by Kealan Ryan
***
I sat with Danny through the days, weeks, months after his dad’s death. I travelled back and forth to my family, as well as to past memories that no longer felt distant. I waited with John in the hospital to find out if his daughter was going to be alright – were the complications serious? I shared his delight when the doctor informed him that mother and baby were both doing fine. I cried with him when he saw his little girl for the first time. I stayed with my brother Brian late into the night as he contemplated what he’d do now that the eighteen-month deadline was looming. I watched my son turn four, marvelled at how much he has changed since I left. I’m with Pam always. I’m with everyone I care about all the
time.
***
I sit with Danny three weeks before he is set to be released. I watch him take the drawstring cord out of the waistband of his tracksuit pants and wrap it around his neck and I hope that he won’t go through with it. Why I want him to live, I have no idea. After all, this is what I wanted from the start: him to be dead. Like me. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I do have an idea why I don’t want him to go through with it – I like him.
Sure, he can be a dick, but there is goodness in him too, even if it has taken me a long time to see that. He’s just a mixed-up guy, insecure and stupid. I will never forgive him for what he took from me, but I don’t overly blame him anymore – he didn’t mean to kill me, he’s just a big, thick, ignorant fucker.
And he’s super mixed up now. The weight of his dad’s death in particular has really messed him up. Thoughts of Robbie too. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in the past few months, hardly ever left his cell. He had seen Dr Brady a few times after their first session, but once he started agreeing with Brady that his vision was nothing more than a weird night-terror dream he was able to move on from it. To be fair to Wacko he made a bit of an effort with Danny after he broke down in front of him. In a weird way he was the only man keeping him somewhat grounded, but once Wacko got released there was nobody.
‘You’ll be alrigh’, bud,’ Wacko had said the last time they spoke. They were sitting outside on the same bench on which he’d been when he first approached him. Danny squinted through the cold March sun but didn’t say anything. He knew he wouldn’t be alright.
‘Four months, man. That’s fuckin’ nothin’.’
‘I know,’ muttered Danny.
‘Trust me. I’ve fuckin’ been there. This place is a kip, but once you’re out, man. Ah it’s deadly then. You’ll be grand.’
‘I don’t have anyone when I get out, though.’
Danny wouldn’t usually be this upfront with Wacko. But that day he didn’t feel like pulling his punches, he wanted to be honest. Plus, he was feeling extra emotional because he was going to miss his only friend in there. Maybe his only friend anywhere.
‘Ah don’t be sayin’ tha’.’
‘It’s true,’ confirmed Danny.
Wacko felt a little awkward then. He hated when Danny got too serious on him. He liked him, sure, but he saw Danny more as a lost puppy type of guy. Or maybe a lost Saint Bernard. Either way, some poor soul that he couldn’t help throw a bone to every now and again. He was a nice guy, Wacko, but he’d been through a hell of a lot himself in his life and finding much sympathy for what seemed like the norm just wasn’t in him. He didn’t have a mam or dad either, but you didn’t hear him whinging about it.
‘Anyway, man, I better leg it,’ he said as he pulled on the last drag of his smoke. ‘Need to gather up some shit. Chin up though, mate.’
‘Yeah, cheers, man,’ Danny said as he clapped hands with Wacko. ‘Been cool knowing you.’
‘You too, Danny. Four months, mate. Fuckin’ nothin’.’
As he stood up and walked away, Danny called out after him, ‘Hey, Wacko! You on Facebook or anything? Stay in touch like, when I’m out.’
Wacko turned around. ‘Na, man. I don’t do any of tha’ shit.’
And then he was gone.
Brilliant.
Danny would have smiled at Wacko’s total blasé farewell if it hadn’t made him feel more alone than ever.
