by Rob Doyle
To Binh Nguyen
Contents
A Perversion of the Course of Justice
PART ONE: REALITY
1 Matthew
2 Kearney
3 Matthew
4 Kearney
5 Matthew
6 Kearney
7 Matthew
8 Kearney
9 Rez
10 Matthew
11 Kearney
12 Matthew
13 Kearney
14 Rez
15 Kearney
16 Rez
17 Matthew
18 Kearney
19 Matthew
PART TWO: DIVERSION ENDS
20 Rez
21 Matthew
22 Rez
23 Kearney
24 Matthew
25 Rez
26 Matthew
27 Kearney
28 Matthew
29 Matthew
30 Matthew
PART THREE: ORGASM OF HATE
31 Kearney
32 Matthew
33 Matthew
34 Kearney
35 Matthew
36 Kearney
37 Matthew
38 Kearney
39 Matthew
40 Rez
41 Matthew
42 Kearney
43 Rez
44 Kearney
45 Rez
46 Matthew
47 Kearney
48 Rez
49 Kearney
50 Matthew
51 Rez
52 Matthew
53 Rez
54 Matthew
55
eCopyright
A Perversion of the Course of Justice
A confession without confessing. Admission without consequence.
Guilty. It’s all true. We did these things.
I’m sorry.
Crucial details have been smudged: we’re sorry and we don’t want to be punished.
The boy’s name, for instance. If I told you, and you’re from Dublin, and you’re of a certain age, you’d probably remember.
I’m sorry – I mean, I want to be.
This is all true. We did these things. This is all reality.
PART ONE
REALITY
For whom was one to bother, and to what end?
—E.M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born
1| Matthew
If it’s not broken – I chanted silently in rhythm to our steps – then break it. If it’s broken, don’t fix it. If it’s fixed, break it again, break it more, wreck it. Wreck everything, and for no reason whatsoever …
We came to a stop.
Cocker drained his can of Coke and threw it on the ground. It rattled for a bit and then was still. We looked at it, the empty can. A breeze blew in across the grey stones of the beach, gusting the can a few feet along the seafront walkway.
‘Give us a light,’ I said.
Cocker lit my cigarette. Then he pulled up his hood and shivered. ‘Poppers would be good,’ he said.
I didn’t respond.
He drew on his cigarette. After a moment he said again, ‘It’d be good if we had some poppers.’
‘But we don’t,’ I replied.
He said nothing.
Those two tall, red and white towers were on the horizon, kind of hazy in the cold morning light. There was some sun but it was a greyish day. I didn’t mind. I liked grey days. So did Cocker. He told me that once, while we were on top of the hill in Killiney, looking out at the sea. Fucking freezing up there, it’d been. We’d had poppers that time, and two daddy-naggins of a type of vodka called ‘The Count: Big Force!’ that we’d bought at an offo out there but I’d never seen again.
‘What do ye want to do?’ said Cocker after a while.
‘Yer ma.’
We walked along the seafront a little, though not because we were going anywhere. It was the force of inertia that moved us. That was a concept I’d picked up in one of Mr Ryan’s science classes. It was sort of poetic.
The wind was picking up again, not that strong but cold, bracing. I shivered, pulled my bomber jacket close around my neck, focusing my eyes on the warm glowing dot of ember and ash at the end of my cigarette, lovely against the grey, like a telly in a window down some rainy street.
‘There’s nothing to do,’ I muttered. But there was a sudden gust and my words were lost. It was better that way, I reckoned. What use was there in drawing attention to these things?
The red and white towers loomed in the distance. The Poolbeg Towers, wasn’t that what they were called? I didn’t even know what they were for.
‘What are the towers for?’ I asked Cocker.
‘What towers?’
‘The fuckin Poolbeg Towers. The two towers up there in front of ye. What are they for?’
‘Industry, maybe,’ said Cocker vaguely, looking elsewhere.
A while later he said, ‘So here we are then, our first taste of freedom.’ He gave a low whistle.
