Why is everybody getting so worked up about art these days? There’s too much bloody art, if you ask me. We’re all going to suffocate in culture.
Coyne talked far too fast. Tried to cram all his ideas into one argument and make it sound prophetic. He said that culture was the next form of totalitarianism. Look at MTV. The beat goes on like a dripping tap. It’s war on the senses. Forget the cold war, this is the fun war.
Everyone stopped eating. He didn’t know if they were interested in what he was saying or completely dumbstruck. Or were they going to start laughing?
Listen to him, Carmel said. Mr Philosophy.
The host tried to force more wine on everyone and Coyne blocked his glass with his hand, like a karate blow. Carmel was the only person to hold out her glass, as Coyne stared in horror.
It’s called civilisation, Pat. In case you never heard of it.
Well, we need a bit less civilisation, if you ask me. Like, we’ve got to stop interfering with nature. Art is pollution.
Carmel laughed out loud. Do you hear him? That’s complete and utter bullshit, Pat Coyne. Culture is part of human nature. It’s art for art’s sake.
Art for fucksake, is more like it.
An awkward silence descended over the table. Coyne and Carmel stared at each other as the host went to get the water biscuits. Carmel reached a pitch of fury and hurled the piece of lettuce across the table at Coyne. But then she could no longer hold on to her anger and started laughing at him. She was hysterical. Absolutely skuttered, pointing at him and breaking her heart laughing until Coyne announced that they were going home.
It was true. On the way home in the car there was a terrible smell. And it wasn’t Lancôme either. They had to drive with all the windows open. Carmel was still laughing, trying to sing the Cranberries song – did you have to let it linger?
Coyne was furious. Then he eventually had to pull up suddenly and let Carmel out to get sick. It started with a giant hiccup. Then came the unmistakable splash on the pavement. Puking with her fancy underwear on. Stomach heaving. Coyne holding on to her from behind.
Come on, Carmel. Pull yourself together.
But she was starting to sing again and a new stream of gazpacho lyrics came rushing forward like the first gush of water through the spout of a rusty roadside pump. He gave her tissues. Wiped her face. Pulled matted hair away from her mouth and asked if she was all right now. He never said a word about the vomit on his shoes. Such a gentleman. And she flung her arms around him and said she was sorry. Drivers thought they were snogging in the street in answer to some spontaneous passion. Love sick. Carmel’s lips all slack. Eyes drained of sight. Spittle shining on her white cleavage and the legs collapsing from underneath her so that Coyne had to drag her back into the car like he was abducting her.
She had to keep her head out the window until they got home, the stench was so bad in the car. And then it dawned on Coyne at last. Christ. He was driving around with a dead hedgehog.
During the night Vinnie Foley paid the price for ignoring Coyne’s warning. Returning home to his Ballsbridge apartment after the clubs, looking forward to a night alone in his own bed, a car pulled up beside him. The window rolled down and a man casually called his name, to which Vinnie automatically responded with a smile. He was living in the positive reality of the TV ad, where everything turns out right and where he was immune from the real world. He was buying the right cars, eating the right chocolate bars and using the right deodorant.
In spite of all that, two guys in bomber jackets just got out and slapped him around. Vinnie didn’t even have time to look at their faces. Received a few crunch kicks that made him regret the last half-dozen sexual encounters as he dropped to the pavement moaning. He issued a long-drawn-out whine that sounded like an old door hinge. One of them gave him a going over with a rustic fence post from the boot and Vinnie was ready to do a deal with them. Anything so that his punishment squad would finally leave him alone and drive away again. He was spitting blood on the pavement and cursing Coyne.
I swear, I had nothing to do with it.
Who’s your mate then? Chief wanted to know.
I don’t know who he is. I just met him that night.
Vinnie suffered a few more blows of the fence post and surrendered all.
Coyne, he said. His name is Coyne.
Come again, Chief urged.
Coyne. He’s a Garda at Irishtown. Garda Pat Coyne.
Sunday morning, Coyne’s house was like a mortuary. Carmel had such a hangover that she was crying all the time. Stayed in bed with the curtains closed, moaning like a dirge. I am stretched on your grave. Children silent as in church.
Coyne gave them all crunchies and set them up with jigsaws. Got them started and told them he was thinking up a big story for them, about ships and treasure while he slipped out quietly and began searching through the car with a handkerchief tied over his face. He searched all around the boot, under the seat, in the engine. Finally, he took off the side panel on the driver’s side and had to jump back from the assault of the stench. He got his torch out and found the creature at the bottom, trying to get out through the tiny air vent, a victim of his own ideals.
Leaning over the vicious fumes, Coyne could see the shape of the hedgehog lit up by the beam of his torch, like a corpse at the bottom of an elevator shaft. The needles gleaming with rage. Screaming thirst and starvation. He felt the hair standing up on his back. Heard Carmel upstairs getting sick again, with her head leaning over the stainless-steel bowl, spitting as if she was paying back all the kisses of her life until there was nothing left but a dry, velvety mouth. With a long set of pliers Coyne reached down into the narrow cavity and pinched at the needles, dislodged the dead animal and dragged it up slowly: a spiky brown bag of rotting entrails, dripping from the nose. Big black drops splashed on the driveway as he carried it over to the side of the garden.
