Winterwood

by Patrick McCabe

  And that would do the trick. I would almost feel like I'd returned to normal. The way I used to be when I first started work - a happy, carefree man in my early twenties: full of faith and belief in the world and the possibility of all sorts of wonderful and terrific things happening. I'd meet some football fans and we'd have ourselves a laugh. Once I got drunk with a crowd of them and had myself a real whale of a time, twirling an Irish scarf and shouting 'Ole Ole Ole!' as brazenly and exuberantly as the rest of them. I remember sneering in the middle of it all:

  —He's a lying fucking pervert, and that's all he ever was! Only an idiot like me would ever have tolerated it, him and his fucking obnoxious manipulations!

  If he'd appeared at that moment, I remember thinking, I'd have been more than capable of standing up to him. Of flagrantly scorning him, even, standing there laughing as he slunk away shamefully — thereby revealing his true nature.

  For Ned Strange was nothing, and had never been anything but a coward. I knew that for sure now and he didn't cost me a thought. I had stopped even thinking about him now, to tell the truth.

  —A by-product of stress is all he is! I cried, much to the amusement of some of the revellers. Stress, boys - that's all it was!

  In the small hours of the following morning, that, however, was not how it seemed at all. I found myself waking, cold and shivering, with the curtains bellying silently in the windows. It was only after a minute or so that I realised the glass had actually come in. It lay scattered in shards all over the floor. I knew I ought to have called on the caretaker to fix it, but the drink had got to me and the more I thought about that the less I could face it.

  In the end I just stuck a cardboard box up against it and did my best to get back to sleep. It didn't work.

  I got up and paced the floor for an hour. I flicked through an old magazine. There was an article inside about the beauty of Yugoslavia, from way back some time in the fifties. It seemed like somewhere close to Paradise and you have no idea how I envied the tiny beach figures disporting themselves in that Kodachrome dream. I'd do my best to lose myself in it but every so often my eyes, in spite of me, would veer towards the door. Convincing myself I'd heard someone on the landing. Which, fortunately, in the end, I succeeded in persuading myself was just silly.

  It sounded so stupid.

  I raised my head and confidently sniffed the air. Not a whiff of soddenness, dampness or anything else. Not a sign that Ned Strange was in the building or anywhere even near it. The ideas you get into your head, I thought.

  It was hard not to laugh when you thought of it now, how illogical you could be in times of personal difficulty. After all the agitation, in the end I slept like a top. Didn't wake up until well after twelve.

  Nonetheless, just to be on the safe side, I went to the doctor and he gave me some sleeping tablets.

  —I'll give you Diphenhydramine HCI, 25 mg. Take two every night.

  —Thank you, I said, thinking about The Unicorn. That was the restaurant Ivan and her ate in. I'd seen them going in there a number of times.

  The doctor cast me a patronising smile and off I went about my business. I took the tablets - but they weren't any good. I lost track of time and became even more - if it were possible — fearful and dislocated. That was the main reason that I turned to religion. I just couldn't stand it any longer. There was a church I knew in Harold's Cross. I started going there every day. Looking for someone - anyone - who'd do what the tablets hadn't succeeded in doing. Regulate my life - dispel this pervasive, all-consuming uncertainty. Take me into their comforting arms. I thought that maybe Jesus would do it. I discovered, however, that I was wrong. Jesus was lazy. He took too many things for granted. It was like he was thinking: It's enough just to be here. To sit on the cross doling out would-be sympathetic looks. While you yourself did all the work. It wasn't enough, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, but it simply wasn't enough for me.

  Nobody bothers with religion any longer. Huddled shapes raggedly, sparsely embroider the black depths of the cloisters, idling outside by the rainswept granite gables, shambling about like they're already dead. Stray mongrels loiter aimlessly by the rusty churchyard gates, drooping moss clings to ancient defeated Marian shrines. Clergymen appear weighed down by guilt, shuffling obsequiously through streets, full of shame. A lot of them have been convicted of the same crime as Strange.

