Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  The cash register bleeps. I hand over the money and she places it in the till and hands me the twenty-cent change and nods and wipes the bar. I should have told her to just keep the twenty cent but it’s too late, if I gave it to her now it’d look like awkward charity rather than a tip. Someone with a bit o savvy, someone like Ned, would o been on the ball and the second she turned he would o held up his hand and said nah, it’s grand, and smiled. Although it’s only twenty cent so fuck it, like, I could be James fuckin Bond, a suave, debonair prick, and it’d still be a poxy, unworthy tip. Yeh couldn’t get a packet o Chickatees for twenty cent these days. All go in the Celtic Tiger, like.

  I turn and lean back against the bar and scan the pub while the Guinness is settlin. Ned’s already after gettin a round in and I said I didn’t want one, I’m drivin. But after lookin at the lads tuckin in I can’t help it. One for the road, as they say. There are a couple of oul lads in one o the booths, chattin away loudly. One o them starts laughin this big harsh brass laugh and his shoulders shuck up and down. There’s a giant cluster o warts on his cheek and he has small eyes, deep and pooled with memory. There’s a couple o pints o Guinness in front o them, with rings o froth at intervals above the inch or so o dark left at the bottom o the glasses. Sign of experienced Guinness men, them rings. Each one measurin a gulp, well formed and evenly spaced; another ritual I’m aware of but personally indifferent to. Badge of honour among these old-school boozehounds, though.

  I turn back to the bar and I can see the Chinese bargirl from three different angles because o the mirrors. She’s leanin against the till and without lookin directly at her I can see that’s she’s worryin over a tatty pad and she’s rubbin her earlobe like it’s part o some spell she’s castin to make wharrever bad sum she’s glarin at add up. I can see this in both profiles, left and right, and over her shoulder the back of her head and the red scrunchy that’s holdin up her hair, the tip of her ponytail dyed white. She catches me gaze and smiles and puts down the pad and biro, then tops up the Guinness and places the pint on the bar. I thank her and she smiles again and I take me drink away towards the back and wonder wha her voice sounds like.

  *

  Maggit’s sprawled out in the back room, a huge weary grin on his face. His long skinny legs are crossed, one giant laceless workboot on top o the other. His blue jumper sits snug on the beginnins of his beerbelly and the sleeves are rolled back to his elbows. The fucker looks exhausted and he raises his half-gone pint o cider to me and winks. Ned’s sat on the opposite side o the table with Pajo, and he smiles and gives me a mini-salute.

  —Fucker stole a march on us, says Ned. —Sneaked a few while he was waitin.

  Ned’s fingerless gloves are on the table, on top of a pile o newspapers. Pajo’s sittin beside him with Ignatius’s head pokin out o his jacket. I have to push the papers aside to make room for me pint. There’s a copy o the Daily Star flopped across Maggit’s lap.

  —Paper round?

  —Celebratin, says Maggit. —Fuckin deadly.

  Maggit hasn’t shaved in a while and his oversized ears are especially noticeable today cos he’s after gettin his head shaved. It was gettin fuzzy the last time I saw him but it’s dead short and bristly now. He keeps subconsciously pattin his skull with his non cider-holdin hand.

  —Looks nice, I say, lookin at his head.

  Maggit shrugs and looks kind o uncomfortable for a split second. Maggit can be weirdly sensitive when it comes to his looks. Especially his ears. They used to call him earoplane when we were kids. Jesus, the amount o scraps he got into over them ears. He’s always sayin, when he’s drunk, like, that he’s gonna get them pinned back, but I think admittin any ear-related abnormality while sober, even to himself, is too acute a pain for him to bear. And so the ears abide.

  Maggit sits forward, kind o hunched over his drink. After the momentary wobble over his haircut the smile’s back in place, a big wide grin showin teeth that are surprisinly well kept.

  —Fuckin Man U went out yesterday, didn’t they? he says. —Deadly. Readin all the post-match discussion while I’m havin me breakfast. There’s an article by Dunphy. And stupid Ferguson’s excuses as well. Fuckin delighted I am.

  —They’re out?

  I’m usually well up to speed on football but the past few days have been mental so I’ve completely lost track.

  —On their poxy arses. Deadly. I was out watchin it with a few heads last night. Some fuckin laugh, I’m tellin yiz. Went on a mad one after that. I’m fuckin wrecked, like. But yeh have to read the papers as well, that’s the icin on the cake. All the excuses and that.

  —Thought yeh were seein Bernadette?