With both hands clamped around the pliers, face held as far back as he could, he brought it to a place beside the new tamarisk bush where he quickly dug a hole. Then he rolled the hedgehog over so that it fell down into its grave, feet up. Settled the clay back again, stamped his foot and then stood back in shock. All three of the children were at the window, staring out at the burial.
Drummer treated the news about Garda Coyne with extreme respect. Didn’t like it at all. The fact that he was dealing with a cop gave him a sinister feeling. He could not work out whether the arson attack on his car was some kind of new departure, some official Special Branch action designed to flush him out, or whether this Coyne character was some kind of maverick. He hated the possibility of being drawn into a trap, having to fight an all-out war with the Gardai. He preferred to keep them at a distance.
Of course, somebody was going to have to pay for burning the Range Rover. Though he had already bought himself a brand-new, spiffing red Nissan Pajero, and the insurance would soon cough up for the damage. He wanted to find the most suitable way of getting his revenge. He would not be rushed into anything. This was delicate.
Whack the fucker, his brother Mick urged.
He’ll do it again, Chief added.
But Drummer was uneasy about killing a Garda. All hell would break loose if you did that.
They’d be on to us like flies on horse’s shite, he said absently, because he was no fool, and would not just lash out indiscriminately. He was a quick-thinking individual, but also had the capacity to give a measured and calm response. That’s why Drummer was still in business so long. In fact, the flies usually had to pay landing fees.
At the same time he knew that this new menace had to be dealt with. On a cold November morning they were walking along Sandymount Strand discussing the matter without fear of being overheard. The Rottweilers were bounding way out near the water’s edge raising flocks of gannets and seagulls into the air, forcing them to fly off and settle again at the far end of
the strand. The tide had retreated away from the city like a lover. A man digging for lugworm left a trail of gashes behind him along the smooth surface of the sand, giving it the appearance of an unmade bed. In the distance, one of the Pigeon House stacks was smoking.
The fucker has to cough up, Chief insisted.
Give him an offer he can’t understand, said Mick.
Drummer had no intention of letting Coyne off the hook. He stepped on little spiral mounds of sand. Red and brown shore cockroaches fled. His Nike runners left wet prints where they sank into the moist surface and slowly dried up again as he moved on. A DART train drew a line along the rim of the city, clattering far behind them from the edge of civilisation.
The guy must have a wife and kids, Drummer said, looking out to another thin blue line ahead of him where the sea met the sky. The dogs came back briefly seeking encouragement before they ran away again to chase more birds.
His missus, Mick echoed.
Drummer stopped walking. Sat down on his heels for a moment to pick up a shell. Examined it for a while like a natural scientist. Then stood up again, tossing the shell like a coin in his hand. Heads or tails.
Everybody has a vulnerable side, he said. You can find a man’s flaws in his wife.
Carmel’s paintings were everywhere: on the landing, in the hallway and in the living-room. Every square inch of wall space was occupied by her work as though it would soon obscure the real world altogether. Another painting of Mrs Gogarty hung outside the bathroom door looking like she had severe eczema. And when Carmel could not paint Coyne, she decided to begin a replica of their wedding photograph, transcribing their marriage on to a voodoo canvas which changed every day according to the way they spoke to each other. Work in progress, she called it. She kept talking about an exhibition that Sitwell was organising for her and wanted Coyne to help her select the best paintings. But Coyne came to a road block at the mere notion of praise. He was so shocked by the accuracy she had achieved in her art that he feared and despised it. The paintings of the harbour were so vivid that they exposed him to the memory of working with Vinnie Foley as a boy. He was afraid to compliment her, afraid of being positive in case it might backfire on him like some islandman’s curse.
Coyne went to visit Vinnie in hospital, where he lay bandaged up like a pharaoh’s mummy. He brought grapes and Lucozade as though it would repair their friendship. If there were peaks and troughs in every kind of relationship, this was the lowest they had ever reached. This was beyond salvaging.
What the hell did you do, Coyne?
Vinnie could hardly speak without triggering off some pain or discomfort somewhere. Even the sight of Coyne’s pathetic grapes on the little bedside locker was enough to make him weep.
Don’t worry. They’ll pay for this, Coyne said.
Get well cards hung on a line at the back of Vinnie’s bed. Most of them had come from his colleagues in the advertising world, from another country it seemed almost, the country of health and fun where life was being lived to the full. Coyne glanced through some greeting cards on the locker. Ready to donate my DNA for you, love Viv. Survive, Tom. Nurse on call, any time any place, Gillian. At work, his desk had been turned into a shrine with flowers and speedy recovery messages. The switchboard was jammed with calls.
Coyne asked some questions about the attack, but Vinnie wouldn’t go into it. He had already told the Gardai all he knew. And he had about as much faith in the Gardai as he had in the concept of loyalty.
You fucked me up, Coyne. Vinnie spoke on a great wave of self-pity. I should never have had anything to do with you.
I’ll get them, Coyne vowed.
