by Kealan Ryan
When their plane touches down in Dublin Airport at 10.25 a.m., John’s back is aching from sitting in the one position for the entire flight. Niamh isn’t in great form either – mainly because her honeymoon is over and she has to face the rain outside. It also doesn’t help that she hates mornings at the best of times.
At the baggage reclaim area, they wait for their bags to appear. Most of the other passengers have already claimed theirs and left by the time Niamh finally says, ‘That’s our bag there, babes.’
‘Where?’ John asks.
‘Right in front of you, grab it!’ she says, wondering how he can fail to see it – it’s a big, bright-yellow yoke; not like it blends in.
‘Which one?’ he asks again.
‘Jesus.’ Niamh steps forward and grabs the yellow bag, but it weighs a ton so ends up landing on her foot, causing her to yelp in pain and call John an eejit.
***
As John gets grief for being an idiot, Danny is sitting in a room full of them. I’m surprised he’s worked right up to the day before the hearing. I guess he just wanted to bury his head in the sand about the whole thing and keep his daily routine as normal as possible. He didn’t even tell his boss that he might not be working there anymore. He just took a week’s holiday and figured he’d deal with it when the time came. It’s worked out for him too, because his last day isn’t quite work at all but a half-day sales seminar his boss sent him on. ‘You’ll be able to digest it all while you’re in Portugal,’ his boss, Aidan, said. ‘Then you can come back and enlighten us all.’
‘Sure thing, Aido,’ said Danny. ‘No problem.’
‘Spot on.’
Poor trusting fool.
As always with these courses, it’s pretty obvious stuff that everyone seems mad into – except for Danny. He keeps wondering if they are all simply stupid or is he somehow not reading between the lines of the ‘dress nice, be positive’ bullshit that he already fucking knows?
Three hours in and he doesn’t think he can take much more. The chubby blonde girl beside him is driving him crazy with her dumbass questions and her need to vocalise her take on absolutely everything. There’s a person like this at every one of these things. A know-it-all teacher’s pet who talks more than the actual speaker. The guy giving the course is actually alright, but this chick is wrecking his head.
‘I find that the best approach is to let the customer come to you, let them think you’re almost too busy to take on their job. We have seven sales staff and that’s what I tell every one of them.’
Her smug face sickens him, yet he still finds himself fantasising about her. Following her into the toilets and fucking her hard over the sink, doggy style: ‘Take that you know-it-all slut!’ He feels his dick move in his trousers and thinks, I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. One more word out of her and he’ll snap.
He isn’t waiting long for that one more word. She chimes in again, interrupting the speaker. ‘Well, you see some of my clients won’t respond to a barrage of phone calls because they might consider us too small.’
That’s it. Danny turns towards her and says loud enough for the whole class to hear, ‘Sorry – what colour is the building that you work in?’ His face looks more sincere than I’ve ever seen it.
‘Red,’ she says, unsure what he’s getting at.
‘Great! Now I know everything about your fucking job!’
Three hours of this is enough. Out the door he goes, leaving the girl speechless for the first time since she sat down. The rest of the class are left half-smiling, half-shocked – all with mouths open.
Good man, Danny.
The fresh air hits his face hard when he leaves the building. He’s furious, mostly with himself – what the hell is he doing wasting what could be his last day of freedom sitting in some room listening to that crap? He has more important things to think about. Michelle is still pissed off at him about New Year’s, but she’s beginning to come around after having endured Danny’s incessant begging. ‘Please baby, I need you, I can’t live without you, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I love you, I’m nothing without you …’
That kind of thing. Suppose we’ve all been there.
It’s gas the different man you are when you’re alone with your bird – the shit you say, the way you act. If your mates could only hear half of it. I used to act like such a baby sometimes with Pam, especially when I was in an all loved-up mood. Crawling on her, doing baby talk, singing songs, half-crying even. It’s gas when you bust your mate acting like that – if they let their guard down by accident or if they don’t know you’re there. Although I’ve been stung a few times myself. One time, years ago, I was strolling down the road with Pamela. I don’t know what came over me, but for whatever reason I did like a little ballerina dance step around her. Just one move, that was it, but my timing couldn’t have been worse. Fucking Fred was at the end of the road coming towards us and I hadn’t seen him. All I heard as I was skipping around was a big loud drawn out ‘Chrrrristooopherrrr.’
My fucking heart – of all my friends Fred is definitely the worst one to catch you doing something like that. I could see how delighted he was when he saw me – the little grin on the bastard. First thing he did of course was run home and ring all the lads. I still got slagged about that up until recently. Every now and again Fred would bring it up with a big happy smile: ‘Do you remember Chris dancing around like a little princess?’ It would always get the same laugh as if he was telling it for the first time.
I must say I get a buzz out of watching Danny when he’s acting like a bitch with Michelle. When he thinks he’s completely alone and opens up. For a guy his size he cries an awful lot. He’s so fucking sensitive. I don’t blame him for being scared, but how Michelle takes all his whining I’ll never know.
He’s filling up again now as he reaches the bus stop. Thinking about his dad this time. He still hasn’t told him. Fucking eejit. He’s left it so late now it’s even worse than if he’d just got it off his chest straight away.