Without him, he became further isolated to the point where he never slept anymore and the sharp stab of anxiety in his gut was so overwhelming at times that he felt like vomiting. The closer he came to release, the worse it got. He couldn’t eat; his stomach would wake him up every night. Between that, nightmares (on the rare times that he did manage to sneak a few minutes of sleep) and me, he hadn’t slept properly in two years. The thought of getting out of prison just scared him now. He had nothing on the outside but a whole bunch of fears he’d have to face. Nobody was waiting for him and there was nothing but a cold, empty and run-down house full of his father’s demons to live in. At least in prison he could hide.
He has been toying with the idea of suicide for quite some time. Pretty much since the week of his dad’s death. Telling himself that the world would be better off without him – that my family would be better off; he would finally give them some closure. It made him feel like a better person. If he could at least think about doing it, then maybe that meant he wasn’t such a bad guy.
At first, he’d dismissed the thought as some sort of grieving process. Unfortunately the thought festered. Why shouldn’t he do it? It would make people happier and at the same time end the constant battles he was having in his head. In some way, it might even make up for what he did. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do, until it became the only thing he thought about.
He had originally planned on hanging himself the night before his release but got sick of waiting – why put off the inevitable? It’s not like he was having so much fun in prison that he felt he should squeeze the last three weeks in, then goodbye world. No, he thought, may as well get to it. He went to write a suicide note and the fact that he had no one to address it to confirmed that he was doing the right thing. He was about to put the pen down when the words suddenly began to flow:
To Robert Cosgrave,
This is a very strange letter to write and one where I don’t really know how to begin. To say I’m sorry I’m sure would mean nothing to you or maybe even anger you further I don’t know. I am sorry, more than you know. I realise you are just a boy and perhaps will never read this but this note is for your mother too. Maybe she can tell you about it one day and the gesture I am about to make. I figure with me not in the world anymore maybe you and your mam will at least think I got justice. It’s what I think anyway. Because of my actions my dad died too, I think it was a broken heart. So you see I lost my dad too and for the same reason, me. I never wrote a will so this is going to be it as well. Maybe it’s not a legal document but these are my wishes. My father owned his house and left everything to me, I want to leave it to you and your mother Pamela Cosgrave. It’s all I have and hope it goes some way to letting you know the pain I feel for what I have done to you and your family. I wish there was a stronger word for sorry, I feel stupid writing it. I hope giving up my own life will say it better than the word.
I don’t know how to sign off. I hope you have a good life.
Danny Murray
He put the pen down and sat for a moment on the bed. The next part had been all worked out for weeks. Taking his chair he put it against the wall under the small window that’s high up in his cell. He pulled the cord from his trackie pants and made a noose on one end. The window has flat bars tight against the glass but at the bottom of one of those bars, where it meets the concrete, is a tiny gap no bigger than the width of a pencil.
Standing on the chair he slid the other end of the cord into this small space and tied the cord to it with six knots to make sure it would hold. Crouched awkwardly, he fitted his head through the noose.
Standing in that awkward position with knees bent, head touching the window, he allows himself a final thought about the whole
situation. This is the only thing to do. He is surprisingly calm as he kicks his legs free, but then the back of his head cracks off the wall and the cord tightens around his neck, leaving him hanging there, twitching in pain.
45
Ger looks through the book section in the supermarket, hoping he won’t bump into anyone he knows. Where is he, the little bollocks, he thinks. Scanning the shelves, he spots him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he grabs the Justin Bieber biography and throws it in his basket. As he walks down the aisle, he turns directly into Pam’s vision. Both are taken by surprise and straight away he takes a redner, thinking about what’s in his basket, and then the notion strikes him that the last two redners he’s had in God knows how many years were in front of this one. She must think he’s an awful nervous bastard.
‘Pam,’ he says, ‘hi.’ There are women he’s had sex with whose names he doesn’t remember, but there is something about Pam, and he’s delighted with himself that he remembered it right away.
‘Ger, how are you?’