I’d thought I’d be more excited. We’d finished the last exam of our Leaving Cert, and now school, Irish, physics, and all the rest of it was behind us for good. I just craved a packet of crisps – salt and vinegar.
‘Rez and Kearney will be finished soon,’ said Cocker.
‘And Jen,’ I said.
We sat on a deserted pier and watched the foamy grey sea spewing driftwood and six-pack rings on to stones that were dark from the wet; shiny whenever the sun cut through the murk. We’d arranged to meet the others in Killiney later, so we could all get fucked and finally pay a visit to Bono. I lit another cigarette. Cocker was trying to smoke one through his nose, just for a laugh. I saw a ship in the distance. A seagull flew into a wind that pushed hard against it, so that it hung stationary in mid-air.
Cocker watched the bird for a while, hanging in the sky. ‘Why do ye think yer man killed himself?’ he said. He was talking about Stephen Horrigan again – the fella who’d been found hanging in our school on the last day of classes, a couple of weeks ago. A former pupil, he was. Some fifth year had found him when he entered his classroom that morning. Horrigan was swinging in the doorframe, his eyes bulging and staring right at you. The rumour was that he was on a boner. By the end of the day there were drawings of him all over the school, on blackboards, desks, everywhere. I wished I’d seen him, though not much.
‘Who knows,’ I said.
But Cocker was insistent, really thinking hard about it. ‘But, like, what if that’s it, though, that’s what’s in store for us?’ he said. ‘I mean, like, maybe he did it that way as a sort of warnin or whatever. Like to say, “Youse lads will be finished school in just a week or two, and look, here’s the way it goes after that, this is the fuckin final destination or whatever.” Ye know what I mean? Like a warnin.’
‘Ah, I don’t know, Cocker. Maybe he had other problems that ye don’t know about. There’s probably more to it than just that the world is rubbish.’
‘Yeah,’ Cocker muttered, unconvinced. After a while he said, ‘Suicide,’ and then whistled, reverting to his usual, unworried manner. ‘It’s a strange, strange thing.’
I let those fairly pointless words fade away. I looked out along the grey murky coastline, towards Bray.
Around one o’clock I perked up and said: ‘Let’s get a couple of naggins and get fuckin wasted!’ Wasted was my new favourite word for fucked. Later I would start to use annihilated, or mangled, or destroyed. But for now, wasted was the word.
Once the idea – the inevitable idea – had been expressed, there would be no satisfaction at all until we got our hands on some alcohol and started getting wrecked, even earlier than we’d intended. Everything felt empty, drained, horribly boring. I needed a hi
gh, something to make it less oppressive.
‘We’ll have to go into the town and find someone to buy it for us,’ said Cocker with a businesslike air. He had been trying to skim stones on the waves. All of them had plopped into the foam on first contact and vanished.
We couldn’t buy the vodka ourselves because we were still in our school uniforms. Otherwise, we might have been okay. I had just turned seventeen, and looked seventeen. Cocker had turned seventeen just before me, but with the height of him he could pass for eighteen, or maybe not.
‘C’mon then,’ I said. We got up and walked towards the town. Cocker started humming the bassline from ‘She’s Lost Control’ into the cold wind. We talked about the coming weekend. The plan was to get fucked on the Sunday night, not to mention the Saturday and Friday. Primal Scream were playing in the Olympia on Sunday. We were planning to try E for the first time. No doubt all our mas and das would soon be hassling us to go and get jobs. We’d be mad not to have one mental weekend first.
‘Go on and call yer man,’ said Cocker. ‘See if he really can get us some of these happy love pills.’ We were supposed to be cynical about ecstasy because of our punk-rock attitude, but curiosity was winning the day.
‘Okay.’ I took a crumpled scrap of paper from my pocket and unfurled it. SCAG, it said, followed by a phone number I’d gotten from Rez’s older cousin, Patrick. ‘Scag’ll sort yis out,’ he’d said.
Cocker watched as I took out my phone. I dialled the number.
Half an hour later, having arranged to pick up the E in a couple of days, and then gone and bought a litre of cheap vodka, we left the leafy little suburb with the posh oul ones, walked back to the seafront, and sat on the pier. It was still deserted, windswept. A big fat rat scuttled up from the rocks down the side of the pier and vanished down a black crack. I imagined all the rats having some kind of meeting down there, like in a cartoon. In my mind all the rats spoke in Cockney gangster accents.
Cocker opened the bottle and poured a shot into the lid. He drained it and grimaced. Then I did the same.
We were running along the beach, roaring and waving our hands in the air. There was no one else around, but we wouldn’t have cared if there had been. I felt free, blissful. Anger flooded my nerves and limbs like the Rapture. I looked towards the city, blurry and overheated in pale afternoon drunkenness. That city, it was full of cunts. I stopped running and planted my feet apart and raised my two middle fingers towards the low coastal skyline.
‘CUNTS!’ I roared.
Later we took the DART the rest of the way to Killiney. I was on a great buzz and I thought Cocker was too. But when there was only one stop to go, he fell quiet, closed his eyes and leaned forward. ‘Hang on, Cocker,’ I said. ‘We’re almost there. Seriously, just hold on another couple of seconds …’
We were moments away from the station when he puked across the floor. People turned to look. I hid my eyes but my shoulders were shaking with giggles. There weren’t too many people in the carriage, but one oul one was sitting on her own in the back seat. She saw Cocker puking but then she fixed her gaze straight ahead, looking all serious and dignified. She pretended nothing was happening; no doubt she thought we were a threat, a violent urban menace. ‘Cocker ye nutcase,’ I said through the laughter as we stumbled off the train. ‘You’re such a fuckin lightweight.’ Cocker still heaved with nausea, but already he was seeing the funny side.
Out on Killiney beach we could see Rez and Kearney near the edge of the sea. I whistled to them and waved but Kearney didn’t notice because he was pacing about, waving his arms, in the middle of one of his rants. Rez was looking at the sea, with his sunglasses on and an inward expression, like he was only half listening. He was always like that, these days. When he heard my whistle he turned and smiled, absently.
I could hear what Kearney was saying as we came up behind him: ‘Ye have to start shootin loads of Proddy fuckers in the street in front of their families and everything. Then ye have to plant bombs in shoppin centres and all, and shoot yer way out if the RUC get wind of ye. And when yer comin up to the end of the game, it switches over to England, ye have to start takin the war to the Brits, like fuckin bombin pubs and trams and all that. The RUC have started torturin and decapitatin Catholics on the six o’clock news on the BBC and all, so it fuckin … deviates from history a little bit. And the last mission, listen to this, the last fuckin mission is ye have to assassinate the queen. And fuckin Prince Charles and the young princes as well. It’s a sniper-and-bomber co-ordinated job, ye have to –’
Rez was making a here-we-go-again face for me and Cocker. Now he turned and said, ‘But are ye takin the piss, Kearney?’
Kearney frowned. Only now did he notice me and Cocker. ‘No. What do ye mean?’ he said.
‘They made a game about the IRA? And ye have to plant bombs in shoppin centres and kill the fuckin queen? Are ye jokin or what?’
‘No. Jesus, Rez, were ye even listenin? It’s not a real game, this is a game that I want to invent. Provos! it’s called. Were ye even fuckin listenin?’
I laughed.
‘It’ll be a great fuckin game,’ Kearney went on, flashing me his alligator grin. He turned back to Rez. ‘But come on and make us another one of those spliffs. We deserve it after all those exams. The amount of study we put in!’
We laughed at that.
We finished the vodka and then Rez took another bottle from his tattered, heavily grafittied schoolbag. When Cocker and Kearney were off howling at these two girls who were walking past, Rez took a swig, passed me the bottle and said, ‘Did ye notice it?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Kearney’s accent. Like I was sayin to ye before. Have ye not noticed? It’s not like a real accent any more. It’s like a caricature of an accent, like he’s doin an impression of someone doin an impression of an Irish accent. Someone from fuckin Sweden.’
I grinned and wiped my lips with my hand. ‘I don’t know. He still just sounds like Kearney to me. You’re just smokin too much. You’re such a weirdo, Rez.’
I was about to ask him how he’d done in the final exam, but my phone beeped in my pocket. I took it out and read the message. It was from Jen: ‘Hi am on the way. Hope u did well, c u in 10 xx.’
I wondered if she’d sent it to all the lads. I looked around; none of them were taking out their phones. She had only sent it to me. I put the phone away.
On his hunkers in the sand, looking out at the waves, Rez lit a cigarette. Then he swigged on the vodka and swung the bottle in front of him, tracing the horizon. ‘I love it out here. Seriously. That’s the best thing about Dublin, you’re never that far from the sea. All exiles are drawn to the sea – I read that somewhere.’
I watched Kearney in the distance. Cocker had come lurching over, cheerful again after the vomiting. ‘Yer always readin books, Rez,’ he said. ‘Yer mad, ye are. Who ever learned anything from a book?’
‘That’s a good point, Cocker. I’ll have to rethink my whole entire outlook on things, now that you’ve told me that,’ said Rez.
‘But this thing about the sea, it doesn’t work for us,’ I said. ‘How can we be exiles if we’re in our own country?’
Rez shrugged. ‘Well, ye can be an exile in your own body, or in your own family, or in your own fuckin century, so why can’t ye be an exile in your own country where ye were born?’
‘Ye can be an exile in yer own arse,’ said Cocker. He cackled and fell backwards to land with a thump on the damp sand.
But now Rez was warming to his theme. ‘Are ye seriously tellin me ye don’t feel like that here?’ he asked me.
I shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘I mean, what does it really mean to you to be Irish? I mean, like, growin up in the suburbs, which may as well be anywhere, and watchin American films and English telly and English football, and everyone you’re supposed to look up to, all they go on about is cars and mortgages, and these are supposed to be the most important things in life. The property
ladder. Jesus. And now we’re expected to race out there and join in the fun? No thanks. I mean, at least we feel depressed about what we’re seein around us.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. I’d heard it a hundred times. I murmured something about the consumer wasteland and threw a stone into the sea. Really, I was thinking of Jen. I lit a cigarette and sat down, scanning the grey horizon, the waves.
Just then I heard a call and we looked around: Jen, walking towards us along the beach, waving. She was smiling and her dark-red hair was swept up in the wind.
When she reached us she said, ‘So here we are on the other side. It’s all over. We made it. We’re free. So how did it go?’
We made vague noises.
‘I see,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. Jen was the only one among us who’d done any real study.
After a while we went down to where there are caves cut into the bottom of the cliffs. We found a quiet spot and sat down on our jackets, putting the bottle and some cans on the ground beside us. Rez got a spliff together. While we were smoking, Jen asked, ‘So guys, have yis worked out what yis’re all goin to do now that the Leavin Cert is over?’
There were various mumbles, nothing in particular.
‘Have you?’ I asked her.
She shrugged. ‘Yeah. I mean I’m still plannin to go to college, but probably not straight away. In the meantime I know I can always work with my dad for a while, if I want to. I know he’d pay me well and I wouldn’t have to do that much work. But I really don’t know if I want to work for daddy.’ She said the word in a piss-taking kind of way, which I liked. ‘I think I’m goin to go travellin, maybe. Before college. Maybe at the end of the summer. I’m thinkin of takin a year out.’
‘Oh yeah? Where are ye goin to go?’ asked Cocker. ‘I’d love to go to Spain. They’re mad fuckers over there. The way they smoke, they make us look like a bunch of ponces. I knew this Spanish guy last summer, he was a mate of me brother’s, and I swear to Jaysus, he made me feel like a fuckin pioneer. He’d light up a bong first thing in the mornin and wouldn’t move away from it, even to eat his breakfast, until the middle of the afternoon. He clung to the bong like it was his fuckin baby infant. If he had to leave his gaff at all, even just to go down to the shop for munchies, he’d roll about four joints, just in case. Or, as he said it, “just if case-ed”. Fuckin hell, now he was a real stoner.’
