by Kealan Ryan
My dad is sleeping surprisingly well this night too. My poor mother is barely getting a wink; just looking at her almost makes me go back to Danny to start stirring the bastard. But I stay with her, until she finally succumbs to exhaustion.
I go back to my new friends, the crows. I never saw a sleeping bird when I was alive; I suppose why would I have? There must be about twenty of them, snoozing away. One little thing, though, is wide awake, looking about the place and down on two smaller crows I figure are her young. I sit watching her head dart back and forth, when out of nowhere what seems like a giant bird swoops in from behind and scares the crap out of me. The big crow stands for a long while at the edge of the tree, looking in over his family. It’s the kind of thing you would never see unless you’re watching a David Attenborough programme (and I never watched them).
I’d stay longer, but I have my own family to watch over. Pam isn’t asleep either; she’s in Robbie’s room, standing over his cot. I swoop in behind her just like the giant crow did with his family and she smiles. I know it’s because little Robbie has a funny expression on his face, but I also like to think it’s because, somewhere deep down in her soul, she knows I am with her now; the two of us looking down over our son together.
I won’t leave her. I won’t go to Danny’s. All things considered, she doesn’t seem as sad as I thought she would; instead, she looks determined. Watching her turn off the lights and set the alarm before getting under the blankets makes me proud.
She used to hate staying in the house alone; she’d get frightened that someone might break in or something. Another thing she’s had to get used to since my death. That was probably the hardest thing for her, apart from missing me – being alone at night. She would never go to bed by herself if I was out and she wasn’t. I’d come home in the middle of the night and she’d be fast asleep on the couch. I used to love it – she’d be so adorable when I’d wake her up, asking me if I had a nice night, baby, and then stumbling with me into bed. I’d often say that she should have gone to bed and she’d tell me she’d been too scared.
‘But what are you afraid of?’
‘What if someone breaks in?’
‘Well, what difference does it make whether you’re on the couch or up in bed?’
‘There’s more escape routes downstairs. I’d run to get help.’
I’d always tickle her during these conversations – halfway through most of our conversations actually.
‘My little hero.’
‘Ah, haha, stop it! Stop it!’ It would always take at least two yelps before I would.
‘But if someone really wants to attack you, they’re going to get you no matter where you are in the house.’
‘Chris!’
‘Sorry, baby – I’m only messing, no one is going to break in.’
‘You don’t know that, you have no idea how hard it is being a girl.’
‘It sounds shit.’
‘Totally.’
I’d put my arms around her then and give her a big hug.
If I had known then just how alone at night she would soon be I never would have teased her about it, but I always thought she was cute when she was scared. It’s amazing how much she has recovered from that – the first few nights were hell for her. And I don’t mean the first few nights after my death; she was too full of grief then and there were a lot of people around anyway. I mean, once the dust settled and people started getting back to their own lives. She was pure terrified at first – looking under the bed, in the hot press – and the sad part was that she knew how stupid she was being. She just couldn’t help it. After looking behind all the doors, she’d finally get under the covers and literally cry herself to sleep.
All this was hell for me too. You can’t imagine how hard it is, watching the person you love most in the world in pure agony, unable to do anything but watch. That’s it, no rub of the shoulder, no kiss on the lips. Just watch.
But she has gotten so strong since those nights. Deep down, she’s still afraid, but she doesn’t go through the same ritual before going to bed. She simply makes sure the door is locked, the windows are closed, looks in on our son and goes to bed. Sometimes the house noises wake her up. Our house can make fierce noises – floorboards creaking for no reason, pipes going nuts. We were so used to them we stopped hearing them, but when you suddenly find yourself alone and terrified it’s the last thing you want to be hearing in the middle of the night.
This time, it’s the floorboards that wake her up – they make a sound like someone is walking on the landing and it startles her out of her sleep. Her forehead is sweating and I wish I could rub it for her, but instead I just look. I stay with her though – till she closes her eyes once more, till she drifts off into a deep sleep, till she wakes up to the day in which she’ll have to see my killer’s face again.