  —Wha?

  —Were yeh not supposed to be seein Bernadette last night?

  Maggit looks into his pint. —Yeah, he says. —I did.

  —Everythin alright?

  —Yeah, grand.

  —How come yeh ended up out with the lads?

  —Ah, leave it Denny.

  —Yeh didn’t propose to her, did yeh? says Ned. Maggit eyes Ned.

  —Yeh didn’t, did yeh?

  —Yeah, says Maggit.

  —I’d say she jumped at the chance, did she? says Ned, winkin.

  Maggit places his pint on the table and looks at Ned. —Will you ever shut yer gob yeh mouthy cunt? Now yer ridin that posh slapper yer God’s gift, wha?

  —Leave it out Maggit, for fuck sake, I say. —He’s only messin.

  Maggit takes a big gulp of his cider, finishin it off. We sip at our drinks in silence for a minute or so.

  —Were yeh serious, Maggit, askin her? I say. I have to be careful, here, I don’t wanna annoy him. I mean, he’s a pain in the fuckin arse but still, I don’t wanna see him down.

  —Yeah, says Maggit, and to be honest I’m surprised I’m even gettin this much out of him. —I got a ring. I got it off a fella in Cork. That’s where I was when them poxy knacker fucks were hasslin yeh.

  —Yeh still that hung up on her?

  —I have a fuckin kid with her, Denny.

  —I know, yeah. But … doesn’t mean it’s gonna work, does it?

  Maggit shrugs. —No fuckin chance now, anyway. I dropped up to the house a few weeks ago, like, to talk to her. We went for a drink and that. I told her I was still into her. But then a few days ago she saw me with that knacker youngwan, Niamh, and that was it, fucked.

  —So yeh still proposed? Wha did yeh expect?

  —Don’t know. She’s a fuckin cunt, anyway. Does she expect me to believe she’s never been with a fella since we split up? She’s a fuckin hypocrite.

  —Yeah, but after yeh said yeh were still into her, like, she probably thought –

  —Ah, fuckin … just shurrup about it Denny. I’m not in the mood.

  I take a sup o me pint. Maggit’s fuckin deludin himself. There’s no way in hell Bernadette would ever o had him back, one way or the other. But he has an excuse now, a reason to be angry. The world makes sense again.

  —Nice pint, I say, noddin me head, even though it’s just that same smoky gloop. Just feel like sayin somethin positive, yeh know? Liftin the gloom.

  —Pulled it right, did she? says Ned, obviously completely uninterested one way or the other. He looks like he’s fumin after wha Maggit said about Sinead, and I don’t blame him. This is turnin into a total fuckin mess. But it’s Kasey’s funeral so fuck it, we have to go through with it.

  —Yeah, she did, I say, and I smack me lips to emphasise the point, like yeh see the oul lads do. —Grand.

  Maggit glances over at the bar. —Pulled right? I’d fuckin pull her right.

  Ned rolls his eyes.

  —Seriously, says Maggit. —Them fuckin Asians. See them on the internet? Tommy was showin me on his mobile a while ago. Fuck sake.

  —Wonders o modern technology, wha? says Ned. —The spread o information, the exchange of ideas. Meetin o cultures. Porn.

  —Hilarious, yeah. I didn’t put it there, did I? I only watched it. Mental stuff tho
ugh all the same. Them fuckin Asian youngwans, tellin yeh. Saw this video where about fifty chinky businessmen wank over this bird. Head to toe in spunk, like. I was … actually, there’s Triads holed up off Parnell Square, know that? Serious. Fuckin gang warfare; it was in the Herald. Put yer fuckin eyes out, them Chinese. Stick them in formaldehyde.

  Ned looks at me.

  —Fuckin chinks, like, says Maggit. —Tellin yeh. Near as many chinks over here now as there are fuckin Polish, swear to God. Breedin us fuckin out. Maggit fishes a packet o cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in his mouth.

  —Smokin ban, yeh sap, I say, and Maggit, shakin his head, sticks the cigarette back into the packet. —You fuckin losin it or wha? I say. —Gerra grip.

  —Fuckin country’s goin to shite, he says. He folds up the Daily Star and puts it on top o the pile o papers. He looks at me. —One more before we head, so? Your round, Pajo.

