The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  “Happy New Year, Jazz,” I said, as Jazz turned off the radio.

  “Happy New Year, Astrid.”

  That was what people said in books. I also knew that they kissed each other. Jazz’s face was very close to mine. I leaned over and kissed his lips. They were soft, like pillows. When I drew away, Jazz brought his fingers to his lips.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  “No. What did you do that for?”

  “Isn’t that what people do for New Year?”

  “Not like that.”

  His voice was hoarse. The room was filled with his loud breathing. He leaned over to me and his lips brushed against mine. I licked my lips, thirsting for more. We moved closer, until our faces almost touched. Our lips found each other, locked together. The kiss lasted a long time. A warm current spread outwards from my stomach and flowed through my veins. When the air around me became cold, I drew back. Jazz put his fingers on his lips again. His face was an unusual colour, sort of reddish-purple.

  “I’m going to sleep now,” I said. “Good night.”

  I slid off Jazz’s bed and crawled onto the camp bed. Jazz didn’t move. I brought my hand to my own lips. They tingled; Jazz’s imprint was still on them.

  When we woke up, the house was silent. I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. It was empty. Ora’s bedroom was empty too. I ran into the kitchen again and saw a piece of paper on the counter. Gone for a walk, said Matthew’s almost indecipherable writing. We won’t be long.

  Jazz shuffled into the kitchen and I handed him the note. He read it, yawned and opened one of the presses, which contained the boxes of colourful cereal he favoured.

  “He said he was going for a walk with me. We walk every morning,” I moaned.

  I trailed Jazz as he brought his bowl into the living room and switched on the television. He took out a videotape and slid it into the video recorder underneath the television.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked him.

  “I’m watching this. There’s cereal in the press.”

  “I always eat porridge. You don’t have any.”

  Jazz didn’t reply. He was engrossed in a battle in which men fought each other with green swords. I sat in an armchair and read Around the World in 80 Days without taking in the words. Cold water sloshed in my stomach.

  When I heard the rattle of the door, I shot out of the chair. Ora and Matthew appeared at the door of the living room.

  “Why did you go without me?”

  I put my hands on my hips.

  “Hush, Astrid. It’s in a good cause,” said Matthew.

  Jazz was still absorbed in the swordfight.

  “Geoff, I’m sorry to disturb your film, but Matthew and I want to talk to you both about something,” said Ora. “It’s important.”

  We followed them out to the kitchen. I still held my book in one hand. They sat facing us at the table, their hands joined. I never saw Matthew hold Ora’s hand before. He cleared his throat.

  “We have a proposal to put to you,” he said.

  “Matthew has asked myself and Geoff to come and live in Wexford.”

  Ora’s voice was hushed.

  “We’ve become very fond of each other, you see,” said Matthew.

  He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Therefore, we hope to make a life together. But we won’t proceed unless you’re satisfied.”

  “We don’t want to force you into anything,” said Ora.

  A silence fell. I tried to figure out why they were attaching heavy weights to the words.

  “You might as well come and stay,” I said. “Then you won’t have the long drive back to Wicklow.”

  They all laughed, including Jazz. I supposed this was a good thing.

  “It will be a bit different now though,” said Ora.

  Her voice was gentle.

  “As I said, we’ve become very fond of each other,” said Matthew. “More than fond, in fact.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “We want for us all to live together, as a family,” said Ora.

  “Are you going to mate for life, like albatrosses?” I asked.

  They laughed again.

  “Something like that,” said Matthew.

  “What about you, Geoff,” said Ora. “What do you think?”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  A thought occurred to me. I sat up straight in my chair.

  “Does this mean Jazz is coming to live with us too?”

  “Yes of course it does, you nincompoop,” Matthew said. “Do you imagine he’ll be living on the street?”

  Now we could go to the DJ Shack all the time. And Jazz could bring his home-made radio.

  “Cool,” I said.

  I looked over at Jazz.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s cool.”