Jesus, if he’s crying just thinking about it, what he’s going to be like when he’s actually telling him? He can’t put it off any longer now, he’s already arranged to meet up with him later, so tonight’s the night.
By the time he gets home Michelle is already in the apartment. ‘What are you doing here, babe?’
‘I was off today.’
‘Oh great – good to see you.’ He gives her an awkward kiss.
‘How come you’re home so early?’
‘Ah I just had that course thing, sure.’
‘Oh yeah – how did it go?’
‘Yeah, it was pretty good.’
‘How you feeling?’
‘I’m okay. Glad you’re here … I’m just dreading talking to my dad.’ Here come the waterworks. ‘He’s going to be so disappointed in me.’
Yes, he will, Danny.
Michelle’s hugging him like she’s done so many times before. It’s funny how it’s never dawned on her that every time she is comforting him it’s always to do with him telling his dad or him going to prison – it’s never about me. She’s never had to comfort him because he’s so upset about killing a man. Not once has he said how bad he feels or anything. She’s under the impression that he’s all broken up about the tragedy of the whole situation – he’s not; it’s just how the situation he’s found himself in affects him personally that has him so upset.
***
It’s five past eight when he gets to his dad’s house, but he doesn’t go straight in. He stands outside for a while, having a smoke and looking in the window. He can just see his dad’s feet – two odd socks stretched out on the couch with the telly on. The socks make him smile. Danny’s the same when it comes to socks – he never bothers pairing them up. Doesn’t see the point; nobody sees them, anyway. Michelle used to slag him about it, but now he’s co
nverted her so that she never wears matching socks either – unless it’s by chance.
A cigarette usually takes about seven minutes to smoke, but Danny finishes his in three. He’s not ready to go in yet. One more smoke and then he’ll be ready. His dad is a good man, he thinks – a good father. He’s going to be understanding. Helpful. But he knows his dad isn’t in the best of health. What if he can’t take it? I’ve already killed one man – please, dear Lord, don’t let me kill another.
24
Danny focuses on his dad’s odd socks as he tries to fight back the tears. He knows if he looks up at his face he’ll lose it. The two of them sit side by side on the old leather couch in the living room, their knees almost touching until Senior moves himself a little further away.
‘How old was he?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Jesus, Danny.’
‘I know.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ The hurt is evident in his dad’s voice.
‘I couldn’t, Dad. I just couldn’t.’ He moves his eyes from his dad’s socks to the fireplace and the swirls of light at its centre.
‘You should have told me, maybe I could have helped you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Danny can barely speak. All his concentration is focused on trying to keep that ball of emotion in his gut from rising upwards.
‘You couldn’t … Jesus Christ, Danny, what have you done?’
‘It was an accident.’
‘An accident? You punch people by accident?’
The flames of the fire are reflected in Danny’s eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him.’
‘Great – you meant to punch him, though. You go around punching people, what the hell do you expect?’ That gets him. Danny holds one last breath and a bubble of wet snot bursts out of his nose along with floods of tears. ‘You’ve done it now, Danny – you’ve destroyed your own life, not to mention that poor man and his … did he have a family?
‘A wife and kid.’
‘Oh God help you – what have you done?’ Danny Senior says, standing up and pacing the length of the room.
‘I’m sorry.’
At least, I think that’s what he says. He’s breathing so heavily that I can barely understand him.
‘Don’t say sorry to me, it’s not my life you’ve destroyed.’
Damn right, Senior.
‘Jesus Christ, Dad.’ Danny manages to catch his breath, bringing the tears a little bit under control. ‘You think I wanted this? You think I wanted this to happen? I don’t need you to tell me what a bad person I am – I know.’
‘I didn’t say that but you …’
‘I know what I did, so don’t get all fucking righteous on me; it was an accident. I meant to punch him, not to kill him. Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten into a drunken bar fight – who the fuck hasn’t?’ He’s panting again – rocking back and forth, crying the way you might cry if you were alone. ‘It was an accident, I didn’t want to kill anyone, Dad, please Dad, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry.’
Senior’s heart is broken – how the hell has this landed at his door? He stops pacing and sits back down beside Danny. ‘Come here, son – I know you didn’t.’ Both in tears, they hold on to each other. ‘We’ll get through this.’
‘We won’t, Dad – I’m fucked.’ Senior can think of nothing to say. His son is right. ‘I’ve really done it this time. And I deserve whatever I get too.’
‘We’ll get through this, Danny, I promise you,’ his dad repeats.
Danny sniffles. ‘How?’
‘Together – we’ll do whatever needs to be done.’
‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
‘I know you are, son.’ He holds Danny a while longer. ‘Please stop crying.’ Danny sits up and wipes his face with the palms of his hands.
‘Will you come with me tomorrow?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.’
‘That’s okay – don’t worry about that now,’ he says, patting Danny gently on the knee.
They sit in silence for a while, Senior trying to take it all in.
‘I’m going to prison, amn’t I?’ Danny eventually says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How the hell am I going to get out of this? I have to say it was self-defence.’
