by Paul Lynch
Barnabas swallowed, began to speak and found himself speechless, saw Eskra coming up the yard towards them with a glass of whiskey. Words began to misshape in his head and he could not seize upon a form that made sense to him, and he looked upon the Garda, the smile that rose on his face for Eskra, the hand that swirled the whiskey and took the drink to his lips, the bluing pink tongue that flickered briefly into the glass, the hand that returned the tumbler, the shine off it of the sun. Saw the way the Garda’s eyes half closed briefly as if he was considering the travel of the whiskey’s warmth inside him, down into the place of comfort. Eskra leaned into the policeman and stared. Her voice softly heated. So, Garda. What are you going to do about this?
The Garda turned to Barnabas and smiled and nodded towards his car. I’ve just had a talk with your husband. He can fill you in. He began towards the car and Barnabas in his mind stood mired, could not figure upon a single clear thing.
The dog buried in the sack in the back field and the night spent quiet. The next day, under the beady eyes of blackbirds, Barnabas went back to the byre. That evening he stood drying his hands on a tea-towel and straightened it out on the stove’s hot rail. Looked over towards Eskra. Are you noticing any wasps about? I’m working on the byre today and I must have seen four or five of them. One of them a persistent little bugger so it was.
I’ve seen a few about. Two on the step yesterday but they came for the blood. Normal enough to see them now with the days warming up.
I wonder if there is a nest about. Fucking pests.
The back door opened and Billy came in and dropped his school bag, made for the stairs. Barnabas sat in the range chair and called to him. Come here would you. Billy stood in front of him, his head hung and his blue eyes hopelessly dark.
Will we get you a new dog?
What would I want with a new dog?
Did you hear what I asked?
The boy was silent.
What’s that I hear you say? Is that a yes?
Billy silent, still looking at his father, his eyes seeming to grow darker.
Barnabas took a hold of the boy’s wrist and pulled him towards him slowly, and then as if it were a trick, he yanked the boy in close and began to tickle his ribs. Billy protesting with flailing arms, let out an angry squeal.
What’s that I heard you say? Did I hear you say you wanted a new dog? Did you hear him say that, Eskra?
Barnabas took in one hand the boy’s flailing arms while Billy squirmed to break free like an animal. Leave off. Leave off. Barnabas with thick fingers tickling him until Eskra came over and pulled the boy free of him. Billy standing there spent and crying.
Can you not see, Barnabas, the boy is upset?
Christ, I was only trying to cheer him. Since when can a father not tickle his son?
Billy went for the stairs and slammed the kitchen door behind him.
Eskra shook her head. There’s no need to be so rough with him.
He’s not a child any more, Eskra.
Well you were treating him like one.
Arrah.
Later, a burst of orange from the sun lit up the kitchen, stood golden a while before it fell out of the sky. Eskra got up from the table. She made tea, turned around to him. I might have an idea about who did that to our dog, she said.
Believe me, Eskra. You have no idea. No idea at all.
What do you mean?
Just. You wouldn’t know.
What do you mean by that? What was it the Garda said?
Said?
He said he had talked to you when I asked him what he was going to do. What was it he said?
Well. He said—
He said what?
Barnabas stood there, saw himself mouthing useless air to the Garda. He said—Look, Eskra, he said would look into it.
That was what he said?
That was all.
Did he not have an opinion about who did it?
Naw. Now would you leave it at that?
Low cloud darkened the town and put rain brisk upon it, the streets like the plucked hide of some great bird and the wail of a lorry’s horn from the far side of the town its dying call. She tied her blue headscarf and ran for shelter, stood in the grasp of shadows beneath the draper’s awning. An old man cycling past with a pipe unlit in his mouth and his eyes squinting to the rain and she leaned back against the window’s dull reflection of herself. The grey lean of the sky and she saw that the rain fell just for the town, that distant clouds were clear and bright. Goat McLaughlin then coming towards her. He crossed the street oblivious to the weather with his head held high, was followed by one of his black dogs that came towards her shark-faced. She saw in how Goat McLaughlin walked that he had grown indifferent to nature, could picture him bent in a coat amidst great heat or out in the snow in his shirtsleeves. He brought with him a stench of pigs that reached into her strong and the mongrel took to sniffing her legs and then it mounted itself up on her leg. Goat McLaughlin kicked the dog down. Sorry about that, Mrs Kane.