26
Everybody looks a million bucks. My dad’s in his dark-green suit that he wears to every occasion he’s invited to. The same suit he wore to my funeral. The two lads look like twins – both wearing grey suits. Pam looks lovely in her woollen coat, as does my mam, but they both seem tired too. Orla’s dressed smart as well, to be fair. When they all walk up to the towering columns of the Four Courts my mam notices that the River Liffey running past them seems uncharacteristically choppy. She’s usually not one for superstitions but still can’t help feeling that it’s a bad omen. Nobody is particularly ready to go in yet. They just make small talk, while trying not to discuss what the day is actually about.
Brian sparks up a smoke and gives one to Pam.
‘Have you got a spare one?’ Tim asks. He never has his own smokes. Brian has to take them back out of his pocket to give one to him.
‘Cheers.’
As Pam takes her first drag, she notices John and Fanny walking up the road towards them, which puts a smile on her face, ‘Look it – here come the lads.’
Brian looks around. ‘I didn’t know Fanny was coming, jeez, fair play to him.’
Pam gives the pair of them a big hug before they go over to say hi to my folks. My mam looks around and is surprised to see them.
‘Ah hello, Fanny.’
Everyone smiles as Fanny goes red; we always got a kick out of when an old person would call Fanny by his nickname. It’s strange – we would never notice ourselves calling him that, but as soon as someone like my mam said it, with such a polite voice, the stupidity of his name would make us laugh. Plus, Fanny is a relatively shy person, so that makes it all the better.
Tim’s actually laughing, ‘You’re looking well, Fanny.’
‘Thanks, Tim,’ he starts smiling back. ‘You’re looking well yourself.’
‘Thanks very much, I haven’t been working out or anything.’
‘Yeah, I can tell.’
John goes over and shakes my dad’s hand. ‘Hiya, Frank.’
‘How’re you doing, John – how was the honeymoon?’
John shrugs. ‘Yeah, yeah – we had a great time, thanks … The Big Apple, some spot.’
‘Why do they call it the Big Apple anyway?’ Tim wants to know.
‘Beats me,’ John says.
‘Jaysus man, you were just there,’ says Tim, disappointed.
‘So what?’
‘Were you not curious to find out?’
‘Nope.’
Fanny’s head is full of useless information, so he opens his mouth. ‘It comes from black stable boys in the twenties who were used to touring around shitty quarter-mile race tracks in the middle of nowhere. They were so happy going to New York where all the money was – it was so big to them that they referred to it as … “The Big Apple”.’
Tim’s mouth is open. ‘Wow – I’m impressed.’
‘Where the hell do you come up with this stuff?’ John smiles.
‘It’s ridiculous. Who knows crap like that?’
Pam says as she takes another drag.
My mam seems impressed too. ‘Where did you hear that, Fanny?’
They all start smiling again.
Fanny manages not to blush this time. ‘Just picked it up, Kate. There is actually another school of thought that it comes from all the sidewalk apple vendors of the depression era.’
‘Ah here, that’s enough,’ my dad says.
‘No, no,’ says Orla. ‘I want to hear something else that will go in one ear and out the other.’
Pam’s laughing her Muttley laugh. ‘Yeah, Fanny, tell us why The Windy City is called The Windy City.’
Tim jumps in. ‘It’s because Dad used to live there.’
‘Hey – very funny,’ Dad says as he swings out a mess punch at Tim.
Pam starts laughing even more – she loves fart jokes for some reason.
I remember when I first started going out with her I used to hold in my farts all the time. It was terrible because I was one of those blokes who was prone to farting. I know all guys are, but I seemed to be even worse. On two separate occasions I was given a present of A Farter’s Pocketbook by Jan Velden. Once by Pam on my birthday and once by a girl in work for a Kris Kindle. The second time I got it I was kind of embarrassed.