  The priest I dealt with was kind, considerate. But he looked drained and impossibly tired. Somewhat abstractedly, he informed me that persistence was all I required. Persistence and time, he assured me, smiling unconvincingly. I felt sorry for him, but still drifted out in the middle of his homily.

  It was a windswept day on Harold's Cross Road. The rain was blowing in swathes towards the city as I stood there clinging to the churchyard railings, my entire body shuddering violently, tears mingling with raindrops as they coursed down my face.

  —Be mindful that, having exercised your will contrary to that of God and chosen iniquity, you alone will be responsible for the consequences! I heard and became afraid.

  But in the end I didn't care. I knew I no longer had any choice. I simply had nowhere else to go.

  —Yes! I cried. And yes again!

  A woman was observing me. I glared at her: Don't dare come near me!

  I was lathered in sweat. Thick saliva had gathered on my lips. I felt like turning and spitting at the church. Extremes of heat and cold went surging through me, warm blood cascading from my nostrils.

  —Redmond, I heard, softly whispered on the wind, you know you can trust me. I'll look after you. Till the very last pea is out of the pot, till the angels quit the hallowed halls of heaven.

  For the first time in years I felt that I belonged.

  —Thank you, I answered happily, as my voice was carried off on the breeze and I applied the sodden crimson hankie to my face.

  Contrary to what might have been expected in the circumstances, finding myself in a state of what can only be described as near-delirium.

  When I looked again the woman was gone, the bus plashing onwards towards the golden, lit-up city.

  All that summer I prayed and prayed, to one I now knew in my heart wouldn't fail me. A reassuring lightness had entered my heart and I gradually began to feel the enormous weight lifting from my shoulders. I was so grateful I cannot begin to tell you. It was such a dramatic renewal of the spirit that I found myself gradually beginning to give serious consideration to the possibility that one day Catherine and I might actually get back together again.

  Even to the extent of composing a letter:

  To Catherine and Imogen, from Redmond, your ever-loving husband and father. For the first time today I found myself thinking: maybe we'll leave the outlands behind. Maybe we'll come back to the place that together we knew so well. Do you think that might happen, Imogen? Maybe you'd ask your darling mother.

  I don't know exactly why I scribbled out 'father' when I was signing the letter. Scored it out and pencilled in 'Auld Pappie'. It just seemed such a natural thing to do, really, much more representative of the emotions I was feeling: I wanted to be warm and secure and tender, and to let her know exactly how things were. I wanted her to call me Pappie, you see. Also it was a definitive way of bidding goodbye at long last to my so-called 'visitor'. Something that was definitely a long time overdue. Ridding myself of him by becoming a profound exemplar of a father - and not some foul and abhorrent pederast the likes of him. There was only one place he and his ilk belonged - in the outlands. That desert of the spirit which had been expressly created for men like Ned Strange. In the barren fields where no roses would ever grow. Where even the idea of a flourishing rose would be unthinkable. I thought of him: wide-eyed and naked and covered in crimson blotches, standing by his window looking out to see if he could see Michael Gallagher. His trembling lips parting as he whispered:

  —Why, it's Michael. Look, my little friend - I've got some chocolate here in my pocket. Have a piece. Take it from Ned.

  It
was disgusting even to have to speak his name.

  When we were in bed, Catherine would often smile and run her fingers through my hair.

  —You really don't know how much I love you, do you?

  I'd say no — and look away, a little embarrassed. Even though we were married I still could be a little shy like that.

  —Redmond Hatch - my own Little Red. You can look so handsome, at times, you know.

  I'd still say nothing and she'd peck me on the cheek. Then she'd lean over and kiss my neck softly.

  —Do you know how much I love you, Red? Till the seas run dry, till the mountains crumble. That's how much I love you, Redmond. That's how much I love you — you and your sweet little sugar lips. Till the very last pea is out of the pot. 'Sugar lips'. I loved it. It was our own special 'making love' name. Nobody had ever loved him like that. Strange, I mean. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him. All he could get was a child to abuse. Nobody had ever loved him - ever. And never would. Not now.