She began to retie her scarf and the old man leaned his smell into her. A wee word, if ye will?
She watched the way he leaned back on his heels as if to take in the full sight of her, saw a vigorous light in his rheumy blue eyes. His white shovel beard reaching to his chest. She could not put an age on him. What can I do for you, Mr McLaughlin?
Sure ye know to call me Goat.
That’s no name to be calling a respectable man.
He shook his head and smiled as he did so. After all this time, Eskra Kane, and ye still don’t know our ways.
She caught the smile that rose up from his beard and mirrored it back. As if anyone could learn them.
He stood silent a minute and she was grateful for the quiet and then the old man cleared his throat. I was wild sorry to hear about yer dog, Eskra. Ye know I’m mad for dogs myself. Hate the sound of harm being done to them. I’d cringe if I ever met a Chinese fella, what with the way they eat them and all.
His words put a cloud on her face and her eyes watered. He raised his hand towards her arm and rested it on her. I didna mean to upset ye.
Eskra swallowed and lifted her head and regained her composure. She looked down at the dog with its taut curling tail nosing about the street. The old man sucked on his cheeks. It hurts me to hear about such cruel treatment, for what’s in a dog is its nature and no more won’t ye agree? Born with the nose of a wolf. Ye will call around to me this evening, Eskra Kane, and I might have something for ye that would put a smile on the face of yer youngfella.
He leaned back on his heels again with a look that took her fully in, nodded his head to her, turned and was gone, a figure that seemed to fade to the last in that rain.
She waited two days and then she went to his house. He brought her through the meat smell of his house out back to a chicken-wire pen beside the pig house. She winced at the din of snorting swine. Do you not get tired of the noise? she said. The pen was fashioned around a dog hut that looked like it had been built by drunkards, a ragged assembly of plaited wood planks while it wore for its roof a rusted sheet of tin. The roof was slid back and she saw a litter of coal-coloured pups nestling against their mother. A smile lit her face and he saw it, came beside her and reached down and pinched a pup by the scruff, lifted it up to her. She took the pup in her arms a tiny bundle all fluff and sleepy eyes and an anxious pink tongue flickered at her fingers. She brought the pup to her cheek and let it taste the flesh of her. Goat McLaughlin stood with a smile rising like the dawn out of his beard, hocked his thumbs into his mucked trousers.
Is it a he or a she? she said.
Can ye not see the big dong on him?
Eskra looked at him strangely.
Take him home with ye and give him to the youngfella. He held her in his pincer eyes for a moment before he spoke again. And while I have ye here, there’s a wee thing I want to ask ye about.
Eskra stood eyeing the pup’s face, the crusted eyes, and then against her skin came the
nose’s cool quiver.
That Barnabas of yours. Rebuilding that byre. Ye know where he took them stones from, don’t ye?
She turned to him and bundled the pup in her arms like a child. The way she looked at him then, a look he could not measure, could not tell if she was playing stupid with him.
What is it you are saying to me, Mr McLaughlin? That byre has been nothing but frustration to us. Are you not happy we’ve got to sorting out the problem?
What I’m saying to ye is this–he stole that stone, Eskra Kane, from old famine houses. Stole them from houses that are other people’s graves. Ye might not understand this, ye being a foreigner and all, but them old houses are a part of us. Them stones are our bones so they are.
What famine houses are you talking about?
Blackmountain, he said.
Eskra went silent for a moment and she looked in her arms at the pup. She wanted to laugh, the thought of Barnabas going up there. The warped ingenuity. That blaze she saw in his eyes as a young man and here was the measure of it.
Goat McLaughlin began to pull at his beard and he did not blink looking at her.
