by Dermot Healy
Liverpool Street it is.
I should have said the wonders of Sligo for the crack. He hit the ignition. We shot through the gates. I copped the police in a car up an alley. They were there I suppose in case I was reluctant to go. But Ollie went. Sometimes you are a beat ahead of the possibilities, things go wrong, and serendipity does not show its face. No.
And I never saw that site no more.
22
a house off the road, with flowers
It was seven in the morning. Islington. A house off the road, with flowers.
So I knocked.
The ganger came out in his boots and shirt.
He looked at me.
Come in, he said.
I have a van waiting, I said.
Let him wait. Those chaps know how to wait.
He was at his breakfast alone.
I know what happened, he said.
He buttered a piece of toast and poured me tea. I could feel the tiredness coming over me what with the heat.
You look fucked, he said.
This is it, I said. But I feel mighty.
So what can I do for you?
Can I stop with my gear on the site?
You can, he said, for a while. You see there could be repercussions. Have you no friends?
Not at the moment.
He nodded. Someone upstairs turned a radio on. Children ran across the floorboards.
You ready for work? he asked, reaching for his helmet.
the tent in the attic
I bedded down in what would be some sort of government building, maybe a Treasury office, maybe the World Bank, in Liverpool Street all the next few weeks and disappeared from the scene. I made a bed for myself on the tenth storey and bought a lamp that I left on all night in case I woke and had to take a piss in the dark. That would be dangerous. There was a only few planks running across a steep fall once you went beyond a certain point and I didn’t trust myself to wake and know where I was. Up there I walked all points of the compass in my dreams.
I might have thought I was back in the mobile.
Which wouldn’t do.
Things were different in Liverpool Street. Once the door to the site closed I was in there for the night. There were no keys to the joint. No way out for Ollie. So I sat with Marty’s things in what would one day be a director’s office. It was strange being there at night listening to the city, but I was safe and I wasn’t lonely.
I was looking down on London town.
Wind blasted through plastic. A bucket flew. All this crowd. Taxis honked. The sound of lorries at night. Steel-cutters in the morning. Shoppers in the evening on their way to the shopping malls. In a multi-storey car park across the way I watched cars come and go. Pigeons land. Far below, police sirens screamed and motorcyclists walked with their helmets under their arms. As darkness fell, lights flooded the office blocks. I could see into flights of stairs climbing behind glass like snakes-and-ladders. A plasterer working a night shift skimmed the sill of a window with a trowel. A solitary man on his rounds headed down a long corridor with a huge roll of paper towels. Another man, who worked late most evenings, swung his jacket over his shoulders, took one last look at his computer screen, paused, shook the jacket on, and left.
Yellow street light climbed to my right. Signs zipped on and off. For hours I stood watching the world round me bed down.
The blue hands of the clock in the tower in the distance moved a fraction. An ambulance turned down a side street. A TV came on in the dark corner of a dark room in a block of flats. A shadow passed by in Gotham City. On the roof of the multi-storey car park, the black security man and his girlfriend talked in his wooden cabin. Cleaners moved from floor to floor of the offices. One lady arrived with her young daughter into an office where a man was still at his desk. She started to dust. The girl sat into a chair. He worked on without considering them. Below him, men in their shirts laboured over texts. Screens were wheeled to and fro. A large fan that stood with its back to the window was moving so fast, it was at a standstill.
In other empty rooms, computers, with their eyes closed, watched all that went on.
Another night companion of mine in Liverpool Street, two floors down, flicked through files, stapled pages together, put them away and turned to others, his body becoming smaller as he concentrated. Grey filing cabinets stood like sentries guarding the door. I could see across into a round pot of pens, a box of paperclips, I could even see figures on a large sheet of paper pinned to a wall like a map. The office worker hunched, grew in intensity, then relaxed. He stood back.
Some conundrum had been mastered.
I was glad for him. Soon he left, and the others followed, the men labouring on texts, the cleaning lady and her daughter; the plasterer, with one backward glance on to the street below, was gone. All that worked on through the night was a drink-dispensing machine, jumping from Coke to Fanta and back again; and then some security video monitors that remained focused on long corridors, doors and offices, and across their screens I imagined I could see ghosts flit by every so often.
aboriginal airs
Then in the pink darkness the rain-stick and the didgeridoo began to play. A top-of-the-head wind, that you find at the foot of office blocks and skyscrapers, flew through the half-finished storeys. The polythene cracked. A dust sheet danced across the floors. The pipes whistled. The scaffolding played aboriginal airs. It was a céilidh. Then back to me came the names of reels and jigs I had long forgotten. Like “The Tent in the Attic”, where I was now. Then there was “Don’t They Know It’s Sunday?”. Followed by “Rifles from High Buildings”, “Glass-Sprinklers”, “Protection Rackets”, “Mr McKenna”, “Come Back me Auld Mate”, “Is the Place Being Watched?”
It all fitted. I was making up my own tunes.
Stroll on.
Amo, amare, amen.
I had my own pigeons, thank you, and my own music, and I was alive, which was not a bad thing, but I was still plagued. Like what was the story? As if I didn’t know. I could have done with a lady. It was hard to make sense of it – this band playing Greek tunes a few storeys up, above a city going about its night life. I had dreams of sitting in the front row of a cinema and the seat I was in was bucketing in water. I tried to right myself but it got worse. I bobbed to and fro, blocking the view of those behind. My feet could get no purchase.
You might well ask.
I’m not saying I felt like topping myself, but I had too many chemicals – and I don’t mean drugs – in me, I think.
Maybe I’m a bit of a joker but this was serious. Plus you have to remember the dead.
La Loo
He was the only friend I knew at that time. So on the Friday I phoned La loo in Luton airport and he gave me the address of some lads from Sligo who were hanging out in Clapham. Saturday afternoon at quitting time the ganger paid me off. My time was up.
Take care, he said.
I will.
Try me again in a few weeks.
I thanked him and took a taxi to their door and loaded the gear onto the step. There was nobody home, but these two gay bucks in the basement said they were quite happy if I left my stuff with them till the Irish lads came home. It was a relief. I set off round the pubs and bookies and in the third pub met McGlouglin from Streedagh. He was done up like a cowboy in a wide-brimmed hat and white mackintosh.
Hallo there, I said.
He looked at me askance.
I like the hat, I said.
Don’t tell me, he said. He shook a finger in my face and made bird noises. Is it, Ollie?
That’s me.
Ollie Ewing?
Right.
Well, fuck me.
There you go.
Jazus.
I’ve had a few experiences, I said, and I need a place to kip down in for a while.
No problem, he said. What are you having?
A port.
Very good.
What are you at these days? I asked him.
He handed me the port.
Welcome, he said, to South Sligo. Did you know that London is just a series of villages?
I did, I said.
above the trains
I was landed in a back room above the trains.
My new home was perched next to a railway line. I spread Marty’s things around the room. I hung the fishermen on hooks, set up the transistor, and made a book shelf for the atlases, the books on the planets, the poetry. His ledger I lay on the dressing table. It was a long time since I had a room to myself. For three days I stopped in bed listening to the trains as they thundered past heading north, heading south. It was like listening to demented armies on the move. I fried spam and eggs and lay down. I had nearly forgotten all about it – sleeping in a bed in a house. Got up to go to the toilet – that has to happen – and lay down again. Daydreamed and nightmared.
A rush of air boomed by. Titan, Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, Cassini’s Division. With each train the the friction in the railtracks grew. At rush hour in the morning a heavy pall hung over the lines. It felt that if you struck a match the whole place would go up. Entire tribes were on the move. Hurtling. Jaunting. Copulation. Population. That was the sounds of the trains.
Copulation. Population.
Copulation. Population.
Japan – 124 million. China – 1.17 billion. Brunei – 267,000. Turkey – 59.5 million. Germany – 80 million. Monaco – 30,000.
No you don’t. Yes I will.
No, you don’t. Yes I will.
Once twelve at night came the trains passed less frequently, the distance between them grew, the last passengers were heading for foreign parts. I used watch them sometimes, sitting in their lit carriages, looking out at nothing, reading, as they careered through the night. Commuters framed in windows, like sorrowful portraits.
Longing came over me. I cherish longing.
For a while I began to relish the memory of the site – the long nights, the silence, everything at a distance, the frogs in the foundation pools, the robin washing herself, the cat tucking her paws neatly together like a lady. Eventually I got out of that bed and nipped out the glass and put in double-glazing, but still the room and the walls shook every two minutes. I hung a large Persian rug across it at night, which deadened the roar. I stopped there and was happy enough. The lads didn’t know what had been happening. When I told them they backed off. I didn’t blame them. I lay staring at the ceiling and was full of regret but for what I could not say. It was enough to know I was sorry. But sorrow helped me sleep. Sorrow can be like joy.
On the third morning I tidied up the flat after the night before and brought my bag of tools and took the tube to go day-labouring with another ganger that they told me of.
underground
I turned up at the Crown and stood around waiting to be hired. Eventually I was taken by this subcontractor from Kilburn. That was the day we went underground, and when we were coming back in the lorry one of the men said I heard about your friend. A bad business.
He rolled a fag.
Who was he working for? he asked.
You ever hear about Silver John? There’s a tosser called Silver John that he mentioned. Have you heard of him?
I have, he says. He hangs out in the Lag in Wood Green.
Thanks, I said, I won’t forget you.
Was your Marty with him?
I think so.
Marty, he said, was not wise.
The ganger paid me off. I asked him for another day’s work but he said there was nothing doing. But, he says, Look there’s a few contractors taking on casuals and foreigners. He wrote down the address. Then I set off for the Lag.
