by Trevor Byrne
*
There’s an air o sadness about Seán as he locks the place up, and after he’s stumbled upstairs we sit outside for a while, by the van. It’s gettin bright now, the sky turnin purple and the sea emergin from the dark, the first mornin light caught in the waves. Pajo and the short-haired girl are sittin beside each other. She’s got faint tattoos on her arms, thin bluish lines interweavin. Ned’s snorin away, his mouth open, lyin on his back in the gravel, absolutely stinkin o the booze he’s spilled over his shirt and jacket. The others are all sittin or hunkered down, weary but content. The dreadlocked girl (and wha a fuckin joke this is, why don’t I just ask her her name?) is sittin between me and Maggit again. It’s gettin a bit weird now, this seatin arrangement thing, but fuck it. I can feel Maggit willin me to get up and fuck off but there’s no chance, I’m stayin here. Fuckim, like.
We swap stories and sip bottles o beer and cider. I tell them about the campin trip in Wicklow, the gardaí and the sheep and the money in Pajo’s boot. Everyone laughs and the dreadlocked girl squeezes me arm. I can tell by lookin at Maggit that he’s not happy but I press on anyway, tellin them about the upside-down car, and Andriy, and Wales. That and a half-dozen other stories. I catch meself thinkin — is that really how it happened? Did I say that? Did Pajo, or Maggit? Who knows. This follows that follows this, and the world abides, makes sense. The dreadlocked girl squeezes me hand and God, it’s such a nice feelin. Her touch and warmth. Her smell. And then Dermot nods and says that he’s got one.
—Tell me this now, boys and girls, he says. —Do ye believe in the wee folk?
—I do, says Pajo, kind o sheepishly.
—After ten bloody whiskies we do, anyway! says the short-haired girl beside him, slappin him on the thigh. Pajo grins and blinks.
—That’s as well so, because I don’t want to give any of ye Dubliners nightmares. If ye believe in the wee folk already then well and good. But I never believed. Never. I’d always be gettin off me nan and granda, Dermot, don’t go out near the fairy rings at such and such a time, and stay off such and such a field and what have ye, there’s pookas and spirits abroad. Me arse, I says. I’m a man o the world, nan; I’ve been to Thailand, I’ve seen ladyboys, I’ve seen fuckin NewYork, I’ve no time for fuckin leprechauns and bloody banshees. So anyway, one mornin I’m on me way home from this very establishment, after a good long session not unlike tonight’s, slaughtered on whiskey and pills and I’m well gone so I am, when, back in the village, what do I see outside Mulligan’s newsagents, only a fuckin wee sprite! Tellin ye! So much for me fuckin worldly ways, what? There she was, a wee sprite, peepin out between the gaps in the railings! Funny little eyes and a sad, doleful face. Well fuck me, I says, and I start goin over in me head what me nan and granda used to tell me. Thing was, I couldn’t remember what ye’re supposed to do, what rituals and such to protect yerself, so I took off me jacket and I was gonna throw it over the wee thing’s head, bring it back home and show me nan, ask her about it, when out of the shop comes a woman and says come on now, Áine, we’re goin, yill be late for school. So the little sprite ambles over to the woman and she scoops her up and sticks her into a car parked by the side of the road.
Dermot stops for effect and looks out at his audience. I already know what’s comin next. I glance at Maggit and he’s pretendin to be inspectin his nails. Why I gave the fucker the benefit o the doubt in Wicklow that time I’ll never know.
—Turns out the so-called fuckin sprite’s a wean with Down syndrome! I hurried the fuck off thankin me lucky stars I never stuck the jacket on her! Can ye imagine? Done for fuckin molestation or child abuse or somethin! So let that be a lesson to ye — don’t believe in fuckin wee people!
Some o the crowd laugh and some look a bit uncomfortable. Maggit gets up and wanders off up the beach.
—Jesus, lighten up! says Dermot, and he takes a swig from his already empty bottle o beer.
*
I’m just slippin into sleep in a patch o beach grass when Pajo shakes me shoulder. I open me eyes. The others are all sprawled out, sleepin. The girl with the dreads is asleep beside me. I don’t remember lyin down. She looks gorgeous. Her jacket’s open now and I can see in the growin mornin light that she’s wearin a Bret Hart T-shirt, with ‘The Pink and Black Attack’ written across it. Fuckin hell. A girl who likes wrestlin. I have to slowly pull me arm out from under her. I stand up, me legs like jelly.
