John the Revelator

by Peter Murphy

  The very first night they met, she was fresh off the boat from England, with no plans to go back. ‘I’ve had enough of bastards,’ she told him when the drink had loosened her tongue. ‘Handsome bastards. Ugly bastards. Hard bastards. Soft bastards. My whole life, bastards. I must give off some smell that attracts them.’

  Gunter too could be a bastard if it suited, but when it came to Maggie he was a soft touch, even when she threw things at him, or pummelled him with her fists and he had to thrust his hands in his pockets to keep from hitting back. Even when she started coming home late smelling of Donahue’s.

  One such night when she crawled into bed, instead of letting him mount her, she put her hand on his head and gently but firmly pushed him down between her thighs. Gunter was a little shocked and unsure about how to proceed, but he gave it a shot, burrowing into her coarse hair, her woman-smell. At first she squirmed and groaned and made whimpering noises, and he took this as encouragement. He stayed down there for ages, tongue sore and strained, her moistness tingling his cheeks. But when at last he lifted his head, she’d fallen asleep.

  Try as he might, Gunter couldn’t quite pinpoint when he first suspected something dodgy going on. It was just an instinct, a hunch. Sometimes when he kissed her on the mouth, he found himself wondering what she’d had in there lately.

  But even when the late nights became more frequent, and his suspicion turned to certainty, he was reluctant to confront her. He was kind of curious as to how the thing would play out. He waited up late in the kitchen, lights out, downing shots of whiskey, trying to quench that giddy sick feeling in his stomach. He grew addicted to that feeling, addicted to quenching it. He drank and smoked and drank and smoked and relieved himself against the backyard wall and asked the rain what’s the fucking point, but the rain didn’t know a thing, just hissed and plonked.

  He lay awake in bed at night listening for the sound of her stealing in like a stray. He pretended to be asleep when she crept into the bedroom, and just when she thought she’d gotten away with it, he’d speak, his loud voice in the darkness, making her start. He’d ask where she’d been, not because he wanted to know the truth, but because he wanted to hear her recite the lies she’d prepared.

  Then he took to going through her coat and bag on the sly. He scrolled through her text messages when she was asleep or in the bath. He snooped around the bedroom. And when he found proof, it was in a place so obvious he had to wonder if she wanted to be caught. A Durex box stashed at the bottom of the drawer where she kept her underwear. Gunter never used rubbers. Like eating through a muzzle, he always said.

  He shook the johnnies onto the bedspread, hands trembling, a sour metallic taste in his mouth. Out of a box of twelve, eight left. He paced the flat, sickened and exhilarated. He poured himself a generous measure of whiskey and sat trying to remember, working out the times, the dates, trying to figure out what he’d been doing while she was out fucking this mystery man. At work maybe. Or cleaning the flat when she was too tired or browned off to do it herself. Bleaching the bath, scrubbing the toilet, wearing those Marigold gloves. Eating takeaways in front of the television because she’d stopped cooking, trying to bury that awful gut feeling under comfort food. Steak and kidney pie. Batterburgers and chips. Chicken dippers.

  Buk-awk-buk-buk.

  He was pouring his third whiskey when he heard the key in the door. His stomach flip-flopped. Maggie came into the kitchen, did a double take when she saw the bottle.

  ‘Bit early for that, isn’t it?’

  He pushed the bottle away.

  ‘Tell me his name.’

  She plugged in the kettle.

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘His name, Maggie. I found the rubbers.’

  She folded her arms.

  ‘Gunter, are you off your trolley?’

  ‘The rubbers. In your fuckin’ dresser.’

  She tried to change the subject, demanding to know what he was doing going through her things. She tried to make out the rubbers were her friend June’s, but he cut her off, roaring, ‘Don’t try to make me into a bigger gom than I already am!’ and she burst into tears, but the waterworks only made him madder. He looked at his hands. They were trembling like the morning-after shakes. He tried to get himself under control, tried to swallow his anger, felt it burn all the way down to his stomach. He looked at Maggie, her face crumpled, her bottom lip curling like a child’s. He made himself go to her and put his arm around her and be a man.

  ‘Tell me his name,’ he said softly.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I can’t, Gunter. Please stop it.’

  ‘You’re only making things worse.’

  ‘Stop.’

  But he wouldn’t quit. He kept at it until he wore her down.

  ‘If I tell you,’ she said, wiping her face with her sleeve, ‘do you promise not to do anything?’

  Gunter put his big hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Please, Gunter. I’d be mortified.’

  ‘I swear. Now tell me.’

  She swallowed. Looked at the floor.

  ‘Jude.’

  ‘Jude what?’

  ‘Udechukwu.’

  He was flabbergasted.

  ‘What in the hell kind of name is that?’

  She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her mascara was coal-smudged.