Are you talking about those old ruined houses way out in the middle of the bog? she said. Tell me, Mr McLaughlin. Those houses weren’t even fit for use by animals. I remember seeing them myself some years ago on a long summer’s walk. They were lying in ruins in the middle of nowhere. Nobody’s given a damn about those houses in a hundred years. So tell me now, why it is you are taking offence. Has he hurt anybody?
What he has done is an offence to every man, woman and child of this country.
You did not answer my question. Has he hurt anybody in a material or physical way? I doubt very much that he has, Mr McLaughlin.
The old man began to knead his boney hands. Call me Goat, would ye.
Whatever, Mr McLaughlin. I’m surprised at you. If those old ruins meant so much to you, you might have done something to fix them. You need to quit that kind of talk. You should know better than to be at a man like that when he’s down at his lowest. There is one thing Barnabas is not, and that is a thief. Barnabas is doing right by us. He’s doing his best. He’s rebuilding that byre and I say good for him. So long as he’s hurt no one I stand by him every bit of the way.
Taking them stones, Eskra, is as good as stealing.
Tell me, Mr McLaughlin. How is it stealing when that land is not owned by anyone?
The old man stood agitated and he looked at the ground and brought his head back up to stare at her. I fear for ye, Eskra Kane. Taking them stones is a curse. It makes a mockery of the Lord. They come from other people’s misfortunes. They’re part of the land, relics that must be remembered. I’m not going to do a thing to stop him and neither will anybody around here but everybody knows. If he were an honest man and a local man he would have stopped what he is doing when I asked him.
Eskra’s eyes pointed with anger. If he were a local man? Barnabas is from here as much as you are. And I’ll tell you another thing while I’m at it. I might be American but my blood is as Irish as your own. Your problem is you do too much remembering. You spend your time living in the past. That’s the way it is around here. You live with ghosts, feeling sorry for yourselves. Always looking backwards. You don’t know how to live facing forward, how to get things done in this country. She stopped for a moment to take her breath. And let me tell you another thing. There has been no more an honest man all his life than Barnabas Kane and look where that got him. That damn fire took away all our stock. It nearly took him away from me. I will say this, Mr McLaughlin, the last thing we need from you now is this sanctimonious horseshit.
As her voice rose the old man’s voice failed him and only a bare whisper remained. By the light of the Lord, he said, and it was then that she interrupted him. Would you ever put a stop to that blather? She saw in that moment Goat McLaughlin for what he was, saw past the iron filings of his beard to the ashy of his skin, skin thin as grease paper and apt soon to dust away, saw behind the burning blue eyes that what burned there was fear, and where others heard a hard and righteous gale, she heard an old man’s bluster. It was then in her mind the strong wind of the man died out.
She threw him a look of pity and he caught that look and saw it for what it was and felt useless before her, and she reached out towards him and placed the pup squirming into his hands.
I’ll be off home now, Mr McLaughlin.
He held in his hands the last rock that would make a vertex of the gable wall, put his face in close to the stone. Quartz particles sparkled for him and in that way what he had built held a gleam to his eye despite the day’s cloud that dulled it. When he stepped down off the ladder he saw the byre’s structure was stood strong on the earth. He had built it lower than what had been there before, now a simple single storey, and it awaited timber for a roof. He walked to the pump and washed his hands in the cold water and went into the house, stood watching Eskra remove from a vase daffodils brittle like dry paper. She turned and saw the roof of his teeth.
What has you grinning?
Tis done.
What is?
The stonework.
A smile lit her face he had not seen for a while. He stood and nodded towards the back yard. Come out and look.
She saw the building stood solid and strong a ragged likeness of what stood before and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She said, do you remember those first nights when we got here? When the house was in pieces and was frozen and there was nothing down on the floors at all but rotting boards. And the amount of work we had before us to build up the farm? We were young and we were foolish but we did it. And look at us now. She giggled. It is like we’re doing it all over again.
Only now think of all that we know, he said. It’s different.
She took a look around her at the day’s perfect peacefulness. The stilly waters of the sky and the breeze soft to the trees and the settle of their breathing together. Inside her the swell of good feeling that felt certain in her bones. You were right not to sell any of the fields, she said. I didn’t believe this could be done but you did it.
