Headbanger

by Hugo Hamilton

  You little sparrowfart, Perry, he said.

  I done nothing, Garda.

  You little bastard. If I catch you near any cars again, I’ll put your lights out. Do you hear me? Keep away from cars.

  And Perry was even more surprised when Coyne let him go and walked away, turning back only to give him a last warning over his shoulder.

  Stick to public transport, Perry. You hear.

  Next thing, Coyne’s mother got broken into. He immediately thought it was a reprisal. His world was falling apart, bit by bit.

  She’s had a mild stroke, Carmel said. It was the neighbours who found her. She’s been taken to Tallaght.

  Bastards, Coyne shouted, as though they had been waiting for the moment when he was off guard. He drove straight out to the hospital. His chest was tight and he took a blast of the inhaler. He rasped and coughed as he ran across the carpark, spitting out a priceless golden globule on to the tarmac, where it seemed to bounce forward before coming to rest. Bastards, bastards, bastards, he kept repeating.

  The nurses said his mother would be fine. She’d only had a very mild stroke and was as tough as old boots, they assured him. But his anger had already changed to remorse. He sat beside her and looked out the window at the tops of trees. Staring through a fine drizzle he realised that he had let his own mother down in the end.

  He drove down to the local Garda station to speak to the lads before going up to the house. No fingerprints had been found, apparently. But they were following a definite line of enquiry all the same. Of course, it wasn’t the Cunninghams, but Coyne felt he had lost the whole battle. The intruders had removed the entire back door, including the door frame. All those security measures that Coyne had taken had been less than useless. It was only a joke. And all they had stolen was her television set. All she ever did in the last few years was watch the Late Late Show. Tele and Mass. Mass and Tele. And then they came and almost killed her for it. At least she was safe now in hospital.

  Coyne stood in his old home and tried not to get worked up. He left again and didn’t even put the back door up again. Left it open with the breeze blowing the wet garden debris right on to the floor of the kitchen. Spiders, wasps, all the creatures of Ireland could come in now. It was all after the fact. His mother would probably move straight to a nursing home from there. They were welcome to take whatever they wanted. There was nothing left of his home, only a gaunt set of memories. Rapacious cats could come in and wander around the whole house. There was nothing to protect.

  While Carmel was selecting paintings for her exhibition, Coyne started digging away passionately in the garden on Friday morning, making dirty big holes in the lawn without anyone having any idea what they were for. Four black gashes in the little patch of green, so that even Mr Gillespie from next door took a furtive look out the bedroom window. Must have thought Coyne was erecting another one of those white pagodas that they had in number fifteen. The whole nation was in suspense. The final act in Coyne’s life.

  He was digging to beat the clock, trying to get the project finished before the rain came, before the kids came home from school, before the Cunninghams arrived to execute him. Carmel inside with her mother, trying to choose between two identical harbours. Spot the difference kind of thing. She couldn’t ask Pat because he would say nothing. In the end, every artist had to manufacture his or her own confidence, Sitwell always said. You couldn’t rely on other people. You had to be your own supporter.

  And then they saw Coyne with a steel arm crossing the front window. The leg of a giant steel spider maybe. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Mrs Gogarty exclaimed. So they ran out to see Coyne struggling to get a big metal frame over the side gate of the house. Scraping half the pebbledash off the side wall and not saying a word, just puffing like a set of uileann pipes on the run from a pack of greyhounds.

  He ignored them completely, and when he shoved the frame into the four holes in the back garden, Mrs Gogarty and Carmel were standing at the kitchen window like commentators in a press gallery, reporting silently on every little development. Chuckling and arguing among themselves as to what it could be.

  Looks a bit like a gallows to me, said Mrs Gogarty.

  Coyne laboured all afternoon with the swing, missing one deadline after another. First it rained. Then the kids all came home from school and saw him trying to bolt down the steel frame and having no luck at all, cursing and blasting because he discovered the bolts were too small.

  It was too late on Friday afternoon to replace the bolts. The kids were already getting excited about the swing, begging to be given the first go, until Coyne drove them all inside and he sat in the kitchen like a condemned man, jumping up at every knock on the door. The milkman came like a cool assassin to collect the money, so he told the kids to say they would pay next week, which he had already said for three weeks running. Next week: no problem. A milkman’s mercy, smiling a sinister reprieve. Nobody knew if Coyne would even be there next week.

  Coyne stayed awake all night, thinking he would die leaving behind an unfinished swing. First thing on Saturday morning, he drove around to the DIY centre to see if he could get some bigger bolts, only to find that he had to buy a set of eight bolts plus a set of steel brackets, all in a pre-wrapped packet. The man in a mauve uniform and a teak Rustin’s Wood Dye suntan shrugged his shoulders and Coyne went bananas again. Wanted to wreck the shop, spill chemicals all over the floor, rip big holes in bags of cement, maybe even pour adhesive all over the new tools. What kind of a fucking DIY centre is this, when you can’t even buy a few bolts, Coyne raged. Next thing they’ll be selling you a shaggin’ barbecue or a wheelbarrow every time you want a few pozidrive screws. Special offer: get this power drill free with every six-inch nail.

  And the amount of DIY dickheads hanging around on Saturday morning was unbelievable. People all over the place couldn’t stop the urge to improve things. Can’t you just leave the world alone, you pack of demented dipsticks? Nothing better to do than to start taking apart your sad little semis. Guys deciding to build shelves every Saturday morning of the year until they had drilled an almighty hole in one of their plasterboard walls. Women looking at new wooden toilet seats with adulterous glints. A man wobbling a saw in his hand like a diviner, as if that was going to tell him something. Some absolute wanker asking one of the men in mauve how you put up the self-assembly pagoda, while his family sat down inside one that was already assembled to see if they’d all fit. And what about the attic stairs with the picture of a woman halfway up like Dracula’s bride smiling and handing a mug of coffee to a terrified man trapped in the attic with his hammer. Maybe he had just put his foot through the bedroom ceiling, the fucking eejit.

  In the end, Coyne decided to rip open the packet and put the bolts he wanted in his pocket. Bought a 60-watt screw-in light bulb instead. God knows, he had bought enough stuff off these guys before. What about all the tar he bought for Killjoy’s patio?

  Then he lashed back home to screw the bolts on to the concrete blocks he had already sunk in the garden holes. While the rain held off, he mixed the cement and poured it across the blocks, then covered it with sheets of plastic. Nuala doing everything in miniature somewhere else in the garden, mixing mud with a spoon.

  In the afternoon, he gave Carmel a lift into town to her art exhibition. The kids all piled into the back seat, separated from their parents by a massive black portfolio with its red ribbon, all wrapped up in anoraks and woollen hats, fighting among themselves behind this opaque membrane of their mother’s art. Coyne couldn’t see through the rearview mirror, so he was unable to confirm the constant feeling that the car was being followed.

  He pulled up in Merrion Square, where Carmel had arranged to meet Sitwell. Coyne was going to have to play this one very cool, so as not to be recognised. Quite possible too that he would simply get the urge to step out of the car and knock flying shite out of Sitwell as soon as he laid eyes on him. But
there was something else to think about when they both saw the rows of paintings hanging along the railings of Merrion Square. So this was the gallery. For amateurs and enthusiasts who drew nice pictures of Irish life with no rubbish in the streets, no puke and no poverty. Trinity College without the kids holding out the empty Coke cups. People who drew the faces of Joyce and Beckett five hundred times a week. Liffey paintings with the severed heads of Swift and Wilde floating along the water. Halfpenny bridges with pink, candy-floss skies. Where was the statue of Daniel O Connell with the white wig of seagull shite?

  Is this what you call an exhibition, he said maliciously.

