by Dermot Healy
For hours I sat to the left of a certain Nigerian woman in the Arndale Centre. She wore a puffed-out silver jacket, her hair in clasps, huge bangle earrings and a satchel on her back. She was huge round the stomach. Old men sat in front of us under indoor trees. And beyond them: florists, Superdrug, Woolworth’s, W. H. Smith, H. Samuel for rings. It was H. Samuel’s she was looking into. Every so often she went across to look at the rings, came back and sat.
She held her pregnancy closer to her. We strolled to Burger King and back. As darkness fell, we went up streets I shouldn’t go. We headed past Balti cafés, she went into the Kashmir take-away, then on to R. Johal’s & Co. store and off-licence. She looked into Lodge’s exclusive lingerie, then stopped somewhere in Moore Park and went in.
A gang of youths came towards me.
I was frightened they might throw acid in my face, so I crossed the street and so did they. I passed a man sitting on the front doorstep of his house. He was bouncing a shuttle on a badminton bat. From inside came rap music.
I asked directions for town.
He pointed.
I sat down beside him and we had a little chat. I explained some of what had happened me. He nodded and listened and asked me to go away.
revenge
At night I dreamed of revenge. I saw myself entering the Lag to confront him. I stood on the threshold. Silver John rose from his chair and turned to me. He was wearing football socks.
You survivin’? he says.
I am.
Redmond was behind the bar, shining glasses. It seemed to me that he had just come in by bike from evening mass on a Saturday and was doing a late shift in Gerties. We moved from the Lag back to Sligo and Silver John came with us, except now he was only a blur over there, somewhere to the left, where dreaming people sit.
But Redmond was very real, in a striped shirt, the hair slicked back.
I didn’t know he was dead, not at all, he was mad alive. He held a glass up to the light. Very high. Then he walked towards me. I was delighted to see him and started to explain in a hurry all that had happened.
Never mind that, he says.
I just came up to see you for a minute, I said.
Work away, he says.
I’m sorry, I said. I couldn’t get here earlier.
Never mind.
I’ve been trying to, but I got held up, you know.
Sure.
Then our mother breezed past, her head down. Something snapped in my skull and I awoke, soaked. I (lay there convinced Redmond was alive. Or else I was dead. Then the knowledge of recent times intervened. I wanted to stay where I’d been. But I knew it was impossible. So I tried to convince myself that he was dead, but I couldn’t, because there he was, inches away from the bed, still burning in the halo of the living. Then I saw the daylight come coldly into the room. He was dead.
I recalled the hospital with his scarred body. I heard it again – the crackle of the plastic. A body moving.
Ta-ta, says the man in the next bed.
A male nurse in a short white coat appears with a love-bite on the throat.
All right? he says.
And it was not something terrible, but comforting, in a terrible way.
walking
I went on what I thought might be my last walk. The final lap. Barges drifting along quietly. The suburbs growing darker as I headed in. A red and white pavilion by a go-cart track in Milton Keynes.
The russet-tiled roofs of middle England.
I walked the streets, jealous of all the book-lined rooms and fires burning and places to go. I sensed the devilment and impishness of the English girls; their comic style and the anger in their boots. A Coca-Cola sign bucketed. A smell of hops. Dinosaurs in the subways. A poster said Neil Young was playing somewhere. The Swan. The George. The Portakabin raised on scaffolding and reached by stairs.
The Mayo flag.
That will do.
I turned back.
Yes pet?
Then another day I found myself in the centre of Luton at the junction between Silver Street and John Street.
I was terrified.
I had been visited.
I could not take another step. I sat down at a wooden table in Debenham’s and shook. I should get up and go. An old man approached me, a small frail Indian with a goatee. He wore a tweed coat and cap, and was carrying a child. The weight of the child made his mouth sag on either side.
I went, Sir?
He went, Yes, pet?
I need to get away from here. I’m trapped.
I see.
Can you bring me?
Now?
Yes.
OK.
We stood. We stepped through Debenham’s doors. Yes, we go through Debenham’s doors. Slowly. We walked like old people. And still we walked on along the town centre.
33
child’s eye
I dreamt that night that I had a third eye pinned to my forehead. It was a child’s eye. I wondered in the dream why people were looking at me oddly. I was round the back of the house in a shed making spokes for some sort of red tourist cart. The men and women were about other business.
We stopped up to talk. Then I found their eyes lift beyond mine to a point on my forehead. They seemed aghast and turned away in embarrassment, but no one wanted to tell me what was wrong.
I worked on anyway till the forenoon. Then as I began to sweat I passed a hand across my face and found this thing pinned to my forehead. I thought, What’s that blooming thing? It was not a rose or a blister but a round plaster. I didn’t know what it was.