The first time I farted in front of Pam I made a big production out of it. I felt one coming on and just hadn’t the energy to hold it in any longer, so I did a kind of dance. The final move was getting into a sumo wrestler-style stance and roaring out a big loud bang. She fucking cracked up. That was her mistake, because from that moment on I never held in a fart again. For the first year or so I’d always do some sort of move before the fart, but bit by bit the moves/dances would get shorter until it was just a question of cocking my arse.
It became so natural a thing that in the end nothing would even be said. We’d be sitting there watching TV, I’d fart and neither one of us would blink. We used to joke about it – that if ever we’d break up where the hell would I get another girl that would put up with it?
When I was younger I remember visiting my grand-aunt and uncle. My Uncle Tommy would be sitting on his chair and let off a stinker, and me and my brothers would be disgusted. Not so much at the fart but more at the total disrespect of doing it in front of my Aunt Kay. I realise now that it wasn’t disrespect – he just felt comfortable doing it. She’d just smile and say nothing and I’d put it down to him being old and hoped I’d never get like that. Funny how history repeats itself.
Pam used to love Dutch ovens – when you fart under the blanket and hold your partner’s head under there. Everyone else on the planet hates them, but Pamela used to find them so funny that it outweighed the horribleness of them. Once the sick bitch even asked for one for her birthday.
The only person I knew who enjoyed other people’s farts more than Pam was Davey. Two years ago a few of us were out on his porch having a smoke and he ran upstairs to go to the toilet. I farted and heard him laughing from upstairs – he held on to his piss and came all the way downstairs just to see who did it, ‘Who did it, who did it?’
‘Me.’
The guy was in floods of tears as he walked back up to the jacks.
Davey was originally going to come with Fanny and John to the courthouse, but as always with him he waited till the last minute to sort out a day off, so in the end he was unable to get it. I’m glad Fanny has made it, though; he always puts me in a good mood.
‘Contrary to widespread belief, The Windy City is not so called because of Mr Cosgrave’s flatulence problem,’ Fanny says.
‘Hey!’
‘No, it comes from a reference made about Chicago politicians who were full of “hot air”.’
‘That’s not it either – it’s because of all the wind that blows through the town because of the big lake it’s next to,’ Brian argues.
Fanny shakes his head. ‘No, that’s what most people think …’
‘Most people think it because it’s true,’ Tim interrupts.
Fanny’s about to come up with some other lame argument but notices Pam’s face. All the blood has drained from it and to Fanny it looks like she’s aged about ten years in thirty seconds. ‘You okay?’ he asks. She just stares ahead. ‘Pam – you okay?’ They all look at her and then turn in the direction that she’s facing – to see a big, strapping lad walking towards them.
John freezes. He can’t speak – tries to say, ‘Are you okay?’ or ‘Is that him?’ All he can muster up instead in the tiniest of whispers is ‘Jesus.’
They all stare at the big lad walking with his head down beside a smaller, older man. Pam starts shaking till my dad takes control. ‘Come here, love.’ He puts a comforting arm around her and turns her to walk the other way. She’s still shaking and he keeps his arm tight around her shoulder, rubbing his hand softly up and down. He glances back at Danny and then to the rest of them. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s get a coffee before going inside.’
They all follow, except for Brian. He remains there, glaring – praying that this big prick will look up.
Danny notices them from a distance but keeps his head down as he approaches; he just can’t bring himself to meet their eyes. Danny’s dad sees Brian, too – it would be hard to miss him. He guesses who he must be by his demeanour and feels sorry for Brian, wants for him to see it in his eyes, but Brian has no interest in him. Doesn’t even see him. Danny’s dad looks back to his son and tightens his grip around him. He feels sorry for Brian, sure, but he is here for his child. This is the most traumatic thing he’ll ever go through; there is no way he is going to let him down.
27
Pam and Orla are the only two Danny has seen before. Until now he wasn’t sure if he’d recognise them. All it takes is a split second, though. It’s actually Orla that he sees first – well, her shock of red hair to be exact. She wears it short and bright but it’s not just that – it’s too high at the crown or something so it really stands out.
Anyway, he sees her and looks at the ground. It’s the first time since I’ve been living in Danny’s pocket that I can feel real guilt in him. Proper guilt. With my parents and friends there he can see firsthand who he has fucked. He stays looking at the ground, but still he knows they’re all staring. Thank Christ his dad is there, he thinks.
He’s still trying to decide whether or not to look up when he notices that they are all walking away. All but one. The closer he gets to Brian the more frightened he becomes. It’s intimidating, having him standing there, glaring; no way in hell is he looking up now. His legs start to feel weak and, as if sensing this, his dad tightens his grip around him. Makes him stand up straight and walk right past the man he assumes is my brother. A part of Danny wants to stop, wants to say something to Brian – try to apologise – but he is unable to look at him, let alone stop for a quick chat. ‘Hey you must be a Cosgrave, sorry about the whole killing a loved one and all – my bad.’ He’s better off keeping the head down.
I’d almost feel half sorry for Danny, if not for the expression on poor Brian’s face; pain, anger, hurt, disgust, fear all swirled together – it’s a face I’ve never seen him wear before. He didn’t know how he’d react when coming face to face with Murray. He wants to do something – to say something. I kind of want him to as well, but I don’t know what and neither does he. Shouting or hitting him – they both seem kind of futile.
Tim has no such problem. ‘You, you fucking wanker!’
On his way to the coffee shop he’d gone to say something to Brian and noticed that he hadn’t followed them. He started back towards where Brian was standing and held his tongue until Danny was within ear reach – he didn’t want to be roaring for everyone to hear.
Danny doesn’t look up, but Tim notices him wince so smiles, ‘You juiced-up prick, you’re going down, you cunt.’
Senior looks up at Tim with a pained expression, but Tim hardly notices. ‘K
eep walking, slim – enjoy the fresh air while you can.’
‘Leave it, Tim.’ Brian turns around and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
***
My family and friends are hardly speaking by the time my case is called. None of them can take their eyes off Danny, except for Fanny and Tim, who both notice what a great ass Michelle has – but that only makes them hate him more. When she first showed up they were checking her out and couldn’t believe it when she went over and gave Danny a kiss.
‘Fuck,’ Fanny said, shocked.
Tim wasn’t happy either. ‘The bastard – look at the bird he’s going out with.’
‘That makes me sick. A prick like him with a girl that hot.’
‘She must be a dope.’
‘Still.’
Tim got over it soon enough, but for some reason Fanny can’t stop looking at her. Sitting down in the courtroom he keeps watching Danny like everyone else, but your one is sitting right behind him, so each time he looks at him he can’t help but check her out. I have to laugh at him. Such a serious situation and Fanny the pervert is imagining himself kissing the little freckle on the lower part of her neck.
My dad is burning a hole in Danny’s back and he can feel it. He can feel them all looking at him, thinking he is the baddest bastard in the world. He’d always thought of himself as a good guy. Same as everyone else, I guess – like the hero of his own movie. Except the hero of the movie never kills some innocent dude, then goes to prison for it, and now, with those eyes boring into him, he is beginning to really see that. To think that maybe he’s the baddie.
I wonder do the real sick fuckers still think they’re the goodies? Up until now Danny certainly did. Until he started thinking of all the people he’s fucked over – all the fights he’s gotten into, all the people who don’t like him, the way he knows his friends aren’t all that crazy about him, the way he treats Michelle, the way he talks about his dad being an alcoholic to get sympathy, the way he killed me. He’s not a good person but at least he can half-see it. What about the complete psychos, though? I wonder did Jack the Ripper go about his business thinking he was the man?
