by Dermot Healy
Not long after that, I found speed in my tea in the fancy place and bones in the back of a lorry.
just bones
That’s what Marty was. Just bones.
the brother
Redmond was two years younger than me.
I think of him breakfasting by a jukebox going across a car park with his bag of tools entering the venereal disease department of Paddington Hospital eating mushrooms in Hyde Park. I have it now, a whole street to myself and he’s on it. Walking by the cinema that’s become a warehouse standing a moment by the Seaman’s Mission the Jesuit Home of Renewal the Lego Box Charlie’s Nook the Top Shelf.
I could go on.
I’ll have to stop this. You’ll get that. We’re only passing through. And you might add, if you like, that there is no life after this one. And so on regardless. Go the whole hog. Go to town! No bother, sham, just pile it on! The regrets come with a vengeance. The want of revenge comes with a vengeance. The finite. The fucking finite within the fucking infinite.
The lament going full throttle.
I’ve got to stop this. I’m away. I’d be obliged if you’d lay off, will you? Thank you. Thanks awfully. Wait a moment. Has the whole bile surfaced? We mustn’t away while there’s more wretchedness to be uncovered. On the pillow the ancient face from the grave I woke up beside. The flames. The smell of petrol. Flesh burning. Is there anything else? Run that by me one more time. Got you.
I’m obliged. No, not at all.
It’s me should be thanking you. I’m in your debt.
that was close
It was.
keeping watch
I don’t want ever to go back to London, there’s men after me there.
And the worst thing is – they know where I come from.
They could even get me here.
So that’s why I’m standing in this doorway. I’m keeping watch. I’ve been keeping watch since I came home.
the six o’clock news
That’s what my subconscious is. All in a few minutes the sordid other life overtook me. You’d think the good things would surface. No way. Just a list of slights, murders, abuse and terror. Followed by the weather. I feel like running. The first time you do wrong is bad enough. The actual event will bring its own shame. But it’s when you run it through your brain, again and again, down the years, that it grows enormous.
The afterlife of sin is more horrendous than the sin itself.
to sin is to be.
I shouldn’t be let out. But even if I was locked away in a cell I’d find a reason for remorse. It’s built in. There’s always wrongdoing in the years ahead, too, no matter where you are. That’d be her. That’d be the story. Good job no one is listening in.
doing better over there
A presence loomed behind me and a hand came down on my shoulder. I got a fierce turn.
It was Broderick, the chemist.
What? I shouted
Are you all right?
I am, I say.
Well, you’re blocking the entrance.
Sorry.
He closed the door again. I found myself clutching the Daily Mirror like a club. I immediately sped off. I looked down O’Connell Street and saw there were too many witnesses on the right-hand side so I took the left and braced myself for Harmony Hill. Took a side street and wondered whether a cardboard box lying against the door of the scout den was a tombstone. My heart pounded.
Then I noticed how the tone of voice, even in my head, had changed. As I considered what appeared to be irrational the tone turned scholarly. The tenses kept shifting. A new voice occupies my mind as I wander home on High Street. But as the security of the house loomed things looked up. I got a mental lift to find myself back among familiar objects again. The minute I’m inside I’ll be safe. I will be. I will. I arrived at last to my green door and beyond it the cursed stairs and across the street the bride in her grotto.
I tried the pockets in the correct order without the least sign of panic.
Arriving at the final pocket I found no key.
So I knocked and slouched a little, the voice gone back into the vernacular, the usual man returning home after a day at work. Liz! Knocked again and studied my feet. No one. Slip away now quick! Back down High Street. No sign of that crowd, thanks be to God. Sunday will come and with a bit of luck Monday. Better not to think ahead. Keep walking. You are where you are, but generally you’re elsewhere. And even doing a bit better over there where you’re not.
That’s right.
a knife slice
I remember walking across the wide floor of the room outside the courtroom and I stood there waiting for my solicitor. Then I saw Silver John.
He smiled across at me over the heads of the men he was with. He did not stop talking as he looked at me.
Then he just made this movement of his hand.
A knife slice across the throat.
Just the once. I felt it.
the mental stutter
This mental stutter starts. It’s where the words go awry. So I stepped smartly into the Hub bar, wondering if this was another one of many wrong decisions I’d made. The cartoons were blaring on the TV. I ambled to the bar, laid down the Daily Mirror and Pat Keohane wiped the counter down and turned Tom and Jerry low.
Givadaint, I heard myself say.
What? he asked wide-eyed.
So I open my hands and cup an imaginary glass.
A pint?
I nod.
Of what? he asks.
I indicate the tap.
Guinness?
I nod again.
As he pours the pint he stares steadfastly ahead at the cartoons. I watch him. When I look away I can find his eyes on me. Now it’s my turn to watch the cartoons. If I look back, he’s facing the other way again.
Then I inadvertently speak before I am ready.