  Tangled Wires

  The tyres crunched as Martin manoeuvred the bus over banks of new snow. He was rostered to drive the bus that day. “Back away, Martin, back away,” yelled the Greek Chorus.

  Martin eased the bus through a tiny gap in the queue of cars attempting to leave the car park.

  “You want a go at driving this thing?” he said.

  They all honked with laughter. I wrote on the steam. This time the word I wrote was troilism.

  “The practise of engaging in intercourse with three or more partners,” I informed the group at large.

  “How’re ya,” chimed the Greek Chorus.

  “Give you an appetite for dinner,” said Johno.

  He patted his stomach. Some of his chest hair was visible above the neck of his ski top. I imagined following the trail it made. When I touched Jazz, my fingers travelled across a smooth expanse of skin until my fingers reached the triangular undergrowth which formed the demarcation line.

  Once again, Cliona was touting her cause; she revelled in the dank whiff of limitation. This time, the subject of her monologue was inaccessible websites. Some phrases pierced through: ‘poor contrast... web 2 compliance... adapt font sizes...’ A vile stench distracted me; it contaminated all the available air on the bus.

  “Oi, who cracked one off,” shouted Martin. “Wasn’t you, Mia, was it?”

  Mia giggled. The stench curled outwards. Due south, I reckoned. Traceable to one of the Greek Chorus.

  “Reckon it was Kim,” I whispered to Johno.

  “Smells like my sister’s baby,” he went on, addressing the rest of the bus.

  “You a doting uncle, Johno?” Martin asked.

  “Nah. Me sister won’t let me mind him. She’s worried I won’t know how to feed it. I said I’d just follow where the noise was coming from and stick the spoon in there.”

  Not to be outdone, one of the Greek Chorus chipped in with an anecdote of his own, in which he fell into a puddle and showered an unsuspecting old lady with water and mud.

  “She got a bit thick,” he said. “I says to her, sorry missus, I just like making a bit of a splash.”

  “I love them oul ones,” said Johno. “They’re always tellin’ me what a great little fighter I am and that they’re prayin’ for me. If they only knew I’m beyond help.”

  Their voices and laughter merged into a dull roar, a wordless battle cry. A YouTube gallery of clips began to play in my mind, featuring images I thought were buried in a safe corner of my mind. The memories laid siege to me and resisted my attempts to pause them. I watched myself as I stumbled on rogue steps and slapped against the ground, flicked the ‘V’ at cars which materialised from nowhere and became swallowed up by crowds I couldn’t outrun. My mouth became filled with the taste of orange drink; this was becoming a regular occurrance.

  Every so often, the roar was punctuated by Mia’
s helium giggle. She didn’t contribute any tales of her own; limpets don’t carry memories. Still, Johno appeared to find her riveting. As the bus journey wore on, he desisted from exchanging war stories and began talking to her. Their heads were close together; they became enclosed in a bubble.

  There was no sign of Mia when I got to our room, which was somewhat surprising. Still, I was freed from maid service for the time being. I flopped onto my bed and did my daily phone vigil.

  Sx god def n2 me.

  The letters were paltry. I deleted them and stared into the screen, became enveloped in its blankness.

  Sometimes it’s not until the morning after that the interludes happen. I tend to wake up first. The flat is bathed in Sunday morning silence. The sun is already high in the sky, but Jazz’s thick curtains keep the room shrouded in brown darkness. With no gel to hold it back, my hair fans my face. In his sleep, Jazz has slung his arm over my body. His legs are tangled up in mine. He stirs; his hand moves. I can feel his touch before it reaches my body; my skin tingles in anticipation. He pushes tendrils of hair behind my ear, reaches for my hand. Our fingers interlace. I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss each one of his fingers, sucking the tips. Then I guide his hands to my small, high breasts and he tweaks the nipples into life.