  *

  There are a few more tapes in the glove compartment o Kasey’s van — Kill ‘Em All by Metallica, Seasons in the Abyss by Slayer and Peace Sells … But Who’s Buying? by Megadeth. None of us are that mad into old-school thrash metal but I stick Kill ‘Em All on all the same, like a tribute to Kasey or somethin. The Four Horsemen blares from the tinny speakers, which is pretty appropriate I suppose.

  Fuckin weird oul thing, death, isn’t it? Hard to get yer head around, like. I remember readin somewhere that Mark Twain said there was no point in him fearin non-existence cos he hadn’t existed for millions o years before he was born; death is just more o the same. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not. Or if I wanna see life, existence, that way. Maybe things are more connected than that. I mean, stories, like — they don’t ever actually end, do they? They go on. All I know is that I still miss me ma. Does that ever get better? Does the sadness ever go? I don’t think it does, really; I think yeh just get used to it, maybe, over time. I hope so.

  —Pull over, says Ned.

  —Wha?

  —I’m gonna fuckin die if I don’t have a shite. Jesus. There’s a McDonald’s over there, look. Pull over. Quick.

  —Havin an oul McShit, wha? says Maggit.

  —Yep. Anyone stops me I’ll tell them I’m buyin five Big Macs after I’ve … relieved meself. Fuckin hell.

  Ned’s wincin. He looks round desperately.

  —That’s it. Oof. Jesus Christ I’m gonna fuckin gick me knickers. Wouldn’t touch that fuckin food if I was youse, lads. Jesus. Wait and I get me hands on that bastard Tommy. Tellin yiz, I’ll do fuckin time for the cunt. I’ll –

  Ned lets rip with a wet, spluttery fart.

  —Ah Jesus!

  —Yeh smelly prick!

  —Fuck youse, I can’t fuckin help it! Shoddy fuckin merchandise, like … fuckin Tommy … fuckin scammy bastard!

  THE HOUR OF OUR DEATH

  The priest is a fat Dubliner with a stammer and a thick black beard. Looks a bit like the da out o The Royle Family, that Scouser fella. He doesn’t walk, this priest, he waddles instead and he cups his belly in front of himself like yeh see pregnant women doin sometimes. I can smell the sweat off him from three rows back. Maggit’s been gettin more and more stressed listenin to him; I can feel the tension buildin, buildin.

  —It is a s-s-s-s-sad day when a mother and father outlive their s-s-s-s-suh-suh-son.

  Yid never get a priest with a speech impediment like this in Dublin. This is like a Father Ted sketch. I mean, I don’t wanna sound like I condone discrimination but when yer job entails public oration maybe it’s time to look elsewhere. It’s not so bad when he’s speakin on his own but when he’s leadin the mourners it’s a joke:

  —N-n-nuh-now and at the hour of our d-d-d-d-d-death …

  Ned looks at me and makes a face. Pajo’s away with the fairies and he doesn’t even notice. The whole church is stutterin the Our Father with the hapless priest, the mourners developin their own sympathetic, syncopated speech impediment. Sounds like a room o spazzos. Ned’s only just holdin the laughter in.

  — … Ay-ay-eh-eh-ay-ayyy-m-muh-muh-m-m-m-muh

  Maggit shakes his head, a look o disgust on his face.

  —… muh-muh-muh …

  —Ay-fuckin-men, says Maggit, loud enough that people in the rows around us can hear him. A fella in a too-big suit turns round and glares at us. Maggit steps out o the pew and walks along the aisle, his footsteps huge and clamorous. Ned whispers ‘sorry’ to the fella in front of us. Pajo stares at his boots. I look over at Kasey’s ma, her eyes ringed red and her face sunken and pale. She looks ancient although she’s only in her fifties, near enough the same age me own ma would be now. Kasey’s sisters are beside her, and his da, a tall fella with a slight belly and shaggy grey hair. None o Kasey’s sisters look like him.

  The rest o the funeral drags on. It seems perverse in a way, dawdlin over Kasey’s death, the fat, stuttery priest behind his altar eulogisin about him, even though he never knew him from Adam. So impersonal. I mean, I’m pretty sure Kasey didn’t believe in God, or not the God o the Bible at least, so what’s all this about? This is all for us really, isn’t it? The priest stutterin away, Jesus this and Mary that, the resurrection, the assumption. What’s it all about? I doubt anyone is even listenin. I can barely remember me ma’s funeral. I was standin there in the same suit I’m wearin now, standin and kneelin a split second after everyone else, takin me cue from others, Gino and Shane and me da quiet and dignified and me mad auntie Denise wailin and Paula beside me, tremblin, and I wanted to take her hand but I didn’t. I wish that I had.