  Carmel and Coyne exchanged a look. He could see the moment of naked disappointment in her eyes. He was ready to say to her that she was much better than this. This is beneath you, Carmel. Your stuff is too good for here. But she misread the silent allegiance in his eyes for hostility and got out of the car, dragging her portfolio out violently after her. She kissed the children goodbye and stood waiting on the cold, windy corner, within a stone’s throw of the National Gallery, assailed by an inward shock of deep artistic defeat.

  Coyne drove away, but he stopped again at the traffic lights, where they all looked back at her for what seemed like the last time. He was struck by an overwhelming pity. She was exposed to the wind of betrayal, on the coldest corner in Dublin, in her black coat and her blue scarf, waiting for the gobshite who had duped her into thinking he was going to offer her a future in the arts. Coyne saw Carmel the way he had once seen her waiting for him long ago when he was late for a date. He was stunned by her spontaneous anger. Her sense of independence. He secretly admired her from this distance until she saw him and all the kids staring at her and waved them away. Get lost and stop embarrassing me. Because Sitwell came sauntering along the pavement with his arms out, wearing a sheepskin coat.

  Darling, he said.

  But Carmel wouldn’t allow herself to be kissed or welcomed. Showed resentment.

  You call this an exhibition?

  It’s the best start you’ll get, Carmel. Cheer up, for Godsake. You’ll be discovered here. Merrion Square. Many a true artist has had their humble beginnings here and gone on to great things. Wait till you see.

  And then he put his arm around her and led her to a small space along the railings where she was to put up her precious work. If Coyne had not already driven off, she would have asked him to take her away immediately. But then she decided to make a go of it. Hung up some of her paintings, refusing to speak a word to Sitwell or any of the other artists. Frozen with fury, waiting to be discovered.

  There was no point in going home because the cement around the swing had not dried yet. So Coyne decided to take his children for a walk around town. Showed them Trinity College with its cobbled courtyard and its green railings. The railings of exclusion, he called them. Stood outside the gates holding their hands and staring at the Saturday afternoon traffic crossing College Green.

  Some day there will be no traffic at all here, he told them. No cars or buses or anything. Just a big square with fountains and benches. Wait till you see.

  Then he brought them to the zoo. Got them all chips and cheerful cartons of orange juice with twisted straws. He was happy to be in public places. Drove through the streets, looking at the wind pushing people along the pavements. There was always wind in Dublin, hurling everything with contempt along the street – plastic bags, cans, dead umbrellas. He saw trees beyond garden walls where all the leaves had been blown off and some of the red apples still remained.

  At the zoo, they would be protected by crowds. And Coyne felt like a real father again, talking to them about all the different animals and how cruel it was to keep them behind bars. Explained to them what it was like for each animal to be in its natural habitat. Spoke to them like David Attenborough. Told them how leopards teach their children to taunt lions so that they would learn to run faster. Told them about the owls who eat the eyes of mice, like sweets. Watched the motionless crocodile for twenty minutes, and finally announced that all nature had been turned into a zoo.

  When they came to the elephant enclosure, he began another speech. Here we have a great example of the African elephant, he said. In his native habitat, he feeds on grass and leaves, eating up to…

  He stopped abruptly. Reading straight off the information plaque, he suddenly found something wrong.

  Hang on a minute. The elephant’s tusks are made of ivory.

  Coyne gave a sort of manic laugh and looked at the other people all around him. Sleepy families trudging around, exhibiting their ill-fitting teeth and their little domestic whines and squabbles to the animals. Another chance for the zoo’s inhabitants to see some typical families of greasy-head Hibernians on a Saturday afternoon outing.

  The elephant’s tusks are made of ivory – Jimmy, tell me what’s wrong with that.

  I don’t know, Dad.

  The elephant’s tusks are not made of ivory, Coyne said with great indignation. The elephant’s tusks are ivory. It’s the other way around. Ivory is taken from elephants’ tusks. That’s outrageous.