  Till Slievenageeha Mountain crumbled to the sea, till the winter snow whitened the high hills of hell.

  As I folded the writing paper and sealed the envelope, I was consumed from head to toe by a warm and comforting safe kind of glow. I could just imagine Imogen looking up as she said:

  —Can we go to winterwood now, Pappie? The Snow Princess — she'll be there.

  I was just on my way out to post the letter when, suddenly, I experienced this truly appalling crawling sensation.

  I stood stock-still in the centre of the landing. I could hear it - the sound of breathing at regular intervals. A massive shadow, misshapen and elongated, was slowly forming in the far corner of the room.

  —So, that was your special 'making love' name, was it? I wonder did she ever call him that?

  There could be no mistaking his taunting chuckles.

  —Leave me alone! Do you hear me? I pleaded. I thought you promised - you said I could trust you!

  As it happened, it turned out to be nothing at all. Nothing but the wind, blowing desultorily through a loosely plastered crevice, round about the size of a medium-sized coin.

  I was considerably cheered by that - the idiotic innocence of it, in a way. A fact which may well have been evident later when I was purchasing cigarettes. The shop assistant was displaying similarly buoyant feelings. The Republic, she told me, had performed like titans on the playing field again.

  —You have to hand it to the boys in green, she beamed.

  —It's a great day, I smiled.

  And it was - the more I reflected on my ludicrous 'imaginings'.

  —It is indeed, she agreed, it most certainly is.

  The football tournament held little interest for me, to be honest. But I was gratified, nonetheless, on her account and that of all the others who had begun to stream from the pubs and clubs, clamorously regaining the streets once more. An indisputable equanimity had now, at last, settled over my soul — and I simply can't emphasise to you enough just how grateful I was for that.

  Which explains why I became so dispirited that very evening on my return to the hostel. I had been actually whistling as I was coming across the landing - when I heard myself crying out:

  —Jesus!

  There could be no mistaking it this time — it was there again. The dampness, that awful familiar asphyxiating odour, exactly the same as that very first night, when he'd stood by the window in a tortuous silence. I was so frightened by the thought of what might be about to happen that my limbs refused to respond. I couldn't speak. It was a long time before I regained my strength.

  And when at last I did - with an enormous sense of relief, believe me — I began scouring the floorboards of the landing. High and low, on my knees, examining each individual one.

  In spite of my best efforts, failing to come up with anything of significance. I could find no indication, none at all, of any disturbance.

  And stood there in vain trying to comprehend what had happened.

  I had definitely locked the door, I remembered locking it earlier on. But now - it was wide openl

  I stood there, baffled, tears of frustration starting from my eyes.

  It took me some time to get over that episode, for no explanation I could come up with seemed in any way to satisfactorily explain it. The same was applicable to my enquiries within the hostel itself. In retrospect, it would have been better if I'd stopped drinking for a while. It would have been better if I hadn't gone to the pub in Rathfarnham. But it's easy to say that now. It's just unfortunate it happened to be located directly across the road from Catherine's house.

  I think that what happened was, I had been watching the match being relayed on a massive video screen when I looked up and saw Catherine's partner Ivan standing directly across the road. Laughing and joking with the hedge-clippers in his hand. When I saw him laughing like that - beaming away and passing the clippers to Imogen - I have to admit that for the very first time I began to feel just the tiniest measure of sympathy for 'Auld Pappie' and the dreadful things that had happened to him over the years. Or, maybe if not sympathy exactly, then perhaps, for the first time, just the smallest, tiniest glimmer of empathy. Certainly, finding myself considerably more comprehending than I'd previously been. Much more so than at any time since the very first night of the—

  I can't bring myself even to utter the word 'assault'.

  When, out of nowhere, he'd uttered these oddly moving words:

  —Why was love denied to me, Redmond? Why was I denied a son? A son I would have loved and who would have loved me in return? It isn't fair, Redmond.