  ‘Nigerian.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’

  It came out muffled.

  Gunter sat down heavily, like he’d been hit hard in the gut. So this is what it’s like when someone breaks your heart, he thought. You feel it in your stomach, not your chest. You want to throw up.

  The whiskey tasted bitter in his mouth and he felt so dizzy he thought he might collapse. He put his hand on the table to steady himself.

  ‘Sit,’ he said, as though giving orders to a dog. He went to the cupboard and took out a second tumbler, dumped whiskey in, pushed it towards her.

  ‘We’re not done talking.’

  She knocked it back.

  He poured a refill. Anaesthetic.

  ‘I want details.’

  ‘Details?’

  Her look was withering, but her voice betrayed a tremor.

  ‘Everything.’ He took her phone out of her bag and turned it off. ‘Every. Last. Thing.’

  And he started in with more questions. He wouldn’t stop, not until he knew every pornographic fact. The answers hurt, but still he had to find out.

  Who else knows?

  When was the first time you kissed?

  Did he use the tongue?

  How deep?

  Show me. Use your finger.

  Did you undress in front of him, or did you make him turn off the light the way you make me?

  Did you make noises while you were doing it?

  What kind of noises? Make them now.

  Did he put it in by himself or did you put it in for him?

  Did you take him in your mouth?

  Did he come?

  Did you gag?

  Spit?

  Or swallow?

  Was it bigger than mine?

  It went on and on until she broke down and swore on her mother’s grave that she’d never see the boy again. Gunter waved her away, disgusted, and she fled to the bedroom.

  He called Fintan and Davy and told them to meet up in Donahue’s.

  ‘First thing,’ Gunter told them, ‘find out where he drinks. Then report back to me. I don’t just want to hurt this prick. I want to fuck with his head too.’

  Fintan sniggered as he got up to leave.

  ‘Udechukwu,’ he said. ‘What a name.’

  They left Gunter at the bar thinking ugly thoughts, all of which could’ve been reduced to a single name repeated like a mantra as he worked himself up into a state.

  Udechukwu, Udechukwu, Udechukwu...

  Two days later, when Jude Udechukwu showed up for work at the petrol station, he went to his locker, as he alwa
ys did, to change into his overalls. The locker door swung open when he grasped the handle. Inside was a chicken’s foot, caked with blood.

  Over the next couple of days, Gunter and Maggie tiptoed around each other, picking their way through unfamiliar territory. They both avoided the subject of her indiscretions, afraid it might blow up into a row neither of them had the stomach for. Maggie spent most of her time asleep. If she stayed in that scratcher much longer, Gunter figured, she’d get bedsores. Dirty dishes stacked up in the sink. There was nothing to eat. He was pouring stale cornflakes into a small saucepan when his phone went off. Davy, ringing from Donahue’s.

  ‘Looks like he didn’t take the hint,’ said Davy. ‘He’s here, all on his tod. I don’t know what she sees in him. He ain’t the size of a gnat.’

  Gunter told him what to do and hung up.

  Maggie padded in, still wearing her slob clothes, a baggy hoodie and a pair of leggings.

  ‘Who was that?’

  Gunter stepped on the bin pedal and dumped cornflakes into the smelly liner bag.

  ‘Davy.’ He put the saucepan on top of the crockery heap. ‘I’m going to meet him for one in Donahue’s.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Fucking right it is.’

  Maggie flinched like she’d been slapped, like she might turn on the waterworks again. Gunter turned his back to her, put on his jacket and went outside. He kick-started the bike and roared off, down the old beach road towards the abandoned slaughterhouse.

  They beat the lard out of him. Beat him until he shrieked, protesting his innocence the whole time, but they ignored his squeals and went about the business of hurting him like it was a job of work. At some point, Gunter realised his bone was hard and he wanted to stop and go away and figure out what that meant, but the boys kept egging him on and he couldn’t lose face so he kept driving his steel-capped boots into the boy’s ribs until he was a broken heap sobbing on the ground.

  Gunter woke with his knuckles swollen and one of the buckles on his motorcycle boots torn off, but somehow he felt more solid in his centre. That awful churning feeling was gone. So was the disturbing boner. All day long he turned jobs on the lathe, a satisfying ache in his muscles. Even the girls in the office remarked on his good mood. ‘Jazes, Gunter, you must be getting some,’ remarked the cute young Cullen one in passing.

  When he got home, the squad car was parked outside the flat. Jim Canavan was leaning on the roof, smoking one of those cheap skinny cigars. Gunter dismounted and dragged the bike onto its stand.

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Hop in,’ Canavan said, got behind the wheel and sprung the passenger door. Gunter squeezed his bulk into the car and adjusted the seat. Whoever had been sitting there last was a midget.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ Canavan said.

  ‘I’ve a fair idea.’