  Impatient with my musings, I went to the wardrobe and stood in front of it, leaning on the open door. I deliberated for quite a while. If I was to stand any chance of dislodging Mia from Johno’s attention, I was going to have to emulate her fluff and frippery look. As I rifled through my meagre pile of clothes, a shimmer of blue jumped out. I reached for it. A blue dress with little gold flowers, a sort of Japanese vibe. Lots of girls wore them at Prism. It looked demure at the front, but plunged low at the back. I slid it on and tied the ribbon at the back so that my waist and hips were emphasised. It moulded my body. I risked a somewhat more geotropic flip for my hair. Odd that Mia wasn’t back yet. Perhaps the recalcitrant shower was defeating her.

  Jurgen the Teutonic Overlord slapped my glass of vodka down with his habitual reluctance. I polished it off as Johno approached the bar with an easy strut. He was the only Cabbage Kid who could approach the bar unaided. He wore a white T-shirt with the Irish flag emblazoned on it and a pair of tracksuit pants with two thick white stripes along the sides, continuous lines to nowhere. The clothes hung from him, obscured his physique. Jazz’s wardrobe was a homage to muted colouring and tailored fits.

  Johno leaned against the bar counter. His arm was very close to mine, close enough for me to see the veins pulsing under the covering of dark hairs.

  “Want me to get you a drink?” I asked him.

  “Nah, you’re all right. That was some serve you gave Cliona last night.”

  “Glad you approve. Perhaps we should put her in a cage and feed her bananas through the bars. Think she’d enjoy that.”

  I laughed, but Johno didn’t join in. Lines formed trenches around his mouth. My laughter trailed off into uncertain silence.

  “I know she’s an eejit, but she didn’t deserve that.”

  Maybe you’ll stop being so cruel to blind people.

  “Such moral uprightness in one so young.”

  “Just give her a break, all right. She’s enough crap to deal with. We all do.”

  Before I could defend my honour, Mia approached the bar with a moonwalker’s gait, cane at the ready. Johno never used his in the hotel; he appeared to rely on sonar.

  “Straight ahead, Mia, that’s it,” Kevin yelled, acting as an aural signpost.

  Mia bumped against Johno. Smart move, initiating physical contact under the guise of clumsiness. She was dressed in a cowgirl get up, with a pink and white gingham print shirt, pink earrings and jeans.

  “Seems you can get dressed without my help,” I said to her.

  “Oh I just...”

  Her words were suspended in mid-air; she appeared to have no intention of finishing the sentence.

  “Ah, she came into my room,” said Johno. “We were doing something.”

  “Why are you being so cryptic? Should I be suspicious?”

  Johno laughed, his gurgle back in full force.

  “Ah no. All will be revealed.”

  He leaned over to her and spoke to her in an undertone, his posture an eerie caricature of Kim leaning over Cliona.

  “I was gonna come up and get you. Thought you’d be ages getting dressed, being a girl.”

  She giggled.

  “No, I was grand. I got down the stairs myself.”

  A latter-day Scott of the Antarctic.

  “Will ya have a scoop?” Johno asked. “It’ll warm your throat for later.”

  Mia asked for her customary glass of watered-down beer.

  “I’ll have a vodka please, Johno,” I said. “What’s later?”

  Best to feign interest.

  “Oh, myself and Mia’re planning a bit of entertainment, aren’t we, Mia?”

  Mia giggled. As Jurgen plonked our glasses onto the counter, Martin arrived.

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky one, Johno,” he said, “surrounded by girlies. Astrid the Swedish model and Princess Mia.”

  I smirked.

  “A Johno sandwich,” said Mia.

  They laughed, far more than the quip merited. More than they laughed at my steamy words.

  “Not for much longer,” said Johno. “C’mon, Mia. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  They disappeared, their feet clattering on the spiral staircase. The others were moving towards the dining area, where chairs were arranged in a semi circle. Two chairs stood apart, at the top of the semi circle. I hung back, weighing up seating options. A seat materialised near the two empty chairs. The Greek Chorus were on my other side, but I took it as the lesser of two evils. It turned out to be a smart move. When Johno and Mia returned, they took the two empty chairs and Johno chose the chair to my immediate right; his leg was within touching distance. A guitar hung from his neck.

