The Middle Place

by Kealan Ryan

  I know you are.

  ‘My dad’s dead.’

  I know. I was with him when he died.

  ‘I killed you both.’ He looks around the room again. The walls are changing colour. ‘Who’s there!’ he screams, then looks at the ground, confused, as if he’s forgotten where he is for a second.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers again.

  Can you see me?

  ‘I know you can hear me. Can you forgive me?’

  No.

  ‘I wish you could forgive me.’

  I do too.

  ‘If you can forgive me maybe everything will be alright.’

  What do you mean?

  ‘But things will never be alright.’

  Maybe they can be.

  ‘Can you forgive me?’

  No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  ‘If you can forgive me maybe everything will be alright.’ Danny slumps down on his bed, the walls spinning all around him. Too fast for him to keep his eyes open. He closes them to stop the ache in his brain but the insides of his eyelids are spinning just as fast. He grabs his forehead and shouts, ‘Make it stop!’ Turning on his side, he grits his teeth and wishes that he could sleep to get away from the pain – even for a little while.

  It’s okay, Danny, calm down.

  His body moves to its back and he winces once more.

  Calm down, Danny, it’s okay.

  His breathing relaxes a bit, his eyes remaining closed. His hands move from his forehead to his chest as he calms. The pained expression is still on his face as he drifts off to sleep.

  I stay beside him, wondering what the fuck just happened. After over a year of trying to wake up the bastard, have I for once helped him go to sleep? His mind is so scrambled I can’t tell if he heard me again or if he was just off his head.

  Can I forgive him? Probably not. But still, as I look at this man I have hated for the past sixteen months, I wonder how I feel about him now.

  Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.

  43

  John is a fairly open guy, so holding off on telling everyone that they are expecting a baby hasn’t suited him. Still, Niamh made him promise not to tell any of the lads until at least three months – but now that they are well beyond it he’s looking forward to getting to the pub and breaking the news. If I was around he would have told me alright and he half thought of ringing Davey early on, but in the end he didn’t bother. He knew Davey would be happy for him, definitely, but ultimately not really give that much of a bollocks.

  Me and Pam didn’t do that wait three months thing. We were too excited when we found out that we were going to have a baby. I figured we may as well tell everybody because if the worst happened and it didn’t work out we’d end up letting everyone know then, anyway, so as to have shoulders to cry on. So what’s the idea with holding off? I never quite understood it, but it’s a common enough thing, I guess, and Niamh hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

  It’s a great time for them, anyway, and they’re totally embracing it, loving every minute. Apart from crippling foot cramps and being exhausted the whole time, Niamh’s the happiest she’s ever been. Pamela was like that too when she was preggers. I think that’s why Robbie turned out to be such a lovely, placid and easy person. There was zero stress in the lead-up to his birth.

  Although, saying that, he was a couple of days early, which we weren’t expecting at all, so that did make us a little anxious right at the end. It also meant that I made the terrible mistake of watching one of the Alien movies the night before. I had it in my head that he’d be a couple of weeks overdue, so it didn’t occur to me that watching little aliens burst out of people’s stomachs might be a bad idea so close to your wife giving birth.

  It was.

  There’s a suction yoke that they sometimes use to help the baby come out during the ‘Push! Push!’ bit. It temporarily elongates the crown of the head so that it looks the exact same shape as the alien’s head in those movies. Couple that with the fact that the little fucker is blue. Nobody ever told me that. He came out with a blue, alien head on him and a scrunched-up angry face – he looked hideous. I screamed so loud that the doctor started laughing at me. I was screaming louder than Pam.

  Then the doc threw him to the midwife, who seemed to flip him from hand to hand, snipping this and snipping that. Robbie looked so damn slippery that I got worried and told the midwife to be careful. She just laughed at me like the doctor had. As if to say, ‘Don’t worry, dipshit, I’ve done this before.’ She was right too. In two minutes flat she had him cleaned, powdered and resting in his own little heated spot in the delivery room.

  His crying had stopped by the time I went over to him. Pamela was still in the horrors at that stage, giving birth to the placenta. That’s another thing I didn’t know about. The placenta – just when you think it’s over they have to push this fucking thing out. I glanced back and thought, poor Pam, but turned back around to study the face of my new little boy. It was perfect. He still had a little frown on him and a single tear remained. It rolled down the left side of his tiny round cheek and I wiped it away before it travelled any further. I made a silent promise to him then that I would always be there to wipe away his tears. It was a promise I could keep for just two years, but it had been one that I’d cherished each time I kept it.

  I loved his cry. It never bothered me, not once. I loved being the person to stop the tears, to make him feel better. It made me feel better. It made me feel like a man.

  He’s crying now.

  Not over anything serious. It’s just that his nose is all stuffed up and he can’t get to sleep. Pamela is with him. Like she always is. Calming him, making him feel better. Her everlasting patience and soothing voice are working. She is so strong. How did I not see her strength when I was alive? She always impressed me, don’t get me wrong. But the way she handles everything now, especially with Robbie, mystifies me.