The fact that she remembers his name gives him a little boost, but he’s very much aware that she never phoned him and he’s also concentrating on trying to hold the basket in such a way that she can’t see into it. Pam notices that he seems mightily embarrassed and doesn’t really know what to say.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ He decides just to bite the bullet; he’s sure she’s seen the book and besides it’s something to say. ‘It’s for my niece, it’s her birthday and she’s a big fan.’
‘What?’ Obviously Pam hasn’t looked in his basket and has absolutely no fucking idea what your man is on about.
He lifts up the basket. ‘Bieber.’
She looks in and bursts out laughing at his picture on the cover. She always found Justin Bieber funny because he’s the head of Orla. That always tickled my funny bone too, there’s a bit of a lesbian vibe off both of them. Ger mistakes her laugh, thinking she doesn’t believe him. ‘Honestly, Jesus, I’m no fan.’
‘I know, I believe you,’ she says with a huge smile that makes him smile back.
‘Christ, of all the people to bump into when buying this.’ He has a shy laugh and Pam likes it.
‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So what music do you like then, if not the Biebs?’
‘All stuff, really.’ He looks to the music bio section on the rack and sees The Beatles right beside Justin. ‘These guys, of course,’ he says, pointing. ‘They’re no Justin Bieber now, but they’re still pretty good.’
Pam gives a little chuckle. ‘Amazing band, I adore John Lennon.’
‘McCartney is a legend too.’
‘Ah he is yeah, but he’s nothing really without The Beatles, is he?
‘You reckon?’
‘For sure, have you seen him lately? It’s like he’s turned into Shakin Stevens’ cool uncle or something.’
‘Ah that’s a bit harsh,’ he laughs. ‘What about the Frog Song?’
‘The Frog Song? Jesus – everyone brings up that one in the “How shite McCartney is since Lennon split” conversation.’
Ger gets defensive. ‘It’s a good tune.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you that – I did love it when I was a kid.’
‘“Live and Let Die”?’
‘Two songs in forty years.’
‘Shit, that’s not great. Still he was a Beatle – that makes him a legend.’
‘You’re right there,’ she says, smiling. This guy is cool, she thinks.
‘Where’s your little fella?’
‘Robbie? He’s at crèche. I’m collecting him now, actually; just had to pick up a few things.’
‘Cool.’
‘I never asked you have you kids of your own?’
‘Me, no.’
‘Oh, were you at the fun fair with your niece then?’
‘No, I was working.’
‘Really?’ Pam looks at him – he doesn’t seem like the type to be working at one of those things. Ger picks up on her surprise and smiles, ‘Yep, that’s my job.’
‘You’re a carney?’
‘I’m no fucking carney!’
‘Sorry,’ she says, trying to hide her laugh.
‘I hire out the bouncy castles.’
‘Oh right.’
Ger can tell she isn’t too impressed, so wants to clarify. ‘Well, I’m an architect, really, but when the whole country went to shit I’d very little work on so I got into the bouncy castle business.’
Pam raises an eyebrow. ‘As you do.’
‘Well, I’ve a mate who’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer-type bloke who started renting out one, then asked me to come in on it. And I’ve been doing it ever since. Believe it or not, we do alright – you should check out our website for the next time Robbie has a birthday party.’
‘I definitely will,’ she says with a little more respect in her voice. ‘What are you called?’
‘Mister Bouncy,’ he says with a wry smile.
Pam pisses herself laughing, ‘You’re Mister Bouncy?’
‘I’m Mister Bouncy,’ and laughs with Pam.
As they continue talking, Ger listens enough so he can make comments back, but all he keeps thinking about is what a lash she is and how much he’d love to kiss her. And then hopefully bang her, of course, but in this moment all he wants to do is kiss her. It’s hard for me to watch. I’ve seen Pam flirt with guys over the years, but it was always in more of a jokey kind of way, never in a way that made me jealous. This is proper flirting; she likes this dude. He’s a tall fucker too, which pisses me off because I wasn’t that tall. I think this guy is slightly better-looking than me too. I had nice hair, but you could tell that one day I’d be bald. Not this prick, fucking hair like Michael Landon.