  “Howya,” said the Greek Chorus as I settled myself in my chair.

  “What did we do to deserve this?”

  “I’m thanking my lucky stars.”

  One of them stretched his hand out, this time landing on target. I feinted to the right and bumped against Johno’s knee. He jerked away, no doubt anxious to protect his guitar. Still, he came to my rescue, distracting my suitor by striking a chord on the guitar. Everyone broke into song. They sang as if their lives depended on it, some in keys not found on the tonic scale. When Johno finished, they clapped and cheered. He accepted the praise and handclasps from his worshippers. The light gave his face a soft glow.

  When the applause died down, Johno began to play again. The songs blended into each other, turned into an incomprehensible mush. Their voices were thick curls of smoke, clogging the air in the room. Belts of vodka made the din more bearable. Johno downed beers with long swallows; some of the liquid dripped onto his shirt. He played on, uncaring. At intervals, I allowed my leg to brush against his. He appeared not to notice, but I still relished the feel of it through his jeans. Johno’s legs were thinner than Jazz’s, less dense, but still hard and firm.

  When I sat down after yet another refill, Martin was sitting on the couch just behind my chair. He roared out the words to the song, blasting my ears. I flinched. He leaned over to me.

  “This not your thing?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What gets you moving on the dance floor then?”

  “Electronic music.”

  “That bleep bleep bleep music? That’s what blows your skirt up?”

  I struggled to stifle my amusement.

  “So you won’t be treating us to any tunes then.”

  “Not unless you got a DJ box.”

  The words came unbidden. I had no intention of allowing myself to
be exposed to ridicule. How come you haven’t DJ’d since Eclectica ?

  “Oh, you’re a DJ? Where do you strut your stuff?”

  “An Internet show. Kind of obscure.”

  “You’ll have to tell me the website, might give it a whirl. You don’t do nightclubs, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Awful places. Used to have to raid them when I was in the force. Music was loud enough to make your ears bleed.”

  He laughed.

  “DJ Astrid. Has a nice ring to it.”

  “It’s DJ Ice White, as a matter of fact.”

  It baffled me, the ease with which he extracted information.

  “That’s a cool name.”

  I stood up. My thirst was building again.

  There were two places we went to when we weren’t in the classroom. When it rained, we went to a big room called the playroom. The shelves in the playroom were filled with books and coloured objects, like the ones in the classroom. There were two houses where the girls played with their dolls. One was made of plastic and held together with poles. It looked like a tent and it was big enough to crawl into. The other one was made of wood and looked like a real house, with furniture in it. I didn’t play in the houses. There were too many people in them.

  On dry days, we went into a yard with red brick walls around it. The pink ladies called it the playground. They stood in a corner and watched us play. There was no grass in the yard, only small stones. Some of the stones were stuck to the ground, other ones were loose. The loose ones didn’t have any animals underneath, like the ones on the beach. Maybe it was because they were too small. When the sun shone, the stones sparkled. Coloured lines were painted on the stones. Some of them were straight and some of them made shapes and crossed over each other. I walked around the edge of the yard and listened to the squeals of the other girls as I attempted to balance on the lines. The girls played games which involved standing around in circles and singing songs, making houses with their dolls, or rolling balls to each other. They asked me if I wanted to play, but I decided I didn’t like games. I wanted to climb trees, roam the beach looking for samples, swim in water that moved and made splashing sounds. Sometimes, as I walked on the coloured lines, the other girls zig-zagged in front of me and I knocked them over. They gave loud, piercing cries and always waited for the pink ladies to pick them up. The pink ladies said, “Now, now, Astrid.” But it wasn’t my fault they kept getting in the way.