—What’s up? I say.
—C’mere, says Pajo.
—Wha?
—Just c’mere.
Pajo starts off back towards the van. I follow him, me body floppy and deadened by tiredness. Have a massive headache comin on, as well. This one’s gonna be a killer. I stumble through the sand and up the wooden steps and back to the yard. The pub’s dark against the mornin sky. Pajo’s standin by the open door o the van, on the driver’s side.
—Wha? I say.
—Look. I was tryin to get the seats down, like. Tryin to see if I could make somewhere to sleep or wharrever, cos o me back. Me back’s at me now cos o me knee. Ned said I’m probly overcompensatin so me back’s –
—Jesus, Pajo. OK. Get on with it.
Pajo reaches under the seat. He fumbles round then pulls out a see-through bag filled with white powder. He hands it to me. I weigh it up in the palms o me hands, bouncin it. It’s heavy. Dead fuckin heavy.
—There’s loads o them, says Pajo. —On the other side as well. What’ll we do?
—Fuckin hell …
—What’s up then, lads?
I turn round and it’s the dreadlocked girl. She yawns, stretchin her arms over her head. Her Bret Hart T-shirt rides up a bit, showin her white stomach and a bellybutton ring. She looks at the packet in me hands and her eyes widen.
—Jesus, is that fuckin cocaine?
I nod. —Yep. Sneachta.
—Ye dealers or somethin?
—Long fuckin story, I say.
*
I’m standin on the edge of a cliff, a ten minute walk from the others still sleepin on the beach, Pajo and the girl beside me and the Atlantic crashin below, waves breakin on the rocks and white spray risin and fallin. There’s a small fortune o coke in a pile o bags at me feet.
This leads to that leads to this.
We could try to sell it, I suppose. God knows I could do with the money. I could pay back Teresa the few quid I owe her, get some stuff for the house. Do it up a bit, specially since Slaughter and his mad fuckin mates burnt the place. The solution to a whole lot o fuckin problems is lyin here. Mad Kasey’s haul. I’m not an expert on charlie but there’s got to be a fuckin shitload o money to be had sellin this stuff. A fuckin fortune …
But there’s no chance.
Not really.
There’s the instinct for self-preservation for one thing. Yeh have to factor in that I’d be kneecapped if Dommo and his mates ever found out wha happened. Course, we could try sell it on to a proper dealer, broker some deal, or sell it bit by bit on the sly ourselves, dole it out. But would it be worth it? I mean, yeah, I could have a holiday or somethin, go away. It’s a chance for a new start and all that, a means to an end. New beginnins, all yer clichés. I mean, this fuckin life, man. Tick fuckin tock.
I’m probably gonna regret this at some stage but fuck it. I tear open a bag like it’s a crisp packet and look at Pajo and the girl.
—Sorry, I say.
They nod, the girl tuckin a dread behind her ear again.
—Yer mad, she says, smilin.
I toss the bag out towards the sea and immediately we’re engulfed in a cloud o swirlin cocaine, the wind hurlin the powder back at us like that bit in The Big Lebowski, a chemical whirlwind ghostin around us. It gets into me eyes, up me nose, down me throat, stingin the fuck out o me. Pajo and the girl are coughin beside me, howlin and laughin. I start buzzin, the powder workin already, and we laugh and start hurlin punctured bags into the air, the small white packets sailin through the mornin sky with plumes o powder sprayin
out behind them, engulfin us, then plummetin towards the wide and hungry sea.
The girl hugs me and twirls me and we hug again, her cheek against mine.
—I can’t remember yer name, I say.
—Aoife, she says, into me ear.
—Sound, I say, and step back from her, holdin her hands, lookin at her, her fierce eyes, her smile, the powder in her hair.
STANDING STONES
I first read about Cüchulainn in that old book Victor bought me. I was only a kid and it fascinated me; the cattle-raid o Cooley and evil Queen Maeve and then how Cüchulainn was killed by an enchanted spear brung to Maeve by the hideous children o Celatin. It was the first book I ever read.