So I went indoors but there was no mirror anywhere in the house. Where there used to be mirrors, now there were only blank walls. Though I knew my way around and it was all familiar, it was hardly my home at all. So I stepped in the kitchen door and called to my mother who was entertaining some labouring men.
Mother! I called.
Be with ye in a minute, she said to the others.
She followed me out to the porch.
Yes? she said. What now?
I said nothing but waited for her to see what was on my forehead. She did not seem at first to notice it, then a few seconds later she withdrew suddenly and rose a hand to her mouth.
Oliver! she said.
What is it? I said. I can’t see it.
She led me to her room and took out her handbag and handed me a small mirror. Then I saw the child’s eye. It was stuck on to my forehead by the sucker behind the pupil. I could put my finger in behind the socket and it moved freely. I wanted to tear it off immediately but instead I found I was looking through it at myself in the mirror.
The other eyes were seeing normal things but this eye was seeing something else, something I myself didn’t want to see.
the thing with the words
When I got up to walk around Luton the eye came with me, even though there was no eye there. I had this straight perspective. I could only go by certain signals. My body was being commanded from elsewhere.
I decided to follow a street sweeper pushing his barrow. When I had exhausted his itinerary, I followed another fellow who stepped out of the Firkin Brewery but only for a few paces, then he turned into The Dog and Donut. Others I went after kept disappearing like that. They would never stay the course. Then the thing with the words happened. The words for the things escaped me.
Escaped me.
I thought I should have a word with the authorities but something told me to leave it.
As I stood there I knew there was a certain loss, of that I was certain. And yet somehow this was to my benefit. But still and all it was sad to know the loss. This was when a shadow intervened.
the shadow
It came down a side street and close to me.
That you, Ollie?
A man from the Point arrived who was apparently a jockey in Chester.
I was filled with joy. I could do anything. I shook his hand fervently.
What are you doing there? he asked me.<
br />
I’m seeing the new pollution through, I said. You see we haven’t learnt our lesson since the last industrial revolution.
I see, he said, wincing.
Come on, I said, and we’ll have a chat.
No, he says, I’m tied up.
Ah, go on.
No, Oliver, I have to hit the high road.
Be seeing you then.
Good luck.
So I went on to where I could see a crane in the sky. It meant going through the Arndale Centre again, a place I liked, I liked the bustle, then on by the railway station where they were shouting out the names of destinations. Bedford calling at Flitwick. Sheffield calling at Kettering. Then I marched through the galvanized door by the signs for helmets. Up high was a single crane-driver in his little cabin, controlling everything. The arm and chain swung by like a fishing rod, to and fro, the line taut, the catch nearly landed.
Another shadow approached me.
What you want, boss?
I’m just looking.
Best now if you get off the site.
But I’m a chippie. I’m looking for work.
There’s no work.
I have some friends, I said.
Easy now lad, best leave now.
But I just smiled.
Seriously, I said, but he was incensed.
You’re a big lad.
He was talking, he was talking about controlling the situation.
He marched me across the site.
Do you realize, I said, that –
We’ll talk about that outside.
Then there’s the corporation and there’s reverberations there, you know.
I’m sure.
I worry about that. Do you?
I don’t, actually.
Well, I certainly worry about that.
Good.
We reached the street.
If you have a problem, he says, take it elsewhere, and he lifts his hand and shakes it at me as if to say Keep your distance. He divides his face in two with the side of his hand.
Keep going, he says.
I will. Thank you.
So I went over to watch workers on their dinner break kicking a ball about in a children’s playground.
this has got to stop
It has.
so
So I went for it. I went to do what I had been putting off. This Friday I travelled down to London town on the afternoon train. I took my bag of tools: my hammer, the Stanley, tape-measure, wood chisel, saw.
The city did not seem to be the city I’d been in.
All the way out on the Piccadilly line people were chatting normally. I had my demons, they had theirs. I felt sick. But anyway. I stepped out at Wood Green, took a deep breath and climbed the last stairs. Turned to the pub. There it was. A lot of things went through my head. I went into this small park, sat down on a bench and watched the doors of the pub swing.
Darkness soon began to fall.
I sat waiting for the lorry to appear. And Silver John to alight from the BMW with his heavies, but they never came.
I did not know rightly what I would do.
I must have been there maybe two hours and there was no sign. Then I saw the plumber that had helped me come sauntering up the side street. I ran round the railings to the gate.
Hi! I shouted.
What? he said stopping and threw his arms wide.
I didn’t mean to shout, I said.
Who the fuck are you?
Ollie Ewing, I said.
Who?
You put me up once.
Ollie Ewing, he says. I don’t believe this.
There you go.
Well, fuck me. He laughed. I see you in the newspapers. Jesus, you’re still here? I thought by now you’d have cleared out of the country.
Not yet.
Well, if I was you I’d be fucking miles from here.
You turned against me, I said.
He moved back from me.
You still looking for trouble? he says.
I don’t mean you any trouble.
You steer clear of me, all right?
He turned to go.
I’m looking for Silver John, I said.
He kicked the railings.
Jesus Christ, he said. Are you fucking right in the head?
I know what I’m at.
He tapped his left temple.
See you son, he said and walked off.
So I worked up the courage to go to the pub. No sign of a bouncer. I pushed the door open and went in. I looked at John’s table, but it was empty. The barman recognized me immediately. He looked at me in bewilderment. There were a few labouring men there, not many, and the underground folk, but no sign of Silver John and his cronies. I dropped my bag and went to the bar.
A pint of Carlsberg, I said.
The place went quiet.
I’m not serving you, he said.
OK, I said.
So I went out, stood a moment on the footpath, pulled a comb through my hair, turned and came back into the bar again.
A pint of Carlsberg, I said.
Fuck me, said the barman.
A pint of Carlsberg.
Are you joking or what?
I’m serious.
Look, get out of here.
I’m sober.
Makes no difference to me, lad.
A pint, I said.
No can do, he said. Sorry.
What do you mean Sorry?
Will you leave now, mate?
I lost people, I said.
So do we all. He came out from behind the bar. OK mate? You know the score.
All right, I said.
All right, he said. He saw me onto the street. John don’t come here any more, OK?
OK.
And neither do you, right?
the warm side
I got the last train home and arrived to find La Loo getting up to do his night shift, so I undressed and got into the warm side of the bed.
Where were you? he asked me.
London, I said.
It’s over Ollie, he said.
Is it?
It is, he said. It’s over.
He flicked off the light. The voices started.
that sadness
Not so long after that, Redmond’s body arrived out in a coffin to Luton. In a few weeks Marty’s would follow. La Loo had worked out everything, the flight to Dublin, the tickets, the hearse to Sligo.
I packed my bag for home. I was leaving England. The father came down from Coventry the evening before. We found him knocking on the wrong door. All he had with him was a plastic bag and in it a change of shirt and underwear. La Loo made up a bed on the sofa but the father sat up the entire night in the room making endless cups of tea. Next morning he was still sitting there by the window with this pale haunted look on his face, his hands hanging slack over his knees.
La Loo headed off. I got dressed and sat opposite the father.
How are you? I asked him.
You and me are going to have get on for the next few days, right? he says.
All right, I said.
For the mother’s sake. For hers.
OK.
But I don’t forgive you.
I know that.
He was your responsibility.
Let’s not argue.
I’m not arguing.
All right.
Tell me this, do you ever take anything seriously?
I do, I said.
I doubt it, he said.
I packed away Marty’s and Redmond’s few things. I took with me all the newspapers that had reported the story. Carrying our cases, we went to the Foresters pub around two in the day. Behind the bar two hurleys were crossed. The men at the bar were all wearing cheap colourful ganseys. The place smelt of wet jumpers and whiskey.
We ordered two pints of Guinness.
I tapped out a Carrolls cigarette.
Answer that question now, said a gypsy man to my left. He was seated
with his young son in front of a tired pint. Some labouring men smiled at him indulgently, finished their drinks and left. My father lifted out his airline ticket and studied it. A solitary women threw darts. Sadness hung in the air. The gypsy took stock of our cases then he shouted, Hi Jimmy, are you men just over? but I pretended not to hear. Then his son came over to us.
Me father said could he have one of your cigarettes? he says.
Sure.
My father put the ticket away.
The son returned: Would you like to buy a TV?
No, I said.
A right big one.
No.
What’s the time? my father says.
Half-two.
A few hours to go yet.
Aye.
34
some time later
Some time later we alighted in Dublin and I saw the coffin wrapped in grey sheeting come across the tarmac like it was a chest arrived from abroad. The whole gang were there waiting. I kept my head down.
The first man to take my hand was Mr Kilgallon, Marty’s father, but I couldn’t speak all that well.
You should have come home with me, he says, that time.
I wasn’t there. And I was sorry that I felt no grief. No grief but shame. The grief will come some time later I told myself. Some where in the future I’ll make that journey I told myself.
I’ll go back through the whole thing one day.
just like that
After Marty’s funeral a few of us took a taxi to Sligo town for the tear. I don’t know. It was another world. It was strange. I used to be here. I … We started off in McCrystal’s, then to the Rap because it was there. I got the wrong taste of the beer. We made our way to the Yeats’s Cellar, made our way by Doyle’s for Bargains!, Penny’s, Tights from Penny’s says Flo, Harmony Hill, High Street and they all seemed like places in the past. But not working, working. I wont make out here, I said to myself. Not me. I was out of order. We drank till we were sick and I found myself on a kind-of-a-long-couch in wherever. There was a woman, fair enough, and this bloke going on and on about what happened to me. Like this. Like the north. Like you know. I went home in the morning and took to the bed. Just like that.
