by Kealan Ryan
‘Not until this dickhead apologises,’ Danny said.
As soon as he said that I burst out laughing – as soon as I burst out laughing he swung for me. The punch hit me on the left side of the neck, my head spun around sharply to the right and I collapsed to the ground never to recover. The blow caused a haemorrhage in the main artery of my neck and I died minutes later.
I knew it was serious when I hit the ground. I wanted to stand up, wanted to tell Pam to stop crying – that I was fine. But my body wouldn’t respond. She knelt down beside me and Danny was standing behind her looking proud that he’d just floored a guy with one punch. I didn’t want to look at him anymore; there was no way I was getting up to fight and I was afraid if I kept looking at him he’d kick me in the head or something.
Stop crying, Pam, I’m grand – if I could just say the words. Everything started going dark; even though I had never fainted before, I knew I was about to pass out. I wish I’d got at least one dig in, I’m out for the count here, hope it’s not too serious. Shit, I hope we still get to watch Unforgiven.
13
One punch – that’s so fucking humiliating. What’s my boy going to think when he grows up and finds out that his dad was killed with only one punch? It’s so embarrassing – he’s going to think I was a pussy. Everyone likely does. My folks, friends – whether they’d admit it to themselves or not.
When I came to there were loads of people around me. I thought it was a dream. Pam was screaming her head off while Orla was trying to calm her down. Danny was still there – he was sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, crying. Michelle stood a few feet away from him, her hand over her mouth. She looked fit to vomit. There were a couple of paramedics hovering over me, along with some guards and a bunch of gawkers just hanging around.
I tried to tell Pam to calm down but realised that I couldn’t speak, that I wasn’t actually there. I was apart from it all, including myself. I’d had some weird nightmares before but they’d been nothing quite like this.
Looking at myself lying on the ground was what really freaked me out. For some reason, I still didn’t think I was dead; I just kept thinking about how funny I looked – how I didn’t quite look like me. I’d never seen myself how other people see me, after all; I’d only ever seen myself in the mirror. True, I’d seen photos and videos, but I always thought I looked weird on camera and never realised why until those moments hovering over my lifeless body. Me in a mirror is the reverse of what everyone else sees. Seeing my face as it actually is made me think that my features looked all out of proportion. I had always thought I was pretty good-looking, but in that moment I started to doubt it. So about the same time that I was figuring out that I might be dead, I was also realising that I had gone my whole life thinking I was better-looking than I actually was. It sucked.
I finally dragged my focus away from my body to all the faces around me. It was only then that reality struck –
Holy shit, this is fucked, am I dead or what? Pam! Pam! – I can’t be. I’m not fucking dead! No. Pam, Pamela! – Orla. No, please God, no, Pam! Oh God, please, please don’t let me be dead.
I fell apart.
One minute I had been having a smoke, talking to my wife; the next I was fucking dead. Just another poor bastard who had gotten killed on a Saturday night out – some small note on page 33 of The Herald, a fucking statistic. What am I going to do now – what’s Pam going to do? Oh shit, Robbie.
My whole world spun as, bit by bit, the weight of what had just happened began to crush me. Thinking then of my poor folks and brothers. I wished Pam would stop crying.
The guards had taken Danny away, at least. I was relieved that I didn’t have to look at him anymore – but then, for the first time, I realised that I could still see him. All I wanted was to stay with Pam – why was a part of me going with him? Following him to the back of the squad car, sitting with him all the way to the station. Listening to every little sound he made – every panicked breath, every sob.
14
Everybody wants to see their own funeral. Well, the good news is that you’ll get to. The bad news is that you’ll feel so damn sorry for yourself that you’re not going to be able to enjoy any of it. It happens so close to your death that you’re still freaked out and not used to the idea at all. (I was in shock for weeks, still half-hoping that it was some horrible dream.) I can look back on the day now and see the nice aspects of it, but at the time I was too devastated to give a shit.
