Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  *

  They’re still here the next mornin, the fire burned to glowin embers and the new sun swellin up from the Irish Sea below us, immense and pale.

  Most o them are immigrants. Oren, the fiddle player, is from Israel. He’s in his fifties and he’s wearin loosefittin, shapeless clothes, in reds and purples and deep oranges. His beard and ponytail are streaked with grey. Wojtek, Magda and Lukasz are Poles workin in Ireland to pay for apartments and college fees back home. Shavo’s a zookeeper from Armenia. His eyes are nearer black than brown and his dark, curly hair bounces minutely when he speaks. He’d been in charge of an ancient brown bear in Yerevan zoo, a bear whose health we must o toasted a dozen times last night. There’s even a few Irish; two brothers from Donnybrook (Nik and James; both young and redheaded, both baldin) and the djembe player, Linda (she looks foreign but she’s only from Lucan, not far up the road from me). They’re in a band.

  The fire’s smoulderin away, charred branches pokin from the embers, gnarled and blackened and bonelike. We sit in a circle and watch the fire. I’m fuckin exhausted but happy, like I used to feel after I came home from a day’s graft on the sites; wrecked but content, me body gorgeously, languidly floppy, the bones loose and nearly oozy. I don’t even have a hangover, which is unusual for me; not a jellyfish in sight.

  The Hellfire Club looms up behind us, thick with history, covered in lichen and graffiti. Lovely view, like, in the mornin. Pajo’s sittin next to me on a tasselled blanket, his eyes red-rimmed. Maggit’s still asleep; he never stirred. Sinead and Ned made their way home about an hour ago, the two o them lookin dishevelled but happy enough. Ned’s a gentle enough fella anyway but when he’s around Sinead he’s even more so, like he’s scared she’ll crack. Pajo kicks a branch towards the fire. Nik and James are sittin on a log, Nik holdin Oren’s violin to his ear and pluckin at the strings. Magda and Lukasz are asleep, Magda’s head on Wojtek’s lap, Wojtek twinin her blonde hair round his index finger. Oren sits and smokes a thin cigar. Linda’s sittin next to Andriy, the gypsy gesticulatin wildly as he speaks, his voice low and musical. Somethin about Australia, I think, somethin about the aborigines, some custom o theirs he’d fallen comically foul of. Linda laughs with her hand on her mouth.

  He’s a fuckin looper, this Andriy fella; proper fuckin head-the-ball. Even in the light o mornin he seems a bit unreal, a serial illegal immigrant out to make the world drink and dance, then puke like dogs. I vaguely remember him lecturin earlier this mornin on the empowerin nature o disbelief, sayin that, among other things, he doesn’t believe in God, borders or drinkin wine from glasses. Apparently, by disbelievin in God, he becomes one himself, as the pinnacle of evolution; by disbelievin in borders, he’s a citizen of the world and everywhere is home; and, regards the wine glass thing, it’s the bottle or fuck-all, and by that reasonin hobos and down-and-outs are more worthy than kings. Sound by me, like; less washin up. He’s wearin a close-fittin military jacket with the sleeves rolled up, a bracelet o coloured beads on his left wrist. His black jeans are frayed at the ends and his canvas runners are scuffed. His eyes have that strange Slavic quality, by turns madly alive and comic and then suddenly distant, the irises like pearls or somethin, swelled over generations from the harsh, raw grit of Balkan history. Magda, Wojtek and Lukasz are the same. Andriy’s fuckin moustache is a bit much, though; handlebars on a fella that can’t be more than a year or two older than meself is a definite no-no.

  I like them though, this gang of oddballs. I think it’s the sheer force o their determination to enjoy wharrever the fuck they’re doin. I hadn’t really realised that I’ve stopped doin that meself, that I’ve let meself drift so fuckin far, let meself get so fuckin stuck. Yeah, I’m out drinkin with me mates and that, but there’s, like … a desperation or somethin to it. I’m runnin and gettin nowhere at the same time. I mean, wha am I doin with me life? I went to Wales cos I was feelin how I’m feelin right now … fuckin … like, aimless or wharrever. I remember feelin, when I first left for Wales, that I was in control. And I feel anythin but in control now.

