the car keys.
—And I have a story and a fuckin half for yeh as well, I say. — Yer not gonna believe it.
*
Maggit and Pajo get their house for free, practically, cos neither o them are workin and Pajo’s on some kind o disability thing cos o the methadone programme he’s on. They’ve lived here for a few years now. It’s hard to imagine Pajo and Maggit separately, even with all their differences. Their house is actually fairly well kept, which is kind of embarrassin when I think o mine and Paula’s. There’s a photo o Pajo and Maggit as young kids, their da behind them, on the mantelpiece, back when they were just Patrick and Colm, standin in front o the school. Even then, though, Pajo’s smilin and Maggit’s scowlin.
Pajo’s sittin on the sofa with the puppy on his lap and the day’s first joint between his teeth, grinnin away like a big kid. The puppy’s sittin still and starin at him, its head tilted, sussin out the skinny greenhaired giant above him. I told him about the gypsies and Maggit and the car but I probably should o waited to give him the puppy till after cos that’s all he seems to care about.
—He’s deadly, isn’t he? he says. —Lookit him, Denny.
—I see him, yeah. He’s cool. D’yeh want him so?
—Course I do. Yeah.
I flick through the stations and sip at me tea. It’s scaldin, like: not enough milk in it. I leave on Takeshi’s Castle cos Ninja Warrior’s on after it. I wasn’t really into Ninja Warrior when I first seen it but it’s grown on me. Not that I’m particularly in the mood for watchin telly now, though; since I actually related the tale to Pajo I’m becomin more and more aware that a gypsy is just after tellin me to hand over me car to him.
—What’ll we do, Pajo?
Pajo looks up at me and scratches his wispy beard. Sucks his teeth and says nothin.
—No ideas at all? I say.
—Not really sure, Denny. Em. Yeh should probably, like … well … should yeh not just give them the car? Yeh can get another one.
—Sure I haven’t even given Gino the full whack yet. He’ll still want the rest of it so I’ll be payin for fresh fuckin air, like. Don’t fuckin think so.
—Yeh don’t wanna cause trouble, Denny. Yeh –
—I didn’t cause any trouble though, did I? Why should I have to give it away, it’s stupid.
—Yeah, I know. Pajo strokes the puppy absentmindedly and the puppy chews on his finger. He pushes his flop o hair back over his head. —Wha can yeh do though, Denny? Gypsies, man. That’s hardcore. They’re, like, a mystical race.
—Mystical Pajo? Gerra grip, will yeh?
—Well. I wouldn’t mess with them, anyway. That’s bigstyle, Denny. That’s … like, significantly over our heads.
—I rang Maggit a few times this mornin and all I got was the message box. Will you ring him?
—He won’t answer me Denny, yeh know he won’t. He’ll suss that yer after puttin me up to it.
I sink back into the chair. —This is a joke.
—Chill, Denny. Cool yer boots, man. Don’t get stressed.
I sip at me tea again and look at Pajo and the puppy, Pajo small-lookin amongst the big threadbare cushions, the puppy curled up on his lap.
—I know, Pajo. I know it’s not the end o the fuckin world or anythin. But I’d be lost without t
he car now, yeh know? It’s cool havin the bit o freedom.
Pajo smiles at me. —It’ll be alright, Denny. We’ll sort somethin. Then he leans in and winks at the puppy. —I’m gonna call yeh Ignatius, after Doctor Keen, he says, and then squeals as the puppy hops up and bites him on the tip o the nose.