One thing I didn’t like – and still don’t – was the priest. It just came across like he didn’t know me from Adam, which, to be fair, he didn’t. There was a fierce amount of padding during the ceremony and a lot of talk about God and how I’m in a better place and stuff. Even the holiest of Joes didn’t find any of it comforting, listening to the priest hunched over and mumbling into his cheap mic with crackly speakers: ‘The death of Chris is not the end of his life, but rather a transformation in an outward journey towards eternal life with God. His call to eternal life began in the waters of baptism. There is of course sadness for the bereaved in his parting and a sense of shock. But with this sadness we find consolation that he is with Christ, our life and resurrection. We give thanks to God for the life of Chris and we pray that God may forgive whatever sins he may have committed through human weakness.’
Oh, fuck off.
It was a great turnout – including loads of people I didn’t even know. I was glad they were there to bring up the numbers; I just wished they had acted a little sadder. I wasn’t too into them all chatting nonchalantly outside the church. Still, it was good to have the place packed; I honestly didn’t think there would be as many. I didn’t have a whole bunch of friends. The lads I hung out with in school were the same guys I hung out with right up until the day I died. Made a few more pals along the way but not a whole lot. But for my funeral everyone turned out. I suppose my being young made it extra sad, so anyone that half knew me or used to be friends with me made the effort. One guy, Jay Loughran, flew all the way from London. Fierce decent of him. I had been mates with him in school but hadn’t seen him in years. I know I wouldn’t have gone to his funeral if I’d been living in London. I’d be sad about it, sure, but it wouldn’t cross my mind to fly in for it. I wasn’t really thoughtful like that when I was alive – not that I’d set out to be mean or anything; it just wouldn’t have dawned on me to be so considerate. People can be very good. He always got on well with my folks so wanted to lend his support. I’m sorry now that I didn’t keep in touch with him.
Robbie cried through most of it, which aggravated my dad a bit. My poor mother was just in a daze. I stayed mainly with Brian and Tim for the funeral – it was too much for me to be beside Pam. For some reason I got strength off them. They’re the only two who weren’t in floods of tears the whole time. Well, my dad wasn’t either. Everyone was all impressed with how well he was dealing with things, but I could barely look at him.
He’s like a different person now. He’d always been a quiet man, but very happy and content. He’d never really get in a bad mood. I rarely saw him sulking or angry. I never saw him look vulnerable either – he always seemed so strong to me. Any time something bad happened he’d see a positive in it – or at least a way out. When I was alive I only ever saw him cry once and that was at his mother’s funeral. It wasn’t much of a cry either, a single tear running down his face. But now, when he’s alone, he’ll let go. It’s Danny that has done this to him – changed my dad, taken the life out of him. He was so pale at the funeral, his heart broken.
***
I always liked the idea of having a big Irish wake – one where everyone could get drunk, sing songs, maybe cry a bit but mainly have a good time. Do that whole ‘celebrate the life’ thing instead of mourning. I was a bit pissed off that my funeral wasn’t like that. I was glad everyone was sad, but I figured there would be plenty of time for that after the wake. Brian a
nd Tim would have preferred a bit of a piss-up, but they understood that no one else was in the mood. Well, John would have been up for it too, but there was no way any of them were going to push for it. It ended up being just family and close friends that went back to my parents’ house.
‘What should we do about that cunt who killed him?’
I was wondering how long it would be till that came up and I wasn’t surprised that it was Tim who said it. He’d waited until they were alone sitting around the kitchen table, nursing the few bottles of beer that were in the house.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brian.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Let me guess. You want to show up at his house with balaclavas on and beat the shit out of the fucker.’ Brian looked agitated and John just kept his mouth shut.
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m an asshole – and I want to do more than just beat the shit out of him.’
‘Oh right, kill him is it? Sure why not? Let’s kill this guy and we can all go to jail.’