Pam enjoys talking to him. He’s more handsome than she remembered and his deep voice seems almost soothing. There’s also a nervousness about him that she finds endearing. It’s not like he’s all over the place or anything; he’s keeping his cool and being funny, but she can tell that he’s trying to impress her. And it’s working, even though Ger keeps thinking about what a fool he is making of himself. He’s trying to crack gags and realises that he’s being over-animated, but she seems to be enjoying it so he keeps it up. He doesn’t want her to leave.
He is also very aware of the elephant in the room – the fact that he had asked her to call him and she never did. This whole time he’s trying to decide whether or not to mention it. And if so, how? Should he make a joke out of it, should he simply ask her to call him again? He’s no dummy either, he can tell that she likes him, but then again he thought that the last time. Pam is thinking about that too. She’s embarrassed she didn’t call him; well, not so much embarrassed, but she feels bad and knows he must be thinking about it. She wants to explain why she didn’t call. How her heart had been ripped out of her chest, how her loneliness and despair are only outweighed by her longing for a person she will never see again. That although she craves the human contact of a man, the very thought of the act makes her overwhelmed with grief and guilt.
The mad thing is I actually want her to give this guy a shot. The idea of her fucking him makes me want to puke, but seeing how miserable she is makes me feel even worse; her feeling guilty for wanting to move on. I want her to be with someone else, though I have no idea how I’m supposed to watch. The riding will be harrowing enough but it’s the pillow talk that’s really going to hurt.
Let’s say she ends up with this guy. At some point he’s going to ask who she loved more. All blokes are insecure babies when it comes right down to it. Whether she means it or not, she’ll have to say him, no guy would accept anything else and when she does, I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle it. Fuck me, if I’m not in heaven by then I suppose I’ll know that I’m in hell. But I do want
her to be happy, more than anything that’s what I want. And if it’s torture to watch her with another man, well then that’s just the way it has to be.
But all that is a long way off, anyway. Sure, she likes him, but she’s still terrified that he’ll bring up the calling him thing again. The longer they talk the more convinced she is that he will ask her out, so she racks her brain trying to come up with different excuses. She decides that before he has the chance to broach it she’ll end the conversation and head off.
‘Listen, great seeing you again but I really better go. I’m running a bit late.’
Ger can’t help but look disappointed. ‘Sure, great seeing you too.’ He does want to ask her out but decides against it and simply says, ‘Hope I bump into you again.’
She smiles and walks away from him for the second time.
As she leaves, Ger wonders what it is about her that makes him so flustered. He’s only met her twice but both times he has gotten on better with her than he has with any woman he can remember. He’s mad at himself for not getting a date. A single mother should be easy to get a date with, but not this one. She seems so confident to him, so out of his league. Maybe he could never score with her, he thinks. Or maybe she is just super friendly and the sexy vibe she was giving off is just her natural personality. Maybe all blokes fall in love with this chick and she’s oblivious to it. Like the way all guys think good-looking waitresses fancy them because they are so friendly. This girl probably can’t help it, didn’t mean to be so flirty. But then again she did laugh at all his jokes and stayed chatting for ages. Maybe she does fancy him, he thinks. Maybe he does have a shot and why the hell is he leaving it up to chance?
‘Pam!’ he calls. ‘Do you shop here …’ He’s about to say ‘often’ but thinks it’s too clichéd, so stops himself at the last second. ‘… much?’
Big difference.
She turns and smiles, giving the slightest of nods as she keeps walking. He is aware that, having done this, he looks way less cool. That in one fell swoop he has just negated any coolness he has shown in the past twenty minutes. At this point, though, he doesn’t care; at least he knows that he will see her again. He’ll make sure of it.