  —Yeh hungry Denny? says Pajo. Pajo’s taken off his jacket and he’s sittin with his arms out slightly from his body, his palms flat on the ground. The broad tips of his big, crusty boots are pointin at the sky, twitchin slightly to some unheard beat.

  —Yeah, a bit. Are you?

  —Kinda. Here, I think there’s a few bars in me bag. Snickers or somethin. Hang on.

  He stands up and brushes down his jeans. He walks over to the Club, disappearin into the dark.

  The sunrise is gorgeous, the sun and the water and the city below us. The sea stretchin beyond sight, grey and smudgy at the horizon.

  Pajo comes back with his bag, followed by a wary-lookin Maggit. Maggit eyes the unfamiliar faces round the fire and sits beside me and Pajo. Pajo hands me a Mars Bar.

  —No Snickers, he says.

  —Thanks Paj.

  I was never a big Mars fan but I wolf it. Starvin to fuckin death here, like. The sun’s warmin me shoulders. Nik, the sun glintin off the oddly-placed bald spot near the top of his head, saws a horrible, squealin note from Oren’s violin. Oren winces and laughs softly.

  —Jesus, says Nik. —Sorry about that lads.

  We sit there for a while longer, chattin away. The sun nearly sends me to sleep; Pajo nudges me and I jump. There’s a line o crows on the roof o the Club, squawkin away, utterly black against the clean mornin sky. Maggit throws a stone up and they fly, feathers tumblin.

  —Yeh could o hit one o them, says Pajo.

  Maggit shrugs.

  *

  We pack up, Oren kickin dirt over the fadin embers o the fire. Shavo collects the rubbish and stuffs it into a plastic Aldi bag. Linda slings the djembe over her back. She has a real nice way about her. She was in another world last night while she was playin, proper gettin into it. I couldn’t really say anythin to her when she was like that, though. Seems kind o intrusive or somethin.

  We make our way down Montpellier Hill, James (or Nik; it’s hard to tell at a distance) slippin and slidin on his arse, rippin a hole in his jeans. There isn’t room in the van for me and Maggit and Pajo. We could o squashed two of us in but we decide to make our own way home. I exchange phone numbers with them, then Andriy slaps me on the back and winks, before pullin me to him and givin me a firm, brisk hug.

  —Remember, my friend; through the fucking roof.

  Then he winks again, bows, and hops into the van. Wojtek heaves the door shut and the van pulls off, crunchin through the gravel.

  —Wha did yeh think o them loopers? says Maggit.

  —I thought they were alright. Did you not? I thought they were sound.

  Maggit shrugs and spits into the dust, then starts the long walk home.

  *

  When we reach Tallaght we drop into a greasy spoon and I eat two breakfasts. Maggit eats two and a half. Pajo’s supposed to be a vegetarian but he scarfed down a few sausages with his cereal and toast.

  —Sure, Srila Rupa Gosvami wouldn’t begrudge me a decent breakfast.

  I’m impressed he got all that out without chokin on his bran flakes.

  —Who the fuck is that? says Maggit. —Some holy fuckin gobshite I suppose.

  —He, like, wrote the stuff that A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Praphupada translated. In ancient times or wharrever. Years ago, anyway.

  —Do you practise them names?

  —Yeah.

  I stuff an egg, sausage, rasher and white puddin sandwich into me mouth. Maggit shakes his head and gulps at his tea.

  *

  I say see yiz to Maggit and Pajo and hop off the 76 on the Neilstown Road. Dyin for a piss, like: too much tea. I trudge across the green, skirtin the huge blackened patch where the kids had their Halloween bonfire, and whack the garden gate until it opens.

  I stick me head into the sittin room. Paula and Teresa are asleep on the sofa, Paula’s legs stickin out under a pink duvet. It’s still only early by their standards, about twelve. T
here’s a girl with studs in her nose and ears asleep on the armchair, her huge boots propped up on the coffee table, and a small, thin fella — he only looks about eighteen — conked out on the floor, an overfilled ashtray inches from his snoozin, droolin head.

  I hop up the stairs three at a time and push at the bathroom door. It doesn’t open, though; there’s somethin blockin it. I push against it with me shoulder, slowly -there might be someone asleep in there, which wouldn’t be that unusual, especially since Paula had people over last night. I get it open enough so I can squeeze in sideways, which is to say it’s not open that much at all cos I’m a skinny prick. In future I’m gonna –

  Fuck.