  *

  —Ah ye’re very good lads, says Mrs Cassidy. She takes a sip from her vodka and orange and looks at each of us in turn, smilin and blinkin, then heads over to her daughters. Mr Cassidy’s up at the bar, gettin a ludicrously expensive round in. Not bein bad but I hope this isn’t a round we’re supposed to reciprocate; he’s after takin orders from at least twelve people, us included.

  Kasey’s ma and sisters are sittin to our left. They’re against the wall, behind a long, narrow table and all sat on the same side, oldest to youngest, like a graph showin the female Cassidy agein process.

  It’s the usual mix of post-funeral moods in the pub, some people in good form and others sombre, silent. Pajo looks like he’s a million miles away; hard to tell wha goes on in his head sometimes. Ned looks like he doesn’t know wha to look like, caught halfway between solemnity and the drunkenness which always puts him in a good mood. And I’m … well, hard to say, isn’t it? Don’t really know. I’m in conspiracy theory mode, here. I mean, did Kasey killin himself have anythin to do with the drugs he robbed?

  I hope I’m projectin a look that’s at least partway respectful and suitably morose. Hard to judge occasions like these, especially when, and I know this sounds bad as fuck, I don’t really feel anythin. Cept, at the moment, annoyed at Maggit. Which makes me feel like a bit of a fraud.

  That wasn’t on, Maggit stormin out like that. I mean, if he’d any time for Kasey in the first place I could allow for him feelin frustrated over that stuttery priest, but he didn’t, it was just pure selfishness, pure childishness. He hasn’t even turned up for the afters yet and he has his phone switched off. Fuck it, anyway; I’m not bothered.

  I take a gulp o me Guinness.

  —D’yiz wanna go out the back for a bit? I ask. —Wouldn’t mind a smoke.

  —Sound, says Ned.

  —Yeh alright Denny? says Pajo.

  —Yeah, grand. Yiz comin out?

  The two o them nod and we head for the back door.

  *

  It’s early evenin and the sun’s settin over the trees at the back o the pub. It’s nice enough, warmish and windless. Unusual for Donegal, I’d imagine. We’re sittin round a little rough-hewn wooden table, our drinks in front of us, suited and booted and uncomfortable as fuck.

  —No word from Maggit? I say to Pajo.

  He shakes his head.

  —Fuckin arsehole, I say. And I mean it. Me head’s done in with tha
t prick.

  —We could leavim here, says Ned, smilin. —Leavim stranded.

  We sup at our pints and Pajo and me light up. I’m tired. The Guinness is goin down nicely though. I need a piss but I don’t wanna go back inside yet. I can hear the odd car passin on the other side o the pub, and the hubbub o the mourners from the open windows. I down the last third o me Guinness.

  —Dyin for a piss, says Pajo, makin a face.

  —And me, I say. —Don’t wanna go back in yet though.

  —I’m gonna go in them trees there, says Pajo. —Keep an eye out, will yiz? Don’t want any, like, ladies or anythin to see me. Seems kinda –

  —G’wan, says Ned. —We’ll give yeh a shout.

  Pajo stubs out his cigarette and stands up. He smoothes his slightly too-small trousers and nods and heads over to the trees. He turns back as he’s standin under the shadow o the little wood and waves, the sky pink above him, then ducks under the lowhangin branches and disappears. The little stupid wave makes me think o Pajo as a kid, and I can see it so clearly it actually makes me feel … I dunno. Us watchin the wrestlin as kids. Me cheerin for The Undertaker and Pajo mad for Bret Hart. Pajo as a ten year-old for a second … seems like … ah, it’s mad, isn’t it? Tick tock, tick tock. He’s barely changed since I first knew him. I mean yeah there’s the drugs and that, the gear, but he’s still the same. Too fuckin delicate for this world.

  —D’yeh think he’ll be OK? I say.

  Ned looks at me. He scratches his cheek. —He’ll be grand.

  —No, like, I meant, in general. With the –

  —I know wha yeh meant. He’ll be grand, Denny. Doesn’t need you worryin about him, anyway. No one does. Yiv yer own troubles.

  I take a deep drag and blow the smoke out slowly.

  —Will you be OK, more to the point? says Ned.

  —Will I … ?

  —Just … how’s things with yeh, like?

  I tap me cigarette. —Not bad, I say.

  —Yeah?

  —Yeah. Well. Could be better, like.

  —D’yeh think about her much?

  —Loads.