THE GIFT OF FAR SIGHT
I turn into a sheltered patch o gravel at the side o the road and stop the car. Mental fuckin weather today, the trees and bushes at the roadside tossin like mad. It’ll be near gale force later on, yer woman on RTE said. I hit the stop button on the tapedeck and Cohen’s voice warps and dies mid-sentence. I’ve had to make a load o mix tapes cos there’s no CD player in the car. Dunno why I put Leonard Cohen on this one. The sky is huge above the trees, heavy with fat, throbbin clouds. No rain forecast, although there could be more snow apparently. I grab me beanie and stick it on and slip the whiskey bottle into me pocket and hook me fingers round the strap o me Adidas bag, all bulgy and weighed down with books and teabags and I open the door and duck out o the car. I zip me jacket chin-high and a small white car zooms past, the head of a pudgy baldy bloke barely pokin above the wheel. The car glides round the bend I just turned off and back towards Dublin. I stick me hands in me pockets and head on up the road, me jeans snappin in the wind. There’s a rustle in the bushes beside me and a squawk somewhere within the tangle o branch and twig, some tiny secret act o violence I suppose. Somethin dyin to feed somethin else’s kids. There’s a gate somewhere along here. Can’t be too sure with these oul bockedy country back roads. Not that Balbriggan’s really in the countryside. Well, not anymore, anyway. It was always in Dublin but now Dublin city’s seepin out and suckin all the little villages and fields and hills and back roads into its giant smoky gob. Progress, yeh know? The Celtic Tiger and wha have yeh. Tell yeh wha though, that Celtic fuckin Tiger’s the one endangered animal I’d happily put a bullet into. Prosperity me bollix. For Bertie Ahern and his mates, maybe.
The clouds are huge and purple-black. It’s only five but it’s gettin dark already. A crow squawks and darts overhead and I kick the gravel, pebbles scatterin and clatterin in front o me. Thick smell o country grass and all manner o stale dry animal shite. A gust o icy wind sets me teeth knockin and through a gap in the bushes I can see a wide lumpy field with a cow standin in the middle, its fat arse and swishy tail. It raises its big heavy head towards me but I’m gone already. Where’s this gate? Been that long since I’ve been here, yeh know? I’m probably miles off. Bleedin freezin, as well. Should o worn me combat jacket, not this flimsy little yoke. Dunno wha the fuck I was thinkin. I stop and then step out into the road and look back at the car, small and sheltered in the distance.
Still haven’t heard from Maggit. The gyppos haven’t been back either though, thank fuck. Yer man Franno was probably just tryin to shit me up. Hope so, anyway.
Have to say, it’s great havin the wheels. I mean, yeah, it’s an oul banger, barely fuckin roadworthy, but it’s nice to be able to hop in and just, like, drive. Get out o the house, yeh know? Been drivin all over Dublin. Have to keep an eye out for the garda, though, cos o the tax and insurance. I was in Skerries yesterday, me and Ned and Sinead. Hadn’t been there since I was a kid. Bit cold, like, but it was good. Saw a seal as well. I think it was a seal, anyway. Ned said it was a dead scuba diver for a laugh and Sinead gave him a look.
Fuck this. I’m goin another five hundred yards and that’s that. Don’t wanna leave the car too far off, like. Can’t have me little jaunt turnin all American Werewolf in Dublin.
Yes. There it is thank fuck. The little bandy wooden gate set back into the wall o bushes. The lock chatterin in the wind, a big black puddle underneath and beyond a wide uneven field o muck and horseshite and crabgrass and set right at the opposite end, smudgy and far off, me uncle Victor’s caravan. There’s a faint yellow light in the window, a beacon to vagabonds and cold, wanderin nephews. I shoulder the Adidas bag and blow into me hands and rub them together and stick me left one on the top rung o the gate and vault over in one quick and grunty motion.
*
I was about ten and me ma and uncle were sittin outside me uncle’s caravan, laughin. I was inside and I remember this gorgeous sunlight streamin in from the windows. That gorgeous sunlight and a cracked yellow mug and a bowl and spoon and oil spittin from the pan on me uncle’s stove.
Me ma and uncle talkin:
—I’ll tell yeh Kate it was dodgy for a while there but sure I sorted it in the end, no trouble at all.
—And is that it now, Victor? Finished?
A hint of amusement beneath the worry in me ma’s voice.
—Ah o course, saysVictor. —Finito. They were lucky I didn’t lose me temper.
—Blessed, I’d say.
I poked at the sizzlin fishfingers with a fork, teeterin on a low stool. There was a plate to me right and a horsefly was bangin against the window. I had to keep me eye on the horsefly — they were worse than moths for brainlessness.
—… you’ll be the one to lose out, Victor. Just be careful.
—Me? Sure I’m as careful as they come, Kate.
I forked one o the golden, drippin fishfingers and plonked it on the plate.
—… will he be OK in there?
—Ah o course, Kate. Sure it’s only fishfingers. A culinary genius like himself.