They’ll get you, you mean. I had to give them your name, Vinnie said.
Coyne remained silent. Just stared at Vinnie while a great cloud of fear and emptiness came across him. Everyone was deserting him. Coyne would soon be alone in the world. An orphan with nowhere to go and nobody he could talk to any more. Looked like a man on a sinking ship, not knowing how to say goodbye.
What could I do, Coyne? I had to. They were going to kill me.
Inevitably, Coyne had to explain to the children what happened to the hedgehog. They were asking so many questions that he could not side-step it any longer. Brought them out and had them all standing around the front garden while he placed a wooden cross on the grave. They said a prayer and he allowed them to pick a posthumous name: Here lies Robert. Robert, the hunger-striking hedgehog. They hung a black flag up and held a minute’s silence, and afterwards the children asked lots more questions like: how many spikes has a hedghog? How long does it take for a hedgehog to die without food and water? Or, why didn’t he just go into hibernation? Would it be better to die of starvation or thirst? Would you rather be nearly drowned or nearly saved?
Nuala subsequently locked herself into the bathroom and refused to come out. While Carmel was off on one of her art excursions, Coyne spent an hour gently coaxing Nuala to pull the little brass bolt back, only to find that she had gone on a dirty protest all over the walls and the floor. She had smeared herself and the tiles and stared at him when he came in as though he would admonish her. But Coyne wasn’t angry because he understood the naus-eating smell which clung to the air like a sweet, pungent self-accusation. Just said they’d have to clean this up quickly before Mrs Gogarty came, changed her clothes and then went downstairs to give her biscuits and milk and read her stories from books so that she’d forget.
Coyne felt sorry for his kids. With a hurt love in his eyes, he began to embrace them with a kind of dangerous and exuberant affection. He covered them with a paternal cloak which they craved and feared simultaneously. He wanted to bind his family together against all threats from the outside so that he almost suffocated them with love and warmth, like an overheated room. The smell in the car had been replaced by a strong whiff of detergent and he began to drive them all over the place, up to the mountains, out to Newgrange. Sometimes he came back from his shift bringing home presents for them and flowers for Carmel. He would hug everyone, not even wait to have his dinner and just say: come on, let’s go, taking them all off for chips again, or ice cream. Carmel would have to drop what she was doing and just go with the sheer passion of the moment, get into the car with the children already in their pyjamas. He would mindlessly fill them up with Fanta and crisps and park on the hill overlooking Dublin Bay so they could look down over the world and see a million sparkling lights below them like the reflection of infinite stars in a black pool. Howth glittering in the distance like the sequined arm of a tango dancer stretched out along the sofa. Coyne re-invented the world. With the smell of crisps and alcohol on his breath he turned it into a city under the sea, giving them fables and great new mythologies of strong, honourable men on horseback and beautiful women who could put whole armies under their spell with a song. With his stories, everything could be put right in the little republic of Coynes.
Ultimately, however, that spell of elation and hope was followed by an equally ardent phase of despair in which Coyne returned to the genius of gloom. He abandoned the car. Told his family that they would walk everywhere from now on. Began to warn them about imminent disaster again and went on endlessly about things like the ecology and global warming and biodiversity, which nobody understood except Jennifer and Nuala, because they were spellbound by the fatalistic tone in his voice. He made European cereal growing sound like a wicked-witch story. Told them about featherless chickens being held hostage for life in battery chicken farms. Had them all scared out of their wits of the Colorado beetle, so they would no longer eat potatoes in any shape or form, not even chips. And at night they began to dream of giant unstoppable bugs, the size of Alsatians – immune to all pesticides, until Carmel came and sprayed her special Christian Dior twenty-four-hour protection all over the bedrooms so they would calm down and go to sleep.
Have you nothing better to do than to terrify the living daylights out
of your own children, she accused.
I’m informing them about the world.
Well, go and inform somebody else, she said, because the kids had already begun to hoard their sweets, thinking there was another famine coming.
Invaded by doom and paranoia, Coyne visited his mother on the outskirts of the city and decided to put in a proper three-levered mortice lock in the front door this time. Checked the security arrangements all over the house again, got rid of all the stale bread and took his mother out shopping. With her arm on his he walked through the nearest shopping centre at a shockingly slow pace. Her handbag dangling loosely from her arm with ‘Go on – snatch me’ written all over it. Coyne daring every young passer-by to come within a yard of her. Even allowed her to walk around some of the shops alone, keeping an eye on her from a distance, ready to leap over trolleys, hurl himself down the escalator, crash through all kinds of news-stands and flower arrangements and absolutely clobber the living shite out of the assailant who should attempt to take her handbag. Pat the protector.
It was around this time, too, that Coyne discovered his son Jimmy was being bullied at school and felt it was a direct affront to himself. Thrown back on his own memory of school, Coyne flew into an instant rage and vowed to deal with the bullies for ever.
I know which shoes belong to which face, Jimmy claimed, and after Coyne first admired his son’s powers of observation, he wanted to know why Jimmy would be standing at the wall, memorising all the other boys’ shoes.
Headbanger Page 13