Tatat!
He looks at me wildly. I give him a false smile and light up. What I want to say rings through my head with blinding clarity.
Ilostthekeyiddahise, I say.
He studies the aluminium draining board and gives it a lick with his cloth.
Did you indeed? he says.
Did.
I laugh. He laughs.
Then as he turns away I see him in the mirror making a face to himself. He furrows his brows and widens his eyes and raises them heavenward.
hoses
I go that way sometimes, he nodded sympathetically.
Yado?
I do indeed.
Nuw.
In my case I wake up high from sleeping on my back.
Istaso so?
It is.
He placed the pint before me on a beer mat and rang up the till with a sharp rap of staccato.
In my case, I say, itslossingonhoses.
Hoses?
Hosessorry.
Jesus.
Snags, I explain. Bluednags
Oh. He gives me my change.
Lostdalot, I said.
Lostdalot?
Aye. Everydingdong!
He reads the front page of my Mirror, then folds the paper and brings it away with him. Over the top of it he considers me from afar.
Morocco
You should get away for a while, you know, he says.
I nod.
Did you ever think of taking a holiday? he asks.
I shake my head.
I’m just back from Morroco, he says.
Gad?
Spot on.
He retires at a further remove from me.
And, he adds, the crowd on the plane saw a UFO at Manchester airport.
Didnot?
Did.
No!
The whole planeload saw it. It was unreal.
Jeepers.
He laid down the newspaper and showed me the tan on his arms.
It was fine in Morocco except for one thing, he says, there were no cartoons on the telly and the gins were on the dear side.
He watches the TV.
Do you mind? he asks.
Notatall.
He lifts the gizmo, turns up the sound and we travel into a magical forest. A toad lands on the moon and raises an umbrella. A mouse drives a hearse to a mouse funeral in Montana. Best leg it. Quick now!
the price of a can
I find myself in Connolly Street, elated. I buy a hamburger read what they’d underlined in red in the Bible propped open in the Veritas shop stood a moment looking at the monument got my breath back. The guards go slowly by in a squad car. A man vomits in the alcove where the Bank of Ireland pass machine is.
He puts his hands against the wall and leans far forwards to miss his black slip-ons and white socks.
I go back to the Veritas shop. And blessed be Thy advice, and blessed be Thou, which has kept me this day from coming to shed blood, and from avenging myself with mine own hand. I stand there considering revenge and feel strangely elated again. On High Street a crowd goes by singing a pop song I don’t know. I don’t like the look of what’s going on outside the Pepper so I cut round to Harmony Hill. It’s peaceful there. Not a soul. I go through the marketplace. The light is still on in the gypsy caravan. Its satellite dish shimmers in moonlight. The generator hums. As I pass, the door of the caravan opens and the old fellow emerges to take the night air.
The square fills with the rattle of horses’ hooves and gunfire. The Indians are herding buffalo within.
Night, I say.
G’night boss. Have you the price of a can?
No.
He hitches his trousers, ascends the step, the caravan lurches, the door closes. Only myself, said Cunla. I go through the archway onto upper High Street and emerge facing the bride. The light from her wedding dress floods out onto the pavement.
oh, that Ollie
The house is deadly dark. I stand watching it for a while to see if there is any sign of trouble. Maybe they came and changed the locks. There’s nothing for it so I knock loudly. The sound carries down the street and before the echo dies I knock again, twice. Liz’s window opens on the third storey.
Who’s that?
Ollie, I say.
What do you want?
I want to get in.
Oh, that Ollie!
She disappears and a few seconds later a clump of keys clatters onto the roof of a Fiat parked outside.
And don’t put on the light, she shouts.
I leave her keys on the kitchen table and think what is it I wanted to do, but I can’t remember so I ascend the blasted stairs cracking a match on each floor feeling my way through the dark with the boys looking out at me from the darkness with the flame in their eyes and find the switch in my room at least three foot to the left of where it should be. I get into bed. Alone at last with the body, close the eyes and the interior lights up for a second and Pavarotti is singing in the Portakabin and everything is back to where it was before all that happened then it goes grey goes awry what was it grey that I forgot grey what was it fucking thing next thing very slowly round the top of the friary wall there’s shells coming only a small puff as they strike the walls I’m trying to wake Liz, Liz I say, it’s started, but I can’t get her to wake, I run to the basement window the grass is lit like it’s the middle of the day the invasion has begun the first bombs have struck down the street the gunner’s changing direction the first shells come towards us, Liz, I shout, Liz for God’s sake don’t.
Next thing I’m in the empty room my chest running in sweat wondering what war had started in my dream.
who’s talking to you?
Later still that night I heard them going past in the dark. I was back thinking of my brother. I was thinking of Liz of trolleys loaves thinking of tins of tomatoes seaweed cabbage waves Knocklane the graveyard ghosts lightning openings Rory Borry Yellows storms boats being underwater Aithnioige Clapham the Lag Redmond my brother myself Marty then there was this cheering and cursing outside.