It’s sad, and full o great deeds and loves. And loss as well, I suppose, in the end. Or a kind o loss. I’m sittin at the wheel o Kasey’s van, flippin through the pages o the book. Victor found it in Belfast, in a secondhand shop. Brung it down to me from the North for a Christmas present cos he thought Emer looked like me ma. Dunno why I brought it back up here with me. Aoife’s sittin in the passenger seat. The others are outside, Maggit loungin on the sand and Ned and Pajo, mad eejits that they are, splashin in the sea fully clothed. I place the book on the dashboard, lyin open on the page with the picture o Cüchulainn, dyin.
—There, I say. —Look.
Aoife tilts her head. The early evenin’s fadin sun glints orange and yellow on her dreadlocked hair and the rings in her ear. I watch her as she studies the picture, the slope of her nose, the slight partin of her lips. She softly closes the book and looks up and out through the window, towards the beach. About fifty yards distant, black against the sinkin sun, is a stone pillar.
—Yeah, it’s not bad, is it? says Aoife. —I mean, it could be. Ye never know. I suppose you’ve just got to trust in somethin, at the end of the day.
I nod. In the minutes before his death Cúchulainn lashed himself to a pillar so he could die on his feet, and even in death his enemies were afraid to approach him. Always stuck with me, that. The defiance, the triumph over dyin.
Aoife smiles.
—Will we have a look, so? she says.
*
The pillar’s eight feet tall and pocked with tiny holes. Tufts o beach grass are sproutin from the sand around the bottom. I run me hand across the uneven surface. Grains o sand stick to me palm.
—Did Cúchulainn actually exist, though? says Ned, shiverin slightly, his wet clothes clingin to him.
I shrug. —Dunno.
—He might have, says Aoife. —In the way, say, King Arthur might have. You know, there might have been an Arthur, or whatever, someone like him anyway, and then all these stories got added on. Myths springin up around an actual historical figure, ye know?
—Spose, says Ned.
—So ye never really know, says Aoife.
The ocean is a glitterin reddish gold. Pajo and Ned hunker down on the reedy sand, chattin between themselves. Maggit is standin behind them, his hands in his jeans pockets, starin at nothin. He hasn’t said much since we left Tapper’s Yard, a few days ago. I feel sorry for him. I dunno why, really. Aoife slips her arm around me waist.
—It could be yeh know, Denny. For all we know, a man called Cúchulainn, a chieftain or whatever, might of stood here, years ago. Imagine. I mean, I know it’s probably not the actual stone. That’s supposed to be in Louth or somethin I think, is it? That’s what the mythographers and that say, but sure look around ye, Denny. How could he not have been here? A place like this? So old and wild.
I place me hand on the pillar again. This isn’t Cúchulainn’s stone. No chance, like. But it’ll do. This link to the past. Everythin leadin here, now. And on and on. I close me eyes for a few seconds and take in the cool damp air, the salt and dried seaweed. I see me ma as a young woman, standin on Bray beach, a bucket o seashells at her feet and a hand raised to keep the sun from her eyes. The breeze flaps her long skirt and her unbraided hair. I’m watchin her watchin the sea. She takes a step forward and a wave breaks around her pale ankle.
OFF ON YOUR TRAVELS
I park the van across from the house and hop down from the driver’s seat. Aoife’s already out by the time I’ve made me way to the passengers’ side, me chivalrous gesture wasted.
I struggle with the gate and the hinges creak as it swings open. I lost me key somewhere on me travels so I ring the door bell. It makes a kooky ding-a-ling sound. Aoife winks at me. A minute later Paula opens the door.
It seems like I haven’t seen Paula for years. She’s tired-lookin and wearin paint-spattered jeans and a dead old Italia ‘90 Ireland jersey. She smiles. The bruise under her left eye’s gone a faded purple colour.
—The wanderer returns, she says.
I smile.
She looks at Aoife. —Who’s this?
—Aoife, I say. —This is Paula. Paula, Aoife. Yeh not invitin us in?
—Sorry, yeah, says Paula. She stands aside and we step in. I feel weird about tellin Paula. But I say it anyway:
—I won’t be stayin long.
Paula tilts her head. —Wha?
—I’m gonna check out Europe. Wanna see Poland. And Ukraine and that. I’ve the numbers of a few people from over there. There’s a live wrestlin show on in Germany as well, so we can go there afterwards. We’ll see if we can get tickets.
—When?
—Tomorrow. Well, not the wrestlin show, but we’ll be leavin tomorrow.
—Serious?
—Yeah. Me and Aoife.
—Fuckin hell, Denny. Where yeh gettin the money?
—We’ll be grand, I say. —We’ll take the van and slum it. I can still draw the dole with me bank card from abroad. Pajo’s signin on for me.
—Jesus. Wha brought all this on?
The three of us are standin in the hall. I can hear the radio from the kitchen, Eamon Dunphy dismantlin Ireland’s latest European Championship qualifyin shambles.
—Just need a change, Paula, I say. —It’s doin me head in. I need to get movin.
Paula looks at me. Properly looks at me. —God, she says. —We better have a drink tonight, so.
Same oul Paula. I smile again.
—Is everthin OK? she says.
—Yeah, cool. Everythin’s deadly.
She nods. Her eyes still on me. Searchin. —Here, she says. —I’ve a bottle o cheapo wine in the fridge. Will I open it?
—G’wan.
The three of us walk through the hallway and into the kitchen. The place is completely different. The walls are a pale, smooth cream colour. It smells o fresh paint and turpentine and the windows are open. There’s a clean breeze movin through the house and an empty paint can beside the sink. Paula takes the wine from the fridge and pops the cork and it ricochets off the fridge door and pings against the window. She grins, her eyes on Aoife for a second, who’s standin in the doorway, takin in her new surroundins.
—Fuck. Could o broke the window, says Paula. —Again.
—Where’s Teresa? I say.
—In work. Her new job.
—Deadly.
—Ah yeah, she’s delighted. Will yeh have a glass, Aoife?
Aoife looks at me and then back to Paula. Fuckin hell, man; she’s beautiful. They both are.
—Yes please, says Aoife.
—No need to ask you, Denny, says Paula.
I grab the glasses from the shelf by the window. The back garden’s unrecognisable; the grass cut, the weeds and bushes chopped back. Me mountain bike’s leanin against the shed. The front wheel’s still buckled. T-shirts and underwear flap on the line.
—The place is lookin well, I say.
—Ah I couldn’t put up with it the way it was. Ma’d have a fit if she saw it. We’re not gonna sell it. Me and Teresa and Shane had a chat about it yesterday. We’re gonna keep it. We’ll always have somewhere to come home to, yeh know? I think ma would o wanted that.
—Cool, I say. I think about sayin somethin else as well but fuck it, that’ll do. Keep it simple, like. Keep it coo
l.
Paula raises her drink and all three of us clink glasses.
—Cheers, she says.
—Sláinte.
—Sláinte.
I down the wine in one and lean back against the sink, me palms flat against the counter. Paula’s smilin behind her glass, her eyes bright and young. Me mother’s eyes. She grins at me and winks.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank the following people, all of whom helped in some way to get me here, now. First and foremost, a huge thank you to Louise and Brian, me ma and da (for everything) and Fallon and Gary, me sister and brother (for what’s gone and what’s to come). I’d also like to thank Pauline Duffy (for ages I was writing for you), Selina Whiteley (for your belief, forever), Keith Lynch (for advice and clarity), Desmond Barry (for being me first CW tutor, for help getting this book out there and for pointing me towards Cormac McCarthy, who I now know isn’t Irish, despite the name), Rob Middlehurst (for the endless — I certainly hope they’re endless, anyway — discussions, for being a proper Liverpool supporter, and for all the awesome insight and selflessness), the Irish Arts Council (for money when I badly needed it), Francis Bickmore (for the shape), Karolina Sutton (for making me realise saying ‘yes’ straight away isn’t always the best thing to do) and everyone I’ve ever laughed, danced, jammed, protested, drunk or watched wrestling with. Go raibh maith agat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trevor Bryne was born in 1981 and brought up in Clondalkin in south Dublin. He attended Trinity College and the University of Glamorgan. He currently teaches creative writing at Glamorgan University.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Trevor Byrne
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain in paperback by Canongate Books Ltd., London.
