Here Are the Young Men

by Rob Doyle

  ‘How’s a goin, Matthew,’ Kearney called into the gloom.

  ‘Alright,’ Matthew muttered back, hands thrust into his pockets as he shuffled through the murk.

  ‘Here, get some of that into ye,’ Kearney said, pushing the naggin of gin at him when they were standing together. Matthew took it, unscrewed the top and tilted it back. ‘So what’s new, man? I haven’t seen ye in a while,’ Kearney said. ‘Not since that day ye came into town with me, am I right?’

  Matthew shrugged and looked away.

  ‘What, do ye not remember?’ said Kearney. Then he raised his voice, almost shouting: ‘The day we went into town and murdered that junkie bastard, remember? The heroin addict. We put the fuckin poison in the heroin and killed the filthy useless cunt. The dead fuckin junkie cunt. Don’t ye remember?’

  ‘Jesus, be quiet will ye!’ hissed Matthew. He looked close to tears. ‘There could be someone around.’

  ‘Okay Matthew, relax.’ Kearney laughed, swiping the gin and taking a generous slug. He felt like the crime boss in some Scorsese film. Matthew was shifting, wincing, miserable. Kearney began taking control of the situation, reining it in.

  ‘Listen, don’t worry about what we did, okay? Nobody’s ever goin to find out. It was a weird thing to do, fair enough. But I don’t regret it at all. I can see yer worried we’re goin to get caught, but relax man, nobody’s goin to know. Anyway, listen to me. I’m fairly sure yer man is grand. I seriously doubt that he actually died. In fact I was in town the other day and I’m nearly positive I saw him, the same fella. It was definitely him. He looked grand, there was nothin even wrong with him. So calm down, okay?’

  Matthew looked him in the eye for as long as he could – not very long. Then, eyes to the ground, he said, ‘Kearney, you’ve lost it.’

  Kearney waited. Eventually he replied, softly, ‘What do ye mean I’ve lost it? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I watched the news, I –’

  ‘So? What did ye see on the news?’

  Matthew looked sat him once more. He said, ‘Kearney, was it you who killed that handicapped boy?’

  A silence hovered between them. Then Kearney burst out laughing: ‘Are ye kiddin? Ye mean that capper who fell down the stairs in the Garden of Remembrance? James fuckin what’s-his-name? Are ye fuckin mad? Why would ye even think that?’

  Matthew tried to adopt a look of grim resolution. ‘It was you, Kearney. Just fuckin admit it. Ye started out with an alco, then –’

  Kearney grabbed him by the throat. ‘Listen Matthew, I’m tellin ye now to shut yer fuckin mouth. I don’t know what yer on about. But if ye want to keep talkin about it, fair enough. But then ye better be ready to talk about that other day as well, when we went into town and KILLED A JUNKIE! WE KILLED A FUCKIN JUNKIE!’

  Kearney’s roar reverberated around the desolate industrial estate, through the warehouse alleys, across the yards, over fences. Matthew wondered if anyone had heard it, a night security man or something.

  ‘Be quiet, Kearney! Please!’

  Matthew was sobbing. He muttered pitiful regrets, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Kearney let go of him and stepped away. He turned his back on Matthew and breathed slowly a few times, calming himself down. He could hear Matthew weeping behind him.

  Still facing the other way Kearney said, ‘Listen Matthew, I know ye don’t feel good about what’s been goin on. Fair enough, it is a bit weird, I can see what ye mean. But just let it pass. That’s the end of it. Seriously. I promise ye it is. I just wanted to try something like that and see how it felt, but it’s over and done with, time to move on. I admit I got a bit carried away. I’m goin to start lookin for a job, just in a supermarket or whatever’s goin. And I’m thinkin of goin on to study, something related to games, designin them or something. I don’t know, I haven’t looked into it yet. Not this year cos it’s probably too late, but maybe next year.’

  He turned to face Matthew: he had stopped sobbing. Kearney thought it was over. But then Matthew muttered, ‘Kearney, just tell me – ye did it, didn’t ye?’