  She hasn’t been out in ages. She could do with a night out but doesn’t even see it herself. Doesn’t care about it. All she cares about is him. Still, I know she’d enjoy herself if she was with the lads now. They’re all down in the local, where John is finally after breaking his big news.

  ‘That’s fantastic. Do you know who the father is?’ Davey says, all thrilled. Fanny laughs and gives John a slap ’n’ grab high five.

  ‘Congrats, my man, that’s super news.’

  John beams. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are you going to call him? Or her?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Well, if it’s a boy I want to call him Chris, actually.’

  Fanny looks into his pint and says quietly, ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Yeah except Niamh doesn’t like the name – never did.’

  ‘Really, why the fuck not?’ asks Davey, slightly annoyed.

  ‘Ah, there was some kid in her primary school who they all called Pissy Chrissy for whatever reason and it turned her off the name … guess he smelt like piss or something.’

  Davey chuckles. ‘Fair enough.’

  This sucks for me. Some knobhead from Niamh’s class has robbed me of a namesake just because he couldn’t hold his piss? I would have loved them to name their child after me – I’d be remembered for the rest of that guy’s life. I guess I can understand it, though. For some reason the name associations you develop from school days stay with you, no matter who comes along after. If there was a kid in school called Philip that you hated, then you can be sure you’ll hate that name for the rest of your life. It’s like how I’d never been mad about the name Pam, as there was a frizzy-haired teacher’s pet who used to always rat on me in my class with that name. Even Pam couldn’t change my dislike for the name and she’s my wife.

  Fred arrives from the bar with a big smile on his face and pint in hand. ‘What’s the story, lads?’

  ‘
Alright, Fred, guess what?’ Davey says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘John’s not gay!’

  ‘No way, since when? Does Niamh know?’

  ‘She does now,’ John says, taking out his phone and showing Fred the picture of the baby scan.

  It takes Fred, the dummy, a minute to figure out what it is, then he says, ‘No way! She’s preggers? Congratulations, man. Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?’

  ‘Nope, find out on the day.’

  I can’t wait for him to find out. The namesake thing doesn’t matter, anyway, because I can see her. I can see my best friend’s little girl growing inside Niamh; her tiny fingers have already started to develop. Soon she’ll have her own set of unique prints. Then her skeleton will begin to harden; she’ll grow eyebrows and eyelids, her wrinkled skin will start to smooth out. Next she’ll be able to open her eyes and follow light before her lungs develop enough for air. Then comes the most beautiful and amazing thing of all.

  Then comes life.

  Two

  Years

  Dead

  44

  I can go anywhere – anywhere within my own world, that is. Past, present. I’m beginning to appreciate that more now than I ever did.

  I can go back to when I asked Pam to marry me. It’s even more perfect than I remembered it in life. We were on a boat off the coast of Sicily that broke down in the middle of the sea. Everyone else on board was panicking that it would never start again, while the tough-looking ferryman worked on the engine. But me and Pam didn’t give a shit. Instead we looked at it as getting a free couple of hours on our boat trip, so headed up to the top deck where no one else was – for some reason no one else wanted to go up top and instead were all huddled downstairs and indoors. We couldn’t believe it – maybe being from Ireland meant that getting some time in the sun was more important to us, I guess; anyway, there was no way we were missing a minute of it.

  As we were sprawled out on the floor, sunbathing, holding hands, hugging and laughing, I toyed with the ring in my pocket. I had planned on asking her at the restaurant later that evening. But as we sunned ourselves on top of the boat, I realised that this place was perfect. We were in our own little world.

  I can hear the waves soothingly brush against the boat, the mumble of quiet voices downstairs. I can see Pam’s beautiful happy face, rounder then than now. The fair skin of her cheeks slightly burned, light-brown freckles forming on her arms. I can smell her unique sent; not perfume, just her. God, the waves are so soothing. The gentle rock of the boat – let them take forever to fix it. I can look into her huge golden eyes and get lost in them; I can hold her hand as I did then. Watch her roll over onto her belly and listen to her happy giggle. She wouldn’t be expecting what I’d say next. ‘I always want to remember this day.’

  ‘I know, me too. It’s deadly, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. But I always want to remember it as the day I asked you to marry me.’

  And then she says something I will never forget. She says, ‘What?’

  I reach into my pocket and take out the ring, make sure she knows I mean business. Standing her up, I stay kneeling. I hold out the ring.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  We both burst out laughing as she jumps on me, kisses me and says, ‘Of course, yes!’

  I can cradle her in this embrace for eternity. Even if it is just a memory, I can hold her here and never let her go. When all this really happened, the boat was fixed pretty soon after and we were sent on our way back to the real world. But not where I am now. Now it’s better, the boat will never be fixed and I can cling on to this moment. We can stay in this happy, loving place, wrapped in each other’s arms forever.

  ***

  I blink and I’ve missed another Christmas. Not quite as bleak as the last one, but it was still pretty shit. My family were definitely starting to come around a bit, but Christmas was still depressing for all of them. My own house still looked like Ebenezer lived there, no lights or candles in the window or anything. Pam better pick up the pace next year. She had a tree up, alright, but that’s it.