‘We have to do something, don’t we? What do you think, John?’ Tim knew he was getting nowhere with Brian, so figured John would be a better bet. I knew Tim had no real desire to go through with his crazy idea, but I couldn’t blame him for at least wanting to talk about it. In truth, it had crossed all their minds, but they’re not really the type of lads who could carry anything like that out. They’re just normal guys, not scumbags or hard bastards. Still, on some level, it would be nice to think that you’re the type of guy who would avenge your brother or best friend’s death, so I guess talking about it was, weirdly, the first step in forgiving themselves for doing nothing.
‘We can’t let him get away with it.’
I was surprised when John said that, as he’s always been kind of a pacifist. Still, it was obvious that he didn’t mean it. The lads knew he didn’t mean it too, but Tim latched on to it anyway.
‘Right, thank you. Are you with us, Brian?’
‘Am I with you? Fine, if you guys really want to do something, then I’ll go along with it. I mean, what is it you want to do?’
Tim hesitated. ‘I suppose we follow him one night and jump him – not kill him, but we have to at least give him a beating.’
‘Christ – that’s really going to solve a lot, isn’t it?’
‘He was our brother for fuck’s sake!’
‘I know – do you not think I want to do something too? But Jesus, what good will it do? His bruises will heal and Chris will still be dead. Unless we kill him, which I fucking know no one here will do, then we’ll never get back at him – never.’
‘We have to do something, Brian,’ John pleaded.
Brian shook his head. ‘Okay, John – you do something. Let me know what you come up with.’ Brian left the kitchen then, walked into the living room and sat down beside my mam. He smiled at her and placed his hand on her knee.
That night, Brian stayed away from everyone for the most part. He was pissed off at Tim and John because he knew they were full of shit. If any of them would do anything it would most likely be him, and he wondered if he had it in him.
15
The next few weeks were tough. Actually they were downright horrific. If I wasn’t already dead I would have killed myself for sure – which of course makes no fucking sense at all. When I look back on it I still feel nauseous. Everyone crying, including me, especially me. The first time I stopped crying was in the pub with the lads. Literally the first time in three weeks. Think about that for a second before you brush past it – crying solidly for three weeks.
The lads were out for pints in the local. Every time my name was mentioned I’d lose it, but bit by bit I started to come around. It was actually Davey who made me smile first. He’s such a flakey guy you can’t help but enjoy the fucker. There were four of them out: Davey, John, Fred and Fanny. May as well explain Fanny’s stupid name first – simple really – his name’s Niall, but when he went to Florida at thirteen he came back with one of those bum-bags. Stupid-looking things, anyway, but he made the mistake of calling it a fanny pack. ‘They’re handy yokes, and it’s not a bum-bag – it’s a fanny pack.’ Jesus, the laughter – he couldn’t get a word in edgeways after that. So the poor bastard has been lumbered with the name ever since. Even his mother calls him Fanny.
There’s a local lottery in the pub that we never really do, but this particular night it was up to four grand so John reckoned they should give it a shot, ‘Come on, lads, 50 cent each only.’ The other three threw their money on the table while John picked out the numbers. ‘How’s fifteen, three, one, nineteen and twenty-nine sound to ye?’ Everyone seemed happy enough with them so John continued, ‘Grand so, I’ve a good feeling about this one.’
Just as he was saying that he saw Davey stopping the lounge boy again, ‘Sorry, mate, give me another one of those tickets will you – double me chances what?’
The lads thought nothing of it, but then John noticed the numbers Davey ticked off: fifteen, three, one, nineteen and twenty-nine. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘What?’
‘Are you putting down the same numbers that we all did?’
‘Yeah, so what?’
‘Jesus – you can’t do that.’
At this point I started to smile. The other lads did too, but John was getting pissed off. Davey was only doing this to get a rise out of him; we could all see that – except for John himself, of course.
‘Why not?’
‘You just can’t – what if we win?’
‘Well that’s great if we win. That’s why we’re playing isn’t it?’
‘Yeah but what happens, are we still getting €1,000 each?’