He told her he might have difficulty getting timber for the roof straight away, that he might be a while in getting it, that this was the nature of these things. And if all else fails we’ll take down a few trees of our own. Anyhow, I’ve the slates for the roof all sorted out. Peter says they’ll need to be cleaned up a bit but they’re as good as.
She said they would figure it out somehow, that they had figured it out as far as this, and she gave him then a squeeze of her hand.
He turned around. Is Billy about? he said.
I haven’t seen him.
He winked. Come on then. The lion in me needs to have a wee lie down.
Two days before the fire coming home from school I heard him in the trees, was nearly certain of it, that funny bird call of his whistling at me. I knew it rightly, so I did, knew it was him and I knew then he must have escaped from the mental home. Me too afraid to stop and look into those trees and I could feel the blood sent ready to me legs, was hearing his call in my mind coming for me like a noose toward my neck. I had a wild bad feeling then, saw how he would hide himself in the forest, so many places to go hiding. Waiting for his chance. Me walking home with my ears sharp as a blade and my hand on my knife in my pocket. Kept listening out for that bird call wondering how it is they could have let him escape.
Then that day of Big Matty’s funeral and me pimpled to fuck in me shorts and I coulda ate a horse too cause I’d slept in and the auld doll made me miss breakfast, sobbing over her tea she was. The saddest day ever and all I could think about during it was I wanted to get away and go down the back of Doherty’s Hotel and have a fag. We were stood amongst the gravestones and I tried to imagine for a while what dying was like and I could only imagine it with me still being there to witness it and I took to wondering what it was like for Big Matty to die like that and then I had to stop thinking of it. When I was a wee boy Big Matty
used to be always messin with me. The wee finger was gone on his left hand and he used to have this trick that made it seem like he had all the fingers on it and then he’d shake it and the wee finger would disappear. I used to ask him how he lost it but he’d tell me a different story every time and I would believe him. One time he said the fairies stole it off him cause he cursed them one night when he was younger and on the drink. Said he slept in a sheuch and when he woke it were gone and the rest of the day he spent lookin for it to no avail. Another time he said he got it blown off him in the civil war, said it were them gorilla fighters shot it off him and every time I thought of that later on I always pictured him fightin against monkeys, I never did know what he meant. The auld doll said there was no way Matty fought in the civil war and that he got no further out of town than that lump of a horse out there in the stable. She said he must have lost it in an accident. Maybe a threshing machine or the slip of an axe she said but it isn’t our business to ask him.
She were talking to some old dear in the cemetery and the old man was chatting to that scary auld bastard Goat McLaughlin and then that crazy wee bitch of a granddaughter of his Molly the Moss is standing beside him. The thing that I done to her with The Masher I cannot speak of it and the way she was watching me now I began to get stressed. She stood there smiling at me with that devil look in her eye and then she comes over, the silly bitch leaning in with her face and arms chaffed blue from the cold she wasn’t even wearing hardly nothing. She begins whispering to me all conspiratorial and I knew she could see I’d been crying and I reached out and grabbed her tit real quick and she pushed me back and stood there looking at me with those huge eyes. Her voice dropped low beneath the din of the auld ones and she leaned in to speak as if she had within her the answer to all mysteries like the teacher would be saying. And as she spoke I saw a fellow walking towards us, it was her older brother Jeb and I was sure he was coming for me, that he saw me make a grab at her and my throat went tight as fuck. I did not hear what it was she was sayin other than she was on about The Masher and she made mention of the fire but I was lookin at the brother wondering what he was going to do with me and then he’s standing over us and he just smiles at me like I’m some eejit and drags her away. Off she goes tottering like a wee lamb back for its milky mother and she tilts her head backwards to send me a big smile. I heard her voice in my mind ringing with its mystery and I got a sick feeling in my stomach because I wondered then if she knew what I knew, that she might well do from the tone she took with me, that it was obvious to her, the thing I had been thinking all this while, that it was The Masher started that fire to get back at me. I know he did but how can I tell anyone? I know it was him that burned the byre for what I done to humiliate him with that girl and to get back at the old man too.