  It was the final straw. The ultimate insult life could throw at him. Robbing this great animal of his dignity, even if the elephant didn’t look like he cared very much.

  The elephant’s tusks are made of ivory. I’ve never heard such bullshit.

  He had a duty to inform the superior race of Irish families around him and shouted his message out a few more times like a possessed idealist, just like his own father would have done on the subject of Ireland and the Civil War, and the Irish language. Until Coyne realised that his children got distinctly embarrassed and dragged him away, followed by the shocked gaze of the small crowd, who must have looked on him as a dangerous, unbalanced psychopath. Far more deadly than any of the docile animals in their cages.

  In the background, two men were leaning on the rail of the seal enclosure, watching him.

  Carmel’s humiliation reached a pitch. Her feet hurt with the cold. She might as well have been barefoot on the concrete pavement. Other artists had all worn boots, double pairs of socks, long johns, double tights. Not a soul had come even to look at her work. She was in a bad spot, she told herself. If only she were up closer to the National Gallery, people would already be buying her stuff. But the likelihood was that her precious paintings would end up in grotty B&Bs, along with the pictures of stallions in the moonlight, tall ships on raging seas and toddlers in pyjamas with tears in their eyes. Paintings that people didn’t bother screwing into the wall because nobody would steal them. Thatched cottages and country roads, bought by the dozen for approved, dirty-weekend guest houses. It was all like a fucking Bank of Ireland calendar.

  Nobody was interested in looking at her art. Nobody except Drummer Cunningham. He was there, strolling among the general public, wearing sunglasses, looking as though he was a very keen art collector with his arm in a sling. He didn’t come too close, however. Stopped at a selection of dog paintings some distance away. He was bewildered by art. Took a great interest in the little puppy drawings as though they tugged at his heart.

  Sitwell dropped around to check on her. What was he expecting? Big-lip Sylvester Stallone to come along and rescue her with his testosterone talk: I’ll take every last goddamn one of these things. I love ’em. Got any more, honey? Sitwell even had the audacity to ask her to come for a drink later on, to celebrate.

  Celebrate what?

  Your first exhibition, dear.

  You must be joking, she said.

  And one of the women next to her heard this rebuff and began to talk to her as soon as Sitwell disappeared again.

  I’ve been here two hours and nobody’s discovered me yet, Carmel said.

  The only people who’ll discover you here is the St Vincent de Paul or Focus Point. Your stuff is too good, that’s why. You shouldn’t be in outdoor galleries, the woman felt.

&nbs
p; Thanks, Carmel said.

  Just rubbish around here, really. It’s like background music.

  Carmel had a quick look at her neighbour’s paintings and, sure enough, it was nothing but cottages with a grey curl of smoke rising away from the chimney. Lots of nude women with harps and round towers in the background. The woman admitted she was only there for the money.

  I don’t even paint these myself, she said. Any thick eejit could do them. I’d never bring my own stuff here.

  And the two of them conspired to find ways in which they could get a place in a joint exhibition, maybe. The woman had some addresses. And perhaps because of the cold, the two of them started laughing and giggling, watching Sitwell throwing his arms around himself to keep out the wind, chatting up more women with weather talk. Winking at one of his old girlfriends and turning to one of them who had just tried to tickle him and saying: you devil woman.

  Carmel collected her paintings from the railing, put them back in her portfolio and left without even saying goodbye to Sitwell. Boom-she-boogie. She was happy walking away and in many ways it felt like a new start. She had made a new friend. And with a stack of gallery contacts in her diary, she got on the bus back out to Dun Laoghaire. When Sitwell came back later on to check on his most gifted protégée, he was surprised and disappointed that she could have left so suddenly without saying adieu.

  Sugar puffs, he said.

  When she got home there was a car waiting across the road with a man sitting inside. She got a fright when somebody called her name, but it turned out to be Coyne’s colleague, Larry McGuinness.

  Can I talk to you for a moment, he said, so she brought him inside and offered him a cup of tea.