  With devastating tenderness, to my amazement, he had continued:

  —I knew your mother, you know, Little Red. That's what she used to call you, isn't it?

  I felt like crying when I heard him saying that. Thinking of my photo and how I'd pretended my mother had taken it. Had taken that photo of what an ordinary child was supposed to look like. That proper likeness of a properly loved boy, who didn't do things like dance hornpipes for his uncle, behind tall trees or anywhere else.

  All children are beautiful but you always think your own's the best. That's what I thought the first day I saw Imogen.

  I sat there in the pub, sipping away at my tepid pint of ale. I stared at them in the garden, snipping away at the roses. Imogen was holding a basin of flowers and smiling. A shaft of sunlight lit up the bar's interior as a roar of triumph went up for Ireland. A supporter in a giant green hat dropped his trousers and bared his buttocks. Nobody noticed. Too immersed in the action replay.

  When I came home that evening, initially I had been in good humour, but, to my dismay, that now familiar invasive feeling of imminence began to grow, even stronger than before. And no amount of reasoning could seem to dispel it.

  I knew Imogen had her lunch break in the Holy Faith at one o'clock so I made sure to arrive there good and early. I was amazed at myself for having taken the decision but was more than gratified by the feeling of self-worth it had —quite unexpectedly — generated inside of me.

  Obviously I was taking a risk — but just seeing her once, I knew, would make it worthwhile. Officially, of course, I was barred from having any contact with her — without prior written approval from her mother. Which, for one reason or another, obviously, wouldn't be forthcoming. The truth is, she had concocted a number of stories to make me look bad. Ned Strange had been quite a master at that in his time - embellishing the truth to suit his own ends. But he was nothing to Catherine Courtney whenever she got going.

  The mind-bogglingly elaborate narratives she could come up with when she had to — they really were quite astonishing. Involving, as they did, 'violent scenes' and 'obscenities'. Not to mention the various 'not-so-veiled threats', with which she'd been preoccupied in the courtroom. Also 'insane jealousies' and 'over-protective neuroses'.

  Baby Owen, of course, wasn't even mentioned, or any of the arguments connected with that issue. I told the judge that I regretted a lot of my behav
iour - especially the sudden irrational rages. I had just wanted us all to be the happiest family ever, but, unfortunately, things hadn't developed that way. Catherine said under no circumstances could she countenance having another child — we were much too unstable, financially and emotionally. I said that was a pity. Catherine, however, didn't say anything. Things gradually went from bad to worse. Whole weeks would go by and we wouldn't exchange a word. Then it happened, that incident in the bedroom, pathetically turning a polly pocket in my hand.

  It would be better for everyone if I didn't see the child, the judge had ultimately concluded, outside of the conditions which she would now lay down. That was her ruling, mystifying though it might have been, as Imogen just stood there, pale and bewildered.

  In my days of regular employment I would never have dreamt of doing such a thing. However I categorically admit it - I stole the book.

  I didn't have any choice. I had to have a present for Immy. It was called Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. It really has to be said that there were some fabulous creatures depicted within its colourfully illustrated pages. Extraordinarily intimidating but somehow attractive creations, dragons and sprites and other denizens of Middle-earth. Its audaciously extravagant draughtsmanship cheered me no end. Not to mention the sheer impish glee of the stories themselves. There could be no doubt, I thought to myself, that the author, when it came to imagination, stood head and shoulders above them all, in the world of children's fiction at least. Immy had always loved that book. I thought that maybe when I picked her up we might go and read it together in the park. Leafing through it on the bus, the thing that struck me most impressively was how it seemed every bit as fresh and original now as that first night we'd read it together, in her bedroom.

  As she lay there sucking her thumb in the glow of the night light that Catherine had bought.

  In Camden market when she'd loved me.

  I was so excited waiting for the school bell outside the convent. Except that it never came. Which, of course, deep down I knew. It was the school's day off. I had only been pretending to pick her up. It was stupid, I know, a childish thing to do. But I got so giddy when I thought of it. The doors bursting open and Immy crying: