Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

  He passed me my pen and waited for me to write something down.

  I didn’t do anything for a while. Didn’t agree to anything. Then I wrote that I’d see him tomorrow night. Same time, same place.

  He got up from the bench, flicked the ash off his jeans and lifted his leg. I watched him as he brought down his winkle pickers onto my feet as hard as he could manage. It was the way he said goodbye.

  “Get’s me every time.” Me too. “You and you’re sister are the luckiest mother’s around.”

  Setting up a meet with Wilson seemed to me like walking into the lion’s den all covered in gravy.

  If he knew about his brother, he was hardly going to be full of his usual peace and love.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said as I was shown in to his office. I’d never seen the place in the daylight before. I was impressed.

  I pointed to the wires on my teeth that were holding my jaw in place and pointed over to his laptop.

  He wheeled over his computer chair. As soon as my buttocks hit the seat he pushed me towards the desk.

  I opened Word. Was faced by a big white glare from the new page. First thing I did was the first thing I always do, changed the background to tan.

  As I wrote I kept Bart within my field of vision. Watched him take something out of his inside pocket. It was either a cigarette or a gun.

  Bart doesn’t smoke. Things weren’t looking good.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you ever again,” he said, rubbing the barrel of his pistol across his forehead. “This is the plank I was telling you about, Gerry.”

  Gerry was the spitting image of Bart only he was half as tall and twice as wide. The only other difference as far as I could see was the piece missing from his ear. “Thought he didn’t have anything to give us.”

  “That’d be right. Gave him the works and he didn’t budge a bloomin’ inch.” He’d never talked like that before. It was as if he’d come over all Michael Caine.

  I set to type as quickly as possible, but that’s not very fast on account of all the breaks I’ve had in my fingers. “I didn’t say nothing because I didn’t feel nothing.”

  “You know Ger, this prick is really pissing me off.”

  “Can’t feel pain. Never could.”

  Before I could do anything, he grabbed my wrist and pinned it to the table. “Show me.”

  The blast was loud. I felt something touch my palm and felt it go away. I picked up my arm and looked down at the desk. A small, circular hole had appeared at the edge of its green leather top. It was singed at the edges and let out tiny curls of smoke.

  I lifted up my hand. There was a hole there too. Held it up to my face. Looked through the space like it was a Judas Peephole. Looked Bart straight in the eye and smiled.

  As if to prove a point, I made sure I used my left hand for the rest of my typing.

  Midnight Thursday and there wasn’t a star to be seen. A mist in the air brought the vision down to fifty metres. Couldn’t even see the Post Office tower. It was cold enough to keep most of our homo-sexual brethren indoors.

  Jamie Ray came up the hill whistling some Elvis. Sounded cheerful. Full of life. I guessed that meant Pinky was all right.

  I’d called her in the afternoon. Just listened. It was good to hear her voice. She’d see me at the airport, she said. Jamie-Ray would tell me about the arrangements.

  I felt the urge to go along. Give her a hug. Let her know I was helping her in my own way, only I had to sit on it in case Bart was having me followed. Didn’t want to blow the whole thing by being impatient.

  “You boy,” Jamie-Ray said as he came over and gave me a hug. “You are a fucking genius.”

  He was definitely right about that one.

  “Pinky sends her love. Told me to give you this.” He leant over and kissed me on the cheek. I caught a whiff of booze and fags from his mouth. Gestured to him to give me a smoke. He got out one for both of us.

  That was good. I didn’t want him going out without a cigarette to hold.

  We both took long drags. Watched the clouds mix in with the mist, then he pointed to the bag.

  “You got everything I asked for?”

  I reached down, picked it up and opened the zip. That and a little bit more, I thought.

  I gave him his passport. He flicked right to the back and took an admiring look at his photograph. “Haven’t lost it, eh sport?”

  When he looked up again, it was into the barrel of the gun. I didn’t smile. Didn’t feel a thing. Pulled the trigger like they’d shown me and set off down the hill.

  When I thought about it later, I gave him some lines to glam it up a little. “Not the quiff, buddy. Anywhere but the quiff.”

  Once I felt safe, I took out the mobile and sent the text to Bart.

  I’d bought myself a life, kept my sister safe and earned myself a few thousand quid into the bargain. It felt good.

  Back on the street I hailed a cab. Headed over to Jenny’s. She’d give me a bollocking, but she’d get over it.

  The cab driver moaned about working through the night. Told me how much more he earned if he took the late shift. “Pays the mortgage and then some,” he told me. “You know what they say, mate. No pain, no gain.”

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  Taking A Line For A Walk

  There was a bug going round the school. If it wasn’t coming out of one end of a child it was coming out of the other.

  Duke Earl was doing his best to hide away from it all. Couldn’t blame him for that. Didn’t mean he wasn’t working, mind. Nobody could say he hadn’t earned every penny the state had ever paid him. And then some.

  As he painted the perimeter fence he saw a girl coming towards him. Couldn’t make out who on account of his weary eyes.

  “Hi grandpa.” Daisy wandered over, knowing there was no point rushing.

  “How’s my girl?”

  “Doing fine.” She was growing up so fast. Was starting to look like her mother and her mother’s mother before her. Made his heart feel like it was swelling and shrinking at the same time.

  “They send you looking?”

  “Miss Prime. Third grade. One of the Johnson twins has gone and puked all over the mat.”

  Duke took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow like he needed a moment. Reached into his pocket. Took out a poke of sherbet-limes. Opened it up and passed it over.

  “Thanks,” Daisy told him as she un-wrapped her candy. “You all right Grandpa? You’re looking old. All them wrinkles round your eyes and all.”

  “Them’s laughter lines,” he said.

  They both smiled, knowing it wasn’t even close to the truth.

  Duke Earl hadn’t laughed more than twice since his dog died.

  First time was when Rufus Kelly, hard-case class of ’99, got his nose spread by a little guy who was tired of taking his shit. The second, well he couldn’t remember exactly when that was, but that didn’t count for nothing.

  “Tell Miss Johnson I’ll be along presently.” He bent down, put the lid on the paint-tin and pushed it with his palm. Looked up to watch Daisy heading back. Felt something give in his neck. Couldn’t do nothing anymore without part of him breaking down.

  He waited for a moment for the pain to go and straightened up as best he could before heading for his supplies.

  Amy Johnson was sitting outside the secretary’s office waiting to be collected. Orchid-white she was, all wrapped up in her coat even though it was ninety-degrees outside. Didn’t stop her taking one of Duke’s chocolate-limes when he offered the bag. Seemed to get in the way of her saying thanks, though.

  That was one thing that had gone to pot since his day. Way the kids talked to adults was a crying shame.

  He carried on down the corridor till he reached Room 3.

  The door was open, but Duke knocked anyway. Folk liked it better when everyone behaved like they knew their station.

  “Mr Earl, thank goodness. Do come in
.” It was like he was taking her flowers or something the way she greeted him. “We’re so glad you’re here, aren’t we children.”

  She was one of the good ones, he could tell. Had the kids eating out of her hand. Wouldn’t have thought she could manage from looking at her. Hair tied up in a bun and thick-rimmed spectacles like a librarian from yester-year. It was a darned shame, in Duke’s opinion, young girl like that going to waste the way she was.

  “Morning Mister Earl,” the children called in unison, as if she’d counted them in.

  He nodded in return.

  “I’m afraid we’ve had an accident, haven’t we boys and girls?”

  If he hadn’t known already, he wouldn’t have needed telling. Even with the windows open the stench in the room was like someone had shaken a pint of off-milk around the room then dusted the place with Parmesan.

  “It’s over there.” Miss Prime pointed down towards the floor, as if he needed showing.

  “Hell did the girl have for breakfast?” he asked. There were lumps the size of cherries in there.

  “I wouldn’t like to say,” she said, then went back to her business.

  Duke picked out the container from his bag and shook the powder over. Looked like one of those murder scenes by the time he’d finished. As he set about sweeping up the crime, he allowed himself to listen to the lesson. Took him back many years to the time he was a boy.

  “Remember not to take it off the paper. That’s it Christopher, keep it going. And not just in the middle, you can go anywhere you want.”

  Taking a look at the children going about their work, he saw them concentrating like they were taking an exam. Some had their heads to the side, a few squinted and one or two had their tongues sticking out. They looked so angelic he could almost believe they were the innocents. Not that he was going to be taken in. He’d seen what they could do and the way they turned out.

  Even the good ones would lose out in the end. Look what had happened to him. Lost his wife, his dog and when they closed the school down at the end of the semester he’d be losing the Janitor’s house he’d been living in for thirty-five years. Where the hell was he going to go? His pension was worth shit and his savings wouldn’t pay for a month in a motel.

  “When you finish,” Miss Prime went on, “colour it all in and see what you end up with. Can you see why I call it Taking A Line For a Walk?”

  Some of the kids put their hands up.

  Duke didn’t listen to the answer. He was too busy concentrating on shovelling up the vomit to think of anything else in the world.

  The principle asked him to sit down when he entered her office. Only got to park his cheeks on the soft leather when she had something important to say. Usually bad important.

  “Mr Earl, I’m afraid it’s what we’d feared. When we merge with St Joseph’s, they’ll only allow for one Janitor.”

  At least she was doing him the service of looking glum while she passed on the news. “The thing is, you coming up to retirement anyway...”

  He stood. Didn’t want to hear any more. Picked up his cap and turned to leave.

  “So sorry, Earl. If there’s anything I can do.”

  He stopped and looked across the desk. “Find me a house, get me a job and sort out a way I can see Daisy every once in a while.”

  She screwed her eyes tight and when she opened them again it was as if she’d completely forgotten what he asked for. “There was one other thing Earl.” She was using her soft voice, the one where she tried to sound like she was asking for a favour rather than passing out an order. “The boys’ toilets outside Mr Clap’s room. There’s been an incident.”

  Took him a shower and a shave to get rid of the smell of shit from his nostrils. Not that he minded. It was all part of school life.

  Polished his boots up real good and had his favourite lunch, even had double cream on his strawberries in spite of what the doctor’d said. He put on a new set of dungarees, popped a chocolate-lime into his mouth and got on with his final effort of the day.

  Found the washing line he was going to set up for Miss Prime to hang wet paintings on. Measured off a length, folded it over and cut it with his blade.

  Tied it to the door handle, looped it around the hat-stand, moved it across to the top of the banisters and hitched it to the highest rail.

  Made the knot just like he’d practised and placed a chair right underneath it.

  Chair wasn’t tall enough. Found a phone book and put it on the wicker. It was perfect.

  Wrote a note on a piece of paper and pinned it to the outside of the door.

  When he didn’t show for work the next morning the Principle went across to his house to give him a knock.

  Found the note where it was put.

  ‘Taking a line for a walk’ it said. Didn’t mean anything to her till she opened up and took a look inside.

  All Washed Up

  I’m all...

  ...washed up.

  Stranded like a whale on the sand.

  The air seems to sense it, remaining still in a way that it never does here on the coast.

  The sun, embarrassed for me, dissolves into the sea at the horizon leaving only its blushes behind.

  I pull my bracelet from my wrist and see the pink indents it leaves behind in my flesh, notice the hairs on my arm standing to attention and the goose bumps that have taken over my skin.

  I rub at the pieces of sea-glass like a worrying Greek at the gallows. Feel the cool of their surface and relax.

  We found the first on this very spot a month ago, strolling along the beach with our hands tangled like unruly fishing nets and our bare feet leaving a trail.

  “A lucky stone,” she said, holding it out to me on the palm of her hand. “You can keep it.”

  It was heart-shaped. An opaque jewel to match the green of her eyes. I put it in my pocket just to humour her – there wasn’t a thing on Earth I needed now I had the love of Sandra Malone.

  “They’re nearly always green,” she told me. “And they’re beautiful. But it’s the reds and the blues I love most and reds and blues are as rare as popes.”

  Two weeks I spent combing the sands after the tides had been and gone. Two weeks staring down between my feet, upturning stones and shells and plastic junk, until I had enough. A collection of lucky stones to rival any bag of rabbits’ feet or four-leafed clovers.

  I cleaned them. Polished them with the mist from my breath and the cloth for my spectacles. Put them in my vice and drilled them through. Threaded them with care, arranging them from big to small, alternate red and blue. Knotted it tight. Placed it in the foam-lined box (a ladybird fashioned from a piece of driftwood and a walnut shell) and tied a ribbon of seaweed around to keep it safe and sound.

  “Happy birthday,” I said as I handed it over. “For tomorrow.”

  She couldn’t smile. Just let her eyes fill like tiny rock-pools.

  “It’s not you,” she said, looking at the light-house mobile that hung from the ceiling in the hall. “It’s me...not ready for a serious relationship...feel suffocated...claustrophobic.” She said other things, I know, because her mouth kept moving. Kept talking till I left. And I haven’t been back since.

  The light fades.

  It’s time. Time to return the sea-glass to its true home. To hand it back in person.

  I lift the bags of lucky stones, loop the handles over my neck and take the first of many steps out into the ocean.

  Beat On The Brat

  He makes us anything we want, the clown on the stilts. Hearts or dogs or swords. Whatever we can think of.

  “What’ll it be, bud?” He looks down from his great height and smiles. I don’t know why he puts on the lipstick - he doesn’t need it. Grin’s as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge and I should know - I seen it once.

  “Giraffe,” I tell him.

  “Speak up son,” he says, “It’s a long way for sound to travel.”

  “The magic word?”

  “Sorry, son
. What’ya say?”

  “Giraffe, please.” It wasn’t any louder, but he reaches into his apron pocket.

  “Colours?”

  I tell him blue and yellow and this time remember the magic. He messes with the tangle of rubber worms and picks the ones he needs.

  Starts with the blue, gives it a stretch. As far as his arms will go. Takes one up to his lips and fills it with an enormous breath till it looks like a huge salami.

  “How d’you do that, Stevie?” Joey, my little brother, always asks the same things. Stevie never seems to mind.

  “Did martial arts and yoga when I was a kid,” he says and turns and twists his balloons. “Get fit now and you’ll be fit for life.”

  It looks like the neck and head, a long snout with two sausage ears.

  “You always been a clown, Stevie?”

  He takes his time to answer and his eyes go misty. Maybe it’s all the puffing and blowing.

  The yellow balloon fills with air. He ties a knot in the end. Looks at it for a moment and smiles again.

  “Just the way it turned out.” The yellow balloon squeaks as he works it.

  “Tell us, Stevie,” Joey says. “Tell us the story.”

  We know he will. He tells it the same every Sunday when we stop on the way home from practice.

  This time I don’t even listen. Don’t have to. I look down at Joey and see the wonder in his eyes. It’s like Stevie’s Christ and we’re his disciples.

  Story goes he was signed up for the Yankees on account of him being a big hitter at college. Nobody had seen anyone like him since ‘Babe’ the way he tells it.

  First time at the Yankee Stadium he scored two home runs. Flew right over the fence. Guy called Bill Addler dislocated his shoulder trying to catch him. Shouldn’t have bothered according to Stevie.

  Asked Pops about Addler. Remembers it cos he was there. Fine player, Pop says. A real terrier.

  So was Stevie. Real potential. Shame the way it happened to him.

  After the game, Stevie’s the hero. They go celebrate even though they’ve told the coach they’re heading home. Ends up in a bar at the end of the earth and takes a lift with some old lush.