‘Of course not, don’t be stupid.’ Davey handed the lottery ticket back to the lounge boy and took a sip out of his pint.
John’s face had turned puce. ‘So, what? You get two grand and we have to split the other two between the three of us? That’s bollocks.’
‘No, we split the other two between the four of us,’ Davey replied as he wiped the Guinness moustache from his face.
‘Ah fuck that, don’t be such a dickhead.’
‘Hey come on now, I’m taking the biggest risk here – I deserve the biggest reward.’ Fred and Fanny were laughing by now, and so was I. ‘You can buy another ticket as well if you want – I don’t mind.’
‘I don’t want another fucking ticket!’
‘Well what are you complaining about then?’
‘It’s just not in the spirit of things, we’re supposed to win it all together, not you get €2,500 and we only get €500.’
‘Don’t be so greedy, €500 is nothing to be sneezed at.’
‘They’re my numbers, you prick.’
‘They’re more mine than they are yours; I paid €2.50 for them whereas you only paid 50 cent.’ Davey had a point.
‘Yeah, but I picked them for all of us to win.’
At this point Fanny had enough. ‘We’re not going to win, you fucking eejit.’
Davey stepped in again. ‘If someone else picked those same numbers, someone you didn’t know, would you mind then?’
‘No, but it’s not the same thing.’
‘Oh, I get it, you don’t mind sharing with some stranger, but you’d begrudge me, your friend, a little bit of the action?’
‘It’s all the action, you wanker – I’m not the bad guy here, you are.’
‘Would you listen to yourself, for God’s sake – stop being such a pus – “Ooh, I picked them for everyone.”’
That was enough to shut John up. He was still pissed off but copped on that chances of them winning were pretty slim at best and he was starting to make a fool out of himself.
I wish to God I had some power from beyond the grave that could have made them win that money the following week. I’d have given anythin
g to see John’s face as Davey collected his winnings. I’ve seen Davey do that type of thing to piss John off a million times before and I’ve always enjoyed it – but this time it actually helped me. To finally be able to laugh – even if it was just at Davey acting like a prick. I don’t know, I guess the whole thing just gave me a little bit of hope.
16
Night-times can be particularly hard. No one is doing anything so it can be boring as hell. That’s why I spend most nights at Danny’s. At least I’m doing something there – trying to wake him, to get through to him somehow. And it seems to work. He always wakes up. He hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since I’ve been with him. And the longer I’ve been around the more I’m managing to wake him. I like to think that he can feel my presence breathing down his neck, my soul burning a hole in him. That he’s scared for the first time in his life.
Wake up, Danny-boy, time for another lovely day – open your eyes, you fucking prick, come on, Danny – wake up.
His eyes are open now. I’m positive he knows I’m with him in his dreams, but what about now that he’s awake? He can never quite remember what he dreamt of, he just senses that the dreams were terrifying. His sheets are drenched with sweat and the blankets thrown off. It’s amazing Michelle doesn’t wake up with all his tossing and turning. She did, at first. I guess she’s just gotten used to it.
I like watching Danny after he’s been woken up – eyes open, breathing heavily. He often looks around the room as if expecting someone to be there. The first time he wakes he’ll usually get back to sleep. It’s the second and third times that cause him such trouble. It can take anywhere from ten minutes to two hours before he’s asleep again – if he returns to sleep at all. And if he does manage it, I do everything I can to force him awake again.
It’s not just messing with his head that I like about the night. I enjoy the darkness, or, more particularly, I like that I can see everything even though it’s pitch black. I had always wanted a pair of night-vision goggles when I was alive, but a decent pair cost around six or seven hundred quid and I was never able to justify spending that much on what would basically just be a toy. Now it’s like I have night vision, except much better. You know the way it is in movies when the army guy puts on the goggles and everything turns green – it’s not like that for me – there are just as many colours at night as there are in the day – more maybe. And, if anything, the colours look richer.