  Fuckin fuck fuck fuck.

  Jesus it’s Kasey. Oh fuck. He’s on the ground and his legs are up against the door. His face is blue. He’s topless and fuckin hell fuck this fuck this his eyes are open. His nipples small and dark. The ridges of his ribs. There’s an empty pill bottle in the sink, and pills semi-dissolved, small bubbly masses, by the slow drippin o the warm water tap. I hear a car startin outside, a crow cawin. Someone’s mobile ringin downstairs. Paula’s, a polyphonic version o The Simpsons theme tune.

  Fuck this. Fuck this.

  I back out and walk to me bedroom and sit on the swivel chair, next to the window. I pick up the wastepaper basket and set it on me lap. Then up come me breakfasts in a thick hot stew.

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

  First off please believe that I am very sorry for all the trouble I have caused. I know that I have been a worry to my mother and to my sisters. Whats Kasey up to? Is he OK? Etc. It must have been hard having a mad eejit like me on your minds all the time. I dont want to be a worry anymore. I want to go out while Im on top (joke). I miss Jackie and maybe I will see her again on the other side. Its supposed to be great in heaven but maybe they wont let me in. Im a good liar although I suppose St Peter is used to the likes of me waffling on. “Yes yes, I saved a bus of nuns and orphans from falling off a cliff, that was me.” Etc. In heaven they probably have lie detectors like the Jeremy Kyle show though, which are 96% accurate. We’ll see.

  Anyway. Live long and prosper.

  I love you ma, da, Sorcha, Gillian, Elise and Sarah. I hope you knew all along.

  PS. Please take my van, Denzerino. I dont know if this is legally binding but the keys are on the window ledge. It should make up for the car. Make sure you give it a good clean.

  PPS. I’ll give you a shout Pajo and tell you what its like.

  KC

  THE SAME OUL TORTURE

  I park the van up by the flats and walk through the rain. Dunno where I’m headin. Just wanted to get out. Been awake for two nights on the trot. We started in one o Paula’s friend’s houses in town, then made our way back to someone’s gaff out towards Portmarnock and then back to ours. I’m knackered but I know I won’t sleep, I popped a few o Pajo’s pills last night and I feel … I dunno, I just keep walkin, wanderin. On and on. I fuckin hate this feelin. This has to stop, man. This really has to fuckin stop.

  Jesus.

  Past net cafes and pubs and Dr Quirky’s, the statue o Jim Larkin to me left, rain splashin on his broad shoulders, his arms lifted to the sky, implorin a proletariat that no longer gives a fuck to rise up, make a stand, be counted. I turn down Middle Abbey Street and look in the window o Chapters for a couple o minutes and then head for Liffey Street. Past the Hags with the Bags and the Woollen Mills and a fella with no shoes huddled in a doorway, sleepin, head back, his hands on his knees, the soles of his feet black. I stop at the promenade for a while, watchin the rain on the Liffey. Town is completely different when it’s rainin. Dead empty, dead still. I light up a cigarette and lean against the low wall and watch. Watch the river, the rain, the grey sky. The far off sound of a busker. Me body slowly pulsin, thumpin, breathin, heavin.

  Slowin down.

  *

  I step out o the rain and into the church hallway, then into the church proper and the place expands above me, the roof like the ribcage o some huge beast and the few people here silent on the pews, the altar a huge and ornate configuration at the front, draped with cloth and decked with candles. Smell of incense and damp clothes. I cut through the pews and head for the side door, the one that leads upstairs to the tea room, a little place above the church for the Holy Joes to have a bit o cake and a natter. Great for penniless pricks like me. I feel like a pilgrim with me hood still up so I throw it back and shake the rain off o me jacket as I wind me way up the stairs. Whitewashed walls and concrete, echo-y steps. Little leaflets and posters tacked up, kids’ drawins and stuff for the scouts and jumble sales. Then through the door at the top and into the tea room.

  Me phone rings as I step inside and I have a quick look. It says UNKNOWN NUMBER. Bollix to that, like; I hate answerin the phone when I don’t know who it is. It might be Shane callin from work or somethin. I stick it back in me pocket and dig out a couple euro and get in line behind a couple of old women. Somethin about this place. All this faith. The oulwan in front o me lifts up one o the glass covers and takes a caramel slice and her hand is all spotty. Might have one o them meself. The caramel slices, like; not the hand. And only one sixty as well. Or one o them little scones.