‘Well, was it self-defence?’
‘Kind of. Your man was getting all agro at me – I hit him first, yeah, but I thought he might hit me.’
Lying prick.
Senior shakes his head. ‘That’s not self-defence, son.’
‘Well, maybe I should say he shoved me or something.’ He knows that’s going to be hard for his dad to take. Senior says nothing and when Danny glances up at him his expression is exactly what he expects – heartbreak, disappointment, shame. He can read his dad’s face like a book. ‘I have to say something, Dad.’
‘I know you’re scared, son. But no matter how scared you are you can’t say something about the dead man that isn’t true. You can’t dishonour him any more than you already have.’
Junior lets out another whimper, ‘But he was mouthing off at me – all squaring up …’
Senior looks straight into his son’s eyes. His voice is forceful, insistent. ‘That doesn’t give you the right, son. What he might have done doesn’t matter.’
Danny’s got nothing. He knows his dad is right. It’s just that the thought of prison terrifies him so much, he feels desperate to find some way out. Talking with his dad now is the first time that he truly realises there is no way out. There is nothing he can do about it except throw himself to the wolves and hope they don’t savage him too much.
Losing all hope is in some way slightly comforting. The anxiety of trying to figure out an angle – praying that he will somehow get away with it – has all left him now. He’s still terrified but he knows for the first time what he will do.
‘You’re right, Dad.’
He wipes his tears and decides that he’s not going to cry anymore about it. I’ll believe that when I see it.
‘I’m going to just apologise. There’s nothing I can do. Plead guilty and pray that I don’t have to go to prison for too long.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ Senior says, as if he’s only now thought of the reality of his only son being put away.
‘Well, I’m going to prison, Dad; that’s one thing that’s certain.’
‘Christ … what does your barrister say?’
Danny hesitates. ‘He was kind of pushing the self-defence angle as well. That’s pretty much what he is planning on saying tomorrow.’
‘That’s not an option, son.’
Danny nods. ‘I know – don’t worry, I’m not going to say that anymore.’
Senior stands up and walks over to the liquor cabinet. He had got in a bottle or two for visitors over Christmas. Danny watches him take out two glasses; he considers saying something but holds his tongue.
‘Do you want ice?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
Senior notices his hands shaking as he puts ice in his son’s glass and just a drop of water in his own. He hasn’t drunk alcohol in over fifteen years, hasn’t wanted one in ten but knows there is no way he’ll get through this night without the taste of whiskey. When he used to go on benders, Paddy’s was his drink. He thinks about that as he pours – glad it’s a nice bottle of ten-year-old Laphroaig that he’s pouring instead. He’d sworn that he’d never drink another Paddy’s. Then again, he’d sworn that he’d never drink another anything, period.
‘Here you go,’ he says, handing his son a glass.
‘Thanks. Are you sure you want one, Dad?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Neither one takes a sip right away. Senior plays with the glass in his hand a while, watche
s the oily liquid swirl around, mixing with the water. His eyes fill up. Danny wants to say something – he’s never seen pain like it in his dad’s face, not even when his mam died.
‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
The cold glass in Senior’s hand and the smell of the drink seem so familiar and comforting. Part of him recoils from its allure and he considers standing up, walking to the kitchen and throwing it down the sink, but instead finds himself saying, ‘We’ll just have the one.’
‘Okay.’
Taking his eyes off the glass, he asks, ‘Will you stay over tonight?’
‘Sure, Dad, I’ll just have to ring Michelle.’
‘Good,’ he whispers.
He gives one last look into the glass, then takes a sip. He doesn’t knock it back, just savours it. It feels good. He can smell the smoke, the oak casks it had been resting in, feels the coldness of the whiskey followed by the explosion of heat in his chest. The two of them sit there together in silence as the whiskey touches their lips.
They don’t just have the one, though. They stay sitting until they finish the whole bottle.
25
Apart from New Year’s Day, it is the first decent night’s sleep Danny has had since this whole thing started. Being so drunk helps, telling his dad is a load off and I decide to leave him alone as well. He sleeps like a fucking baby. I should try to wake him, I suppose, but instead I go off to the woods to play with my night-vision eyes and listen to John’s voice from past conversations and memories.
I watch a commune of crows sleeping high in the branches. I don’t know why everyone hates crows, I always thought they were cool. Is it just because they can’t sing? That’s a bit harsh. My dad can’t sing either, but we still love him. For a guy who literally hasn’t a note in his head, it’s strange that he still likes sing-songs. He can’t even sing olé, olé in tune. But every time I’d sing a song I’d look over at him and he’d be quietly enjoying it. He’d look at me proudly with the slightest of smiles on his face. It’s not like I had this great voice or anything, but I’d be doing something that he was unable to do – maybe the only thing. That look he gave me always made me feel warm inside. He was like that with Brian and Tim too. Come to think about it, he didn’t overly like sing-songs – he only used to like it when me, my mam or one of my brothers would sing. If an aunty or one of my mam’s mates sang, I’d see him throwing his eyes up to heaven or looking completely uninterested. Not uninterested, actually – irritated.