A group had gathered right under my window. I did not want their voices. I wanted the silence. And as always happens their voices accumulated. Their roars got worse. I thought I would go mad in the bed so I opened the window and leant out.
Would you ever fuck off! I shouted.
The girl looked up, the rest went quiet.
One fellow stepped into the centre of the road.
What’s wrong with you, you bollacks?
It’s four in the morning, I said.
Who’s talking to you?
I’m talking to you!
And who are you, you cunt?
What did you say?
I said, who’s talking to you, you cunt?
I backed off got into my jeans and came down the steps of the stairs two at a time. I opened the front door.
Were you talking to me? I said to him.
He leant over and grabbed the aerial of the Fiat Liz had thrown her keys onto.
He bent it slowly looking at me.
I started to laugh.
Go on, son! I said.
Let’s go, said the girl.
See, he said, I don’t give a fuck for your money, and he snapped the aerial.
Doesn’t matter to me, I said. That’s not my car. I don’t have a car. I never had a car, Mr Feeney, I said.
He looked perplexed.
How do you know my name?
I know your mother.
Are you fucking serious?
I’m serious.
How do you know my mother?
I work with her.
Let’s go, said the girl. I know who he is.
What?
I said I know who he is.
I don’t give a fuck who he is.
LET’S GET OUT OF HERE! she screeched. That’s Ollie Ewing!
Who the fuck is Ollie Ewing?
He’s all right, said one of the lads, I know him. He does the trolleys.
I don’t know him, Feeney said, offended.
How could you? I said. You don’t know people like me. Who am I to you, you shitehawk?
He turned to the others.
What’s he on about? he asked.
Let’s go, she repeated and she took his arm.
And I need my sleep, I said. I can’t sleep. And you sound like you’re in the room with me. I don’t want you in the room with me.
He’s nuts, he said.
That’s right, I agreed. I have been trying to see the funny side of things for far too long.
We’re going, boss, said one.
Looking back at me, my scourge moved off. The cat came out of the friary gate and curled itself round my bare feet.
Come in, said Liz.
She was standing in the doorway behind me.
You’ll get your death, she said.
I’m all right here, I snapped.
You have the street awake, she whispered.
Oh.
Now I looked up and saw that some of my neighbours were standing by their lit windows looking down. And above them again the full moon on a thread. The crowd went on up the middle of the road singing. I headed off up those stairs behind Liz. Into sleeplessness again to find that the lack of sleep has a smell all to itself. It smells arid, like burning, then dank like the smell in an unlived-in room. I ironed a pair of trousers and sat on the edge of the bed.
I thought of whitewash and ash and went from lust to grief. Do other people go on like this? Well, if they do I’m sorry for them every last son of a bitch and their pretences and jingoism and their up in the morning and into bed last thing at night with them starlings and swans and geese every last one of them barking, the Sligo flag, the Berlin Wall, the Archipelagos, the Curlews, the Saint Paddy’s Day Parade, the site in Hammersmith, the flat in Clapham, all of them. I’m back in a room I can’t quite recognize. It’s a room I’ll be in someday. I know that. Now if I knew the right thing to do to get out of here I’d do it, but I’ve made the wrong decision. I’m stuck with this, but not forever like. Come and get me, you bastards, I say, last thing.
Then I remembe
r what I had forgotten earlier.
To pray. Blessed be this day. And Blessed be Thy advice.
and lying there
And lying there I heard her say my name That’s Ollie Ewing! It struck me one day I’ll have to go through it all again if I’m going to go on living.
I tried getting off the Ryan air shuttle at Luton.
But my father was in the way. I could not go down the steps.
I was terrified of what would come after.
not so bad
Not so bad, says Marty, last thing. Not so bad, Ollie, Marty said, as if I had asked him how he was, which I hadn’t.
13
Bolognese for breakfast
I woke on the wrong side of what goes on normally. I was ashamed of myself and all my doings. Daylight was streaming across the friary roof. The bride was gone.
Downstairs Liz has her non-fattening butter and low-fat milk in front of her on the table.
You’re up early, I says.
I couldn’t sleep after all the commotion.
I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep myself.
I know.
You do?
Yes, she said. You were babbling for hours.
She is drinking from her own cup and eating the last of a wheat-germ loaf from Tír-na-nÓg. Jim Bolger the sculptor arrives down, splashes his face with water from the sink and sits down in front of his solitary fare – Dairigold butter and egg his own miniature white loaf a cup that says DADDY a large incongruous silver knife. Not a word is spoken as I heat up the last of the Bolognese, get one of my own tea bags and dunk it in a mug of boiling water. I drink it straight cause I’ve got no milk. We sup like fools.