  I lift up the cover and plop two scones onto a saucer. The oulwan in front o me dips into her handbag and pays for her stuff and then turns and smiles at me and heads for her table. Somethin behind her smile, though. Not sure wha.

  —I’ll just have these, I say to yer man who’s servin. He’s a strange-lookin fella, big-faced, kinda like a cross between Sam Allardyce and a harmless, Jim Henson troll. Young, as well. Eyes big and unblinkin. Bit slow, like, I think.

  —Would you like a drink, sir? he says.

  —Actually, yeah. Sorry. A tea, please. Milk and no sugar.

  He smiles, then looks up at some hidden price list above him and mouths a sum. So strange, this fella; so odd and serene.

  —Two euro and ten, sir, he says.

  —Cool. Thanks.

  I hand him the money and he counts it and I smile and nod and take me tray and head for the table in the far corner, the one beside the little stained-glass window. Great spot, this. I plonk down the tray and stir me tea and the sound o the rain on the glass is gorgeous, tiny tributaries weavin and warpin behind the reds and blues of angels and saints. I take a gulp o me tea, cut and butter me scones. The hubbub o hushed conversation, rain on the window. I poke at a stray currant on me saucer. The walls are old, here; old ornate walls made of a dark and dull wood. Probably oak but I don’t know anythin about wood. Failed fuckin woodwork at school, like.

  I sit and watch the old people eat and talk. I can’t believe Kasey’s dead. I can see him, curled up on the tiles in the bathroom. Dead. After I gave me statement the bangharda asked me if I needed to see someone, to talk things over. A shrink, like. Nah, I said. I’m grand. It was nice of her to ask, I suppose.

  I finish me tea and buy another one, yer man still smilin and when I’m back in me seat I take a peek over at him and he’s more troll-like than ever. Not slaggin or anythin. Just the way he looks, a dark shape in his hole in the wall, an outcast troll from somewhere gone or never there. Some mad and storied place.

  I’m takin a gulp o me tea when Tommy Power comes up the stairs. Never would’ve expected to see someone like Tommy in a place like this, which is part o the reason I’m here. The collar of his bomber jacket is right under his chin and his thinnin brown hair’s plastered to his forehead. Not in the humour of him, to be honest. He clocks me straightaway though, and nods and winks and grabs some cake and a mug o tea and pays and comes back over, soaked and grinnin.

  —How’s things, Den?

  —Grand, Tommy. Yerself?

  —Not too bad. Cept for the bleedin rain.

  An oulwan a few tables over shoots us a look. Tommy doesn’t notice.

  —Oul cheapo cake, wha? he says.

  —It’s nice.

  —And the bleedin head on yer man over there. Fu
ckin Bo’ Selecta, like.

  —Wha yeh up to? I say.

  —Just off work. I’ve to meet me missus in here in a few minutes.

  I take another sip o me tea.

  —Isn’t it fuckin terrible about Kasey all the same? says Tommy.

  —It’s sad, yeah.

  —I’d be headin down with yiz for the funeral meself only I’d be hung by the bollix if I was off the scene for a few days. Where’s this the funeral is, up the North isn’t it?

  —Donegal.

  —Donegal. That’s right. Nah, too much on down here, Denny. I know that sounds bad, but sure wha can yeh do? I’m up to me bollix.

  —Don’t worry about it.

  —When is it?

  —Not for a while. Next week.

  —His poor ma, like. Doesn’t he have sisters and that as well?

  —Four, I think. Pajo was sayin.

  Like yeh give a fuck, Tommy. I suddenly feel offended. Kasey’s time on earth has come and gone and hardly anyone’s noticed or cared. I know that’s obvious and there’s millions like him but I’d never really thought about it, not properly. I needed promptin from a shithead like Tommy to realise it.

  —Lot o fuckin tears there, says Tommy —Lot o fuckin tears. He shakes his head. —Can yeh smoke in here?

  —Wha d’you think?

  —Yeah, suppose. Here, yeh workin yet?

  —Nah.

  —Yeh lookin for a job?

  —Ehhh … dunno.

  —They’re lookin for people down my way. Easy few bob, Den.