  Brian and Tim talked about me at Christmas more than they have at any other time of the year, I guess because they’re pissed more at Christmas. Every time my name is mentioned there is a darkness in Brian that nobody can see but him and me. He holds it deep down. He’s become good at hiding it. My parents watched Back to the Future again, this time the first one, and everybody went on the piss for New Year’s. Nothing new about it except maybe a number.

  John had to work a fair bit through the holiday and watching him dig his shovel into the icy ground was fun. Not because it was a pain in the ass for him but because he did it with a smile on his face. I think of how I watched him at work during the months after my death – how he turned his face from the other workers when his eyes filled, how lonely and sad he felt, and how he thought he’d never get over it. As much as I like being missed, I like happy John more. He gets progressively better with each month. The wedding and honeymoon helped, though obviously the sentencing had been a bit of a setback – fucking dickhead of a judge – but other than that things have been on the up and up and he was looking forward to the coming year and what lies ahead.

  ***

  I go back to the first time my parents took me camping around Ireland. It was before the lads were born, so it was just the three of us. My dad borrowed this heap of shit tent off one of his mates. It was blue, yellow and brown. The blue and yellow were the colour of the canvas. The brown was something that had grown on it over time. My dad – like a lot of dads, I think – would get a bit into ‘Angry Dad’ mode on holidays. Especially on camping holidays, as there was nothing but shit jobs for him to do. The setting up of the tent being the first one. It was nothing like today where they just pop up – these bastards, you’d need a degree in engineering to master.

  Mam had taken me to the playground as my dad put the finishing touches to the tent, which at the time we thought looked fantastic and were so proud of ourselves for erecting. It was only on the way back, when we saw it from a distance, that my mam and I realised how bad it was. Surrounded by huge caravans, luxurious trailer tents, fancy German back-packer tents, stood this filthy, gaudy yoke. The two of us looked at each other and my mam said, shocked, ‘Christ, we look like tinkers.’ I burst out laughing and said the same thing to Dad when we reached the tent – he was none too impressed after all his hard work.

  The trip was great, though. We went to the Ulster Museum where I saw a painting by Jack B. Yeats. It freaked me out a bit because my granddad had just passed away and the solitary man depicted in the painting reminded me of him. It shows a lonely figure walking between this world and the next, trying to arrive at something he may never be able to reach. My dad told me that the man was on his way to heaven because of the bright white towering colours on the horizon. Like a white Emerald City. But I didn’t think that. What I did think I couldn’t quite understand. Now I see that the huge white mountains scared me as I thought they told of a glacial future of isolation and loneliness for the traveller. They scare me still as the painting is now etched in my mind, the man no longer reminding me of my granddad but of myself. He is moving – in what Yeats called On Through the Silent Lands – heading for one last bridge to cross, to go to a place he might not want to get to. What that bridge represents, for him or me, I’m

  not sure.

  I wasn’t right after seeing it. Cried with the worry I felt at the thought of my beautiful granddad all alone, frozen in an icy world of nothingness. I wonder now how close this could have been to the truth. Is he lost like me? Cold and abandoned. Forever condemned to a silent place, searching for a reason for his own existence and dreaming of a future where he can cease to be. Or has he found peace? I need to believe that he has. That, in the end, Yeats’ scene is just a painting, a master’s interpretation of something I don’t fully understa
nd, and that there is, in fact, hope for us all.

  My dad was able to give me hope that day by wiping away my tears and assuring me that everything would be alright, that his father had found a world which offered him more than this one ever could. I believed him then. I want to believe him now. My mam gave me a hug that I can still feel. She picked me up and told me that Granddad loved me and was with me always; then I blew my nose into her tissue. Afterwards, Dad took me and Mam golfing (well, pitch and putt) to take my mind off it. Mam hates golf but knew I liked the idea of it, so went along to make me happy. Because that’s what mothers do. It was both of our first times playing and the pair of us were useless, but we were equally useless, so laughed together and complimented one another every time we hit the ball past ten feet. Pretty soon I had forgotten all about the image that had so deeply affected me.

  The next day Dad took me fishing. Something every dad should do with his son. He brought me to one of those places where it’s specially set up for catching fish. A fiver to stand beside a foaming river with such an abundance of trout and salmon you could almost pluck them from the water with your hands. It was great for the confidence – I thought I was the best fisherman since Captain Birdseye. I remember looking at my dad, wondering how he knew so much. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? I still look at him like that. We took our fish back to Mam, who cooked them on the barbecue. I hated fish at the time so of course didn’t eat it, but she made me a burger and I loved the fact that they were eating what we’d caught. Made me feel like a grown-up.

  At night they slept side by side, their outside shoulders touching the canvas of the tent as I was wedged in at the top, basically acting as their pillow. But I didn’t mind – it was only in later years that we found it funny and joked about it. At the time, I felt like I was on an adventure. They made me feel like we were equals, like I wasn’t just a kid; we were all in this together. One night, it rained so much that I woke up to a pack of almond slices floating past me. That tent really was a heap of shit.