  ‘Thing is, he’s gone and filed a complaint.’

  Gunter nodded.

  ‘I’ll come down to the barracks.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Ah?’

  Gunter raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Canavan said. ‘But might want to think ahead next time you decide to hammer the hell out of some young lad, Gunter. You keep fucking up, I keep bailing you out. I’m not careful, you’ll cost me my pension. This is the last time.’

  He twisted the key in the ignition. Gunter opened the door and got out.

  Maggie was lying on the couch under her duvet. Her eyes were red and swollen. Gunter sat on the arm of the chair and put his hand on her head. She pulled away.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t do anything,’ she said.

  Gunter shrugged.

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  She got up and went into the bedroom, dragging the duvet behind like a bloated wedding train.

  ‘You’re just like the rest of them,’ she said. ‘A bastard.’

  I stuffed the papers into my jeans, closed my eyes and tried to block out the throbbing in my head. All night I dozed in my mother’s armchair until the birds woke me. Disjointed images, dream residue, seeped into the dawn light. My mother came downstairs. With every footstep my heart beat faster.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and ‘Joseph,’ she said, hand covering her mouth as she stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Were you in a fight?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that.’

  My teeth didn’t seem to fit together any more and my face felt like rubber. She fussed around, poking my ribs and pawing at my scalp and moving my arms like I was a doll or an action man. I told her some story about three total strangers jumping me on the street. She closed her eyes as if waiting for a migraine to pass.

  ‘Whoever they were,’ she said, ‘they were amateurs. The head is the hardest part of the body. If they wanted to do real damage, they’d have gone for your ribs.’

  It didn’t feel like an amateur job to me. I was about to say as much but the phone cut me off. My mother frowned.

  ‘Who in the name of god is ringing this early?’ She twisted the ends of her hair around smoke-browned fingers. ‘Will you get it?’

  It was Jamey’s mother, almost hysterical, speaking so fast I thought I’d faint from the intensity.

  ‘I’ve been up all night,’ she said. ‘Jamey was due home yesterday evening but he never showed. Have you heard anything?’

  I told her me and Jamey hadn’t spoken in weeks.

  ‘Oh lord,’ she said, ‘I was hoping you’d seen him.’

  My mother hovered over my shoulder and mouthed, ‘Who-is-it?’ but I waved her away and turned my back.

  ‘If you hear anything,’ Dee was saying, ‘call me, please. No matter what.’

  Her voice started to crack as she thanked me and hung up.

  ‘Well?’ my mother said.

  ‘It was Mrs Corboy.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Jamey’s gone AWOL. She wanted to know if I’d seen him.’

  She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Jamey since his exams finished.’

  She lit a cigarette. The nurse in the clinic always gave out to her for smoking before breakfast. Always put something in your stomach first, she nagged.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up,’ my mother said.

  I crawled upstairs to bed and didn’t wake until midday, nauseous with hunger.

  The holidays moved inexorably towards their end. My face came up in bruises and I barely left the house for fear of running into Gunter and his cronies. One morning I came downstairs and my mother was at the kitchen table, unwrapping tinfoil from a cake.

  ‘The dead arose and appeared to many,’ she said. ‘Look. Mrs Nagle sent us a barnbrack. She wants to make the peace.’

  ‘She’ll never learn.’

  ‘Nor will I.’

  She put the cake in the fridge and made a cup of tea and stood at the back door gazing out.

  ‘That’s the last of the summer,’ she said, squinting at the sun, a watery orb suspended in the sky. ‘We should make the best of it. C’mon, I’ll pack a lunch and we’ll rent a couple of bikes from Tyrell’s and go to the beach. The exercise will do us good.’

  I got dressed while she made sandwiches and packed them into a wicker picnic basket. She instructed me to fetch a blanket from the press and began unplugging stuff and locking up the house and then she shooed me out the door.

  We walked into the village and collected the bikes from Tyrell’s. My mother sat up on the saddle and smoked one last fag and then we set off out the old beach road. We had to dismount and walk the bikes up the steep gradient of the hills, but once over the crest we could freewheel for ages. The breeze in our faces made everything feel fresh, a relief from the muggy August heat. We made good time, and soon enough the roads grew narrower and the air was coarse with salt and specks of windblown sand. Gulls swooped and dived and fought the sea breeze. The fields seemed to draw back, blazing yellow. We heard the tide before we saw it, and as we crested the fi
nal hill it was like a blind flew up and the sea yawned wide and the feeling was almost vertiginous.

  We hid the bikes in the reeds and strode down the sandy slope. Waves roared and foamed and dashed themselves against the strand. We walked for ages, venturing further down the coast than I’d ever been before. It felt as though we were travelling back in time, pioneers in an unpeopled world. We had to pause every so often while my mother got her breath.