I cut the fishfinger in half with the fork. The meat was flaky and white. Steam risin. I thought I was deadly; the big man, makin the dinner. I skewered another one and placed it dead carefully beside the first.
—… a fierce-lookin fella altogether. Huge hands, he had. Yid wanna see these hands, Kate. Enormous they were, like a troll’s …
Then it was all fucked. I went for the last fishfinger and a little spot of oil hopped out o the pan and landed on the back o me hand. I hissed and put it to me mouth, suckin the scalded skin. It was burnin the fuck out o me, me eyes welled up and I lost me balance. The stool tipped beneath me and I went flyin, the caravan spinnin upside down and me head crackin against the edge o the little fold-out table.
I was knocked out for a few minutes. Away with the fairies. I had this mad dream, faces and voices and all sorts. I felt like I knew everythin all at once. That was the sensation I had, like I was filled with knowledge. I knew it all, everyone’s stories, everyone’s lives; how things’d work out, where language came from, what was at the heart o things. It was mad. When I woke up me ma was holdin me in her arms. Her eyes were blue and young and dead relieved. Me uncleVictor was watchin me from the corner. His eyes were hidden behind the glare in his glasses and there was an empty, greasy plate on his lap.
I told them about the dream and Victor sat up in his chair, settin the plate aside.
—Jaysis, he said. —D’yeh know wha, Kate? That’s the Salmon o Knowledge all over again. He shook his head and took off his glasses and went on to tell us the old myth; told us how Finnegas the poet had sat by the River Shannon for years and years, hopin to catch and eat the Salmon o Knowledge, the flesh o which was supposed to grant the eater this deep insight and wisdom. And how in the end young Fionn mac Cumhaill bollixed it all up on him; how, one day, Finnegas had to go off somewhere and so handed over the rod to Fionn, tellin him that if the Salmon bit while the old man was away, Fionn was to cook the fish but not to taste it. Definitely not to taste it. So Fionn says fair enough and sits by the river and sure enough he catches the Salmon while Finnegas is away. Fionn sets up a spit and cooks the fish and it’s all goin grand until Fionn notices this blister bubblin up on the fish. Can’t have that, he thinks, and pokes it with his thumb to burst it, which o course scalds the thumb off him and what does he do but stick his thumb in his mouth and suck it and hey presto — he’s tasted the fish and he gains all the knowledge and poor oul Finnegas gets fuck all.
Me uncle Victor took off his glasses and looked at me.
—The little bastard’s after robbin me lore, he said, grinnin and shakin his head. —The Fishfinger o Knowledge!
&nb
sp; *
I knock on the flimsy tinplated door and take a step back. I can hear shufflin and bangin inside. After a couple o seconds it goes quiet.
—Who is it?
—Denny.
There’s more commotion and then the door flaps open, clangin against the side o the caravan. Me uncle Victor’s standin there, tall and skinny in a raggedy housecoat. He squints through his sellotaped glasses and his thinnin black bootpolish hair dances in the wind. The big Village People moustache twitches and a yellowtoothed smile cracks his face.
—Ah Denny me best oul skin, I haven’t seen yeh in fuggin donkeys. Come in out o the cold and I’ll stick a suppa tay on for yeh. The bollix must be fuggin froze off yeh. Lookit the face on yeh yer blue as the dead.
—I’m grand, Victor. It’s not that bad.
Victor sets a slippered foot down onto his warped rubber welcome mat and grabs me by the shoulder and ushers me in.
—Ah no, Denny. That’s no weather to be out in. That’d freeze the shite in an Eskimo’s arse for Jaysis sake. Get in and I’ll stick on a hot suppa tay.
I squeeze past Victor and into the caravan and he slams the door shut and fires the bolt. I slump me bag onto the floor and pull the whiskey bottle out o me pocket.
—Here, I say.
Victor takes off his glasses and I hand him the whiskey. He peers at the label and shakes the bottle and grins. —Ah be Jaysis Denny yer the only man. Yer a grand youngfella Denny let no one tell yeh different. He tightens the cord round his housecoat and stumbles into the dark kitchen area. —I’ll get the glasses, he half says, half sings. —Yill have a drop yerself won’t yeh?