  Kearney looked him in the eye. He shook his head and said gently, ‘Listen Matthew, it wasn’t me. I swear to God. I swear on me ma’s life. If I’m lyin to ye, then I hope me own ma gets cancer. Okay? Jesus, Matthew, why would ye even believe that?’

  Matthew said nothing, sniffling, not really believing, but wanting it enough to lie to himself; so Kearney hoped.

  ‘So how’s Rez?’ Kearney said after some moments of silence. ‘I haven’t heard much about him.’

  Matthew sniffled. ‘He’s alright. He still seems a bit zoned out, they still have him on medication. But ye can have a chat with him, like. He’s not too far gone for that.’

  ‘Good. He’s a decent skin, Rez. I’m sure he’ll pull through.’

  Matthew looked away. Kearney burst into nervous giggles.

  They didn’t talk much after that. They smoked in silence, warming the evening cold, the smoke billowing out in wisps and spirals to dissolve in the night.

  A second weekend passed. Kearney stayed in his room, smoking, playing games and watching hentai clips, keeping an eye on the news. The Stanley knife was never out of reach.

  By Sunday night, very tentatively, the worst of his terror had begun to subside. The incident had happened ten days ago now, and no one had come to drag him from his attic bedroom into the jaws of public vengeance. The media frenzy had raged, peaked, and was finally beginning to abate, the interest in Baby James’s murder going cold along with the gardaí’s leads. Kearney realized he just might come through this, eventually to reinsert himself, unnoticed, into the human world, into official reality.

  48 | Rez

  The medication had some peculiar side effects. For one thing, it fucked with Rez’s memory.

  In the agreeable mist of his serotonin-enhanced sedation, it became difficult to distinguish between, say, memories of real events and memories of imagined ones. Or between dreams and reality. Or between something he had seen on TV and something he had experienced first-hand – but then, that had been the case for Rez even before he tried to hang himself.

  Ten days after the James Appleton killing he was talking to his brother, who had come in from work. Michael spoke awkwardly, humourlessly, with a trace of unwitting condescension – the way you spoke to someone who had recently tried to kill himself. Normally, this pissed Rez off, but today he was feeling expansive, the result of a chemical high tide in his drug-flooded brain. He was telling Michael about the new Radiohead album, which he had partly listened to online. It was called Jupiter Fell and We Saw it Happen. Both brothers were committed Radiohead fans. Michael was surprised and excited to hear that a new album was imminent, and so soon after Hail to the Thief. Rez assured him that it was the finest thing the band had done since OK Computer. Pleased by this show of enthusiasm on the part of his brother, Michael left Rez in front of the telly and went off to do his own thing.

  Later that evening, after dinner, Michael sat back down in the sitting room, where Rez was watching telly. Iraqi politics were being discussed, as well as the chemical, biological and nuclear weapons that no one could find. Rez had protested before the invasion, like everybody else. But daily now he observed, with sickened fascination, how entertained he was, how satisfied it made him to think the war could last for years and years, generating untold carnage and slaughter.

  Michael cleared his throat and said, ‘Where did ye say ye heard those new Radiohead tracks, Rez?’

  ‘Online. I can’t remember the site. Google it. They’re really good. There’s actually a song on it about these daisy-cutter bombs they’re usin over there.’

  ‘I did Google it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. What did you say the album was called again?’

  ‘Jupiter Fell and We Saw it Happen.’

  ‘Are ye sure? That’s what I typed. There was nothing about it at all.’

  ‘Yeah I am,’ said Rez. But not even the second of these three syllab
les had elapsed before Rez realized that no, he was not sure.

  That was only one instance of the side effects the drugs were having on Rez’s memory. Far more significant was something Rez hadn’t unwittingly invented, but, rather, had completely forgotten about.

  He had completely forgotten his realization that Kearney was the one who had pushed ‘Baby’ James Appleton down the steps in the Garden of Remembrance.

  The days passed. Summer was ending and soon autumn would be here. You noticed it in the little things, thought Rez foggily. For instance, the fact that it wasn’t as warm any more and the days were getting shorter, and the calendar said nearly September.

  Jen called him two days before she was due to fly away, to say that she would miss him and would be thinking of him. Rez thanked her. He believed her. ‘When do ye think ye’ll be back?’