Silver John
I took a bus across the city. I was feeling light-headed again, a bad sign. There was a fierce buck at the door in a dress suit with one red rose in his buttonhole.
Evenin’, he says.
Evenin’, I said. Can I go in?
He laughed.
Go ahead, son, it’s a free country.
Inside at a table a group of foreign-looking men, Romanians, Serbs, Croatians, were hanging around in working gear. Chippies, plumbers, doctors, lawyers, drivers, civil servants, all reduced by war to labouring. A lot of London Underground folk at the bar in their peaked caps. The place was done in pine with various hunt jockeys in pastel colours and comic faces hanging off the wall. Lester Piggot, looking a little daft on a pony that was all out of proportion, was there too. Another bouncer in a dress suit came out from behind the bar and relieved the first fellow, who took a tall blue ledger from behind the bar and sat down at a table. A wad of notes crossed the counter. He flicked through them and handed them back to the barman. It must have been a fucking Friday, pay-day. I bought a pint of Heineken and sat near the door, watching. The thing was going and coming. These men beside me were from Wexford. I went to the toilet but couldn’t piss, though I wanted to, and it was while I was standing there that this buck in a grey linen suit came in and stood by the wash basin. He flicked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger, then leaning heavily on the wash basin he looked into his eyes, dashed water on his face, then resting his palms together, he slid his hands up and down, dabbed his hair lightly, wrung his hands, then shook them, and looked at me.
Anything wrong with you? he asked.
Nothing, I said.
So I just left, though I hadn’t even started. The man I had asked to mind my bag of tools had bought me a pint and we started talking. He had wild hair stiffened with grit. And after a while I asked after Silver John.
You don’t want to know him, he said.
It’s business, I said.
He shook his head.
You’ve just been to the toilet with him, he said.
The buck with all the rings?
That’s him.
help
After a while I found myself talking about boats with Arklow men. The place was flying. The East Europeans and the Irish and the English men lined up to be paid and the bouncer entered the figure into the ledger, then Silver John handed over a cheque. The cheques were cashed behind the bar and it was explained to me that three per cent was going to the landlord. They have it well worked out I was told. The ledger went back behind the bar and Silver John ordered a round, then sat at a long table with some other men and women. So I approached him.
Are you Silver John?
Who’s asking?
Ollie Ewing.
You want something? he said.
My friend was killed a little while back, I said.
So?
And I heard you might be able to help me.
You hear this, Bob?
I hear him, said his mate.
So how can I help you?
I don’t know.
He must think, said Bob laughing, that you might be able to bring him back from the grave?
It’s not right to speak like that, I said.
Do you hear this? said Bob to the others, but they weren’t smiling.
Silver John turned back to me. How was he killed?
He was burnt by acid in the back of his lorry.
He stalled a second.
What has this to do with me?
Someone told me he worked for you.
Someone told someone something they know nothing about, said Silver John.
I was only asking.
Look, he said, I might have heard something about a young fellow being killed, but that’s all I know. OK?
All right, I said.
So fucking leave it, said Bob.
If that’s what you want.
That’s what I want, he said. He stood. Are you from the newspapers or what?
No I’m not.
I don’t want to hear from any cunt that’s prying around. I don’t want any cunt here looking for trouble. OK?
OK.
I went back to the bar and was standing there with the others when a hand came down on my shoulder.
Are you still here? said Silver John’s mate.
I’m having a drink, I said.
Are you talking about me? Is he talking about me?
No, said one of the men.
He tapped me furiously on the shoulder.
Are you with a newspaper or wha’?
No, I said, I’m a chippie.
You better not be with some newspaper, he said. You hear me?
I do, I said.
He went on by.
Who was that? I asked
That was Scots Bob, one said.
He doesn’t sound Scottish to me.
That’s because he’s not. Not by a long shot. He worked up there a while and he’d sicken you with Celtic.
Nothing is what it seems.
Now you have it. Watch him!
blows
The Arklow men were all high. I told them about what happened and they cherished me. They were standing with me on the street having the crack when Silver John arrived with Scots Bob. Silver John came up to me,
Come here, you, he said.
I followed him and we stood on a traffic island in the middle of the street.
Look, he said, tapping me, I know nothing about some fellow that was killed.
That’s not what you said inside.
A lorry roared past.
What are you talking about? he asked.
That’s not what you said a moment ago. You said you heard of a young fellow being killed.
The best thing for you to do is disappear, boss, he shouted. Now I’ll only tell you once – I know fuck all about a fellow killed in a lorry.
That’s not what you said a moment ago.
Are you fucking deaf?
He walked off the traffic island towards his crowd and I followed him.
Look, he said to one of the Arklow men, you better take that fucker there home.
He’s all right, John, said one.
He’s not all right. And he won’t be all right.
He lost a friend.
Jesus Christ! said Silver John. Look I know nothing of a fellow killed in a lorry.