  Jen sighed. ‘I don’t know, Rez. I really don’t. I’ve enough money to last me a good while. I might see if I can do some kind of volunteer work, or get a job out there, or something like that.’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t do the volunteer work,’ Rez began mechanically, ‘It’s only Christian pity, a sort of disease … injustice is the natural order, ye shouldn’t fight it.’ Suddenly hearing himself, he cut himself short. His heart wasn’t in it. ‘No, that’s good,’ he said. ‘It’s really good. Fair play to ye.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks Rez,’ she said, her voice strained; she was trying not to cry. She said again that she’d miss him, that she’d have no one to talk to about books, but that she’d write to him and tell him everything that was going on with her. ‘I hope you take care of yourself, Rez.’

  They said goodbye. Then they hung up.

  That same evening Rez’s mother said, ‘Don’t ye think it’s time ye went out again and spent time with your friends? We think it would be good for ye. Don’t we?’

  Rez’s da mumbled his agreement. Trisha, who had called in for a cup of tea, smiled supportively. She too looked older now, more dried out.

  ‘What do ye think of that?’ his ma said.

  Rez didn’t think anything of it. He watched his mother with calm, dozy eyes. The poor thing, he thought, then smiled at this funny phrase that had come from nowhere, the kind of thing an old woman would say. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  The following day, Thursday, he was called to the phone. It was Matthew. ‘I got a call from your ma yesterday,’ he said. ‘She was sayin she thought it would be a good idea if we brought ye out or something.’ There was an embarrassed pause. ‘Yeah. So, em, there’s this secret rave on Saturday we were goin to go to. I’ve been hearin about it for ages. It’s to coincide with the lunar eclipse.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Cocker. We’re meetin in the field at the school. Probably not Kearney. I don’t think he knows about it. I mean, he’s …’ Matthew trailed off. Rez felt something then, a shadowy form lurking just out of view. ‘So are ye up for it?’ said Matthew.

  Rez said he would go.

  They hung up.

  49 | Kearney

  – Dwayne Kearney

  To: Joseph Kearney

  Email received at 14:00

  21/08/2003

  arite queer!!

  stil havin a mad fihear in U fflof muddafuken A

  lissen fag u heard about de rave in greystones dis saturday?? its de EEE-KKLIPSZZ!!! man id fucken LUV 2 b der. me mates r DJn---seerious fucken techno. hard az fuck. BLOW YR FUCKIN MIND OUT!!! :-> trust me joe itll be fuckin DEADly.

  just a heds up 4 me little bro. now den off 2 get me mickey suckt!!!

  later fag!!

  dwayne IN-Sane

  50 | Matthew

  Jen left Ireland on the Saturday morning. I knew she was going then because Cocker had told me. Around ten o’clock my phone rang – it was her. I lay on my bed and waited till it stopped ringing. That was the last time Jen tried to call me.

  In less than a week’s time, on the last Friday in August, the exam results would be out, and then I’d learn whether I’d be going to college to study English. I doubted it; even on the slim chance that I did get in, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to study. I didn’t know what I wanted. By now, the Future looked even murkier, even colder than it had before. I wished I could talk about it to someone – about everything that had happened – but the weight of it all was too much. Jen was gone, Rez was at an all-time low, and I’d never felt less close to Cocker. I was sure that, from now on, our lives would only diverge further. Soon we would have nothing in common, nothing but a past. I felt more lost than ever. Maybe I could hang around with Scag more, drop out of the mainstream altogether. At least that was a direction, a way in which to drift.

  Near to six o’clock that evening, I headed over to the school. Kearney was waiting for me in the field, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, an Aphex Twin grin on his face. Erratic against the murky twilight, he reminded me of one of the obelisks in 2001: A Space Odyssey. There was a rucksack at his feet, bulging with what I assumed to be drink. The faint sound of traffic reached me from behind, past the railings. Again Kearney had that aura, that strange charisma, standing dead still in the field.

  ‘Alright Kearney.’

  ‘Alright Matthew. Haven’t seen each other in a while, have we. All set for a serious onslaught?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have ye bought drink already?’

  I unshouldered my rucksack and shook it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Two bottles of Buckfast and six cans of Dutch Gold.’

  Kearney gestured at the field behind me. ‘Here’s Cocker.’

  I looked over my shoulder, saw Cocker folding himself over the railings and dropping ungracefully into the ditch. He emerged and came trotting towards us.

  ‘Howayis lads,’ he said when he reached us, out of breath and grinning his usual cheery grin.

  ‘Alright Cocker,’ said Kearney, cracking open a can of Dutch Gold. ‘Up for gettin monged out of it tonight?’

  ‘Definitely. Do yis reckon we’ll be able to get some pills?’

  ‘Yeah, easy. It’s a rave after all. Everyone there is going to be yoked off their tits.’

  None of us had ever been to a rave before. I didn’t imagine I’d care much for the music, but I was curious to see what it was like. By all accounts, tonight’s was going to be one of the biggest raves the city had ever seen.

  ‘Did ye talk to Jen before she left?’ Cocker asked me.

  ‘No. I’m not with Jen any more, don’t forget.’ I didn’t want to hear about her.

  ‘I know that. I just thought ye might have been speakin to her. She … she really wanted to talk to ye.’ He looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced up at Kearney and was quiet.

  ‘There wouldn’t have been much point,’ I said. ‘She’s probably right, though, doin what she’s doin and gettin away from here. It’s not the same as it used to be. I’d almost go away myself.’

  Kearney pointed towards the fence and said, ‘Here’s our man. Here’s the tragic hero.’ Rez was lowering himself down from the railings with slow, exaggerated care. We watched him crossing the field towards us, like an alien; strange to everything.

  ‘Alright Rez,’ said Cocker.

  ‘Alright Cocker. Howaya lads.’

  ‘And how’s young Prince Hamlet?’ said Kearney.

  ‘What?’ said Rez.

  ‘Give it a rest, Kearney,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m only messin. Yer lookin well, Rez,’ said Kearney. ‘Good to see yer back in the game. Here, get that into ye.’ He passed him a can of Dutch Gold. Rez cracked it open and started to drink.

  After an hour in the field, drunk and eager, we got on a bus to town, smoking and drinking in the upstairs seats. We got off and walked to Tara Street Station and took a DART out along the darkening coast, for the last big night of the summer.

  The beach was wide, dark and made of stones. It was past the lights of Greystones, at a distance from the town’s few, quiet streets.

&
nbsp; Already there were a lot of people arriving, packed in cars or in the carriages of the DART trains that stopped at Greystones before turning back for the city centre. We had taken the second-last train of the night: there was no way of getting home till morning.

  Our pace quickened as we walked from the station towards the beach. The pulse of techno drew us in, charging us with anticipation. Kearney passed me the whiskey and I swigged on it. In a rush of euphoria, I reflected how much like old times this was, like it used to feel, before all this shit happened: before Rez tried to hang himself, before Kearney started doing such fucked up things, before I had got with Jen and then lost her in the most painful way possible. But the euphoria vanished when I realized that the old days I was nostalgic for were only a few months ago, lasting up until we finished school. And now there would be no more school. There was only the Future. I almost wished we could all go back to school for just one more year: at least back there things were clear. We knew who we were and what we were against. But that would only have been delaying the inevitable – being spewed up on the shores of the adult world and expected to choose, embrace, belong.

  On the beach, rigs of strobe lighting had been set up alongside the sheltered DJ tables. Ravers came in clusters, stationing themselves around the dance area and along the edge of the sea. The grey skies had fallen away in the late evening and the night was clear. Stars shimmered, the moon was big and bright. We sat down to the side of the main dance area, rolling joints and drinking.

  Watching the dancers, Rez said, ‘It’s all just sexual advertising. Look at the males, the way they spread their limbs out and twist like that – they’re tryin to show the females how virile they are. It’s all so obvious, it’s just embarrassin.’

  ‘Rez, yer soundin like yer old self. Good man!’ laughed Cocker.

  ‘Yeah man, he’s right. It’s good to see,’ I said. ‘Seriously Rez, yer mad to have done what ye tried to do. I hope ye never try it again, or I’ll kill ye meself. I mean it, man, ye have yer mates, ye know.’