Falling out of Heaven

by John Lynch

  ‘Yes, sir.

  ‘Goodbye, Pettigrew.’

  ‘Sir.’

  As Pettigrew rejoined the class I popped my head around the door and thanked Farrell. He nodded and said any time though I knew he didn’t mean it. McKillen looked at me with what I could only describe as pure love in his eyes. As I walked away something stirred in me, like a small shift of earth after a rainfall. It was the cry that McKillen made. I hated bullies but then again bullying was something that wasn’t beyond me either. I remember that night I got drunk. I blamed Farrell for it, but then that wasn’t a hard thing to do, I had been programmed to blame.

  Fishing

  I remember once my father took me fishing. He told my mother to make some sandwiches and a flask of tea. I was in the field opposite the house enjoying the warm tumble of one day into the other, as school had broken for summer. I saw him standing in front of the house and when he saw me he didn’t say anything, he just held his hand out at me as if I was a troublesome motorist that a traffic cop had just pulled over. I stopped what I was doing immediately, dropping the sticks I had been collecting to build a fort further along the fields where the river met the earth and swelled into a large pool.

  I waited for him to speak, squinting in the sunlight, careful even at that distance not to make any sudden movements.

  ‘Dig some worms,’ he said.

  I didn’t hear him properly and knew not to ask him to repeat what he had just said. So I just waited stock still, rigid with attention that I knew he expected every time he spoke to one of us.

  ‘I said dig some worms. We’re going fishing in the morning.’

  And with that he turned and went back into the house leaving my mother looking over at me. She made a gesture with her hands as if she was apologising for something.

  That evening he asked to see the worms I had gathered. We were kneeling together in the garden. I could feel his heavy breath on my neck as I stooped down to rake through the dirt in the bucket exposing them for his approval.

  ‘Give me that,’ he said.

  He dug his fist into the black soil pulling out the worms, holding them aloft in the dying light as if he was a jeweller appraising a batch of diamonds. I saw them wriggling in his grip, lengthening and coiling around his fingers.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘There’s a couple of scraggy fuckers but they’ll do.’

  Then he looked at me and nodded, and I felt my face reddening.

  ‘The purple-headed ones are the best,’ he said. ‘The fish love them.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said and threw them back into the bucket. ‘Put a drop of water on them tonight to keep them moist and a bit more earth, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘And no fucking about in the morning. Out the door at six.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay? What sort of a fucking word is that?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Fucking Yanks have ruined everything. There’s no need for lazy language.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  The next morning we set off for the lake. Mist sat like a fine quilted web over the fields. Birds swooped in and out of light and shadow beginning their day with calls and somersaults in the air. We drove in silence, the windscreen smattered with the remains of flies and gnats, their squashed bodies smeared across its surface.

  At one point a rabbit hopped out into the middle of the road and my father stood on the brakes for a moment before saying ‘Fuck it’ and stepping on the accelerator. I remember the countdown of the moments as I waited to hear the thud of the rabbit’s body beneath the car. I was relieved to see its tail flash goodbye as it cleared the far hedge seconds later.

  By the time we reached the lake the sunlight had broken the back of the hills that bordered it, and the mist had melted away. My dad stood and looked at the sky for a moment as I got the rods and tackle out of the back of the car.

  ‘We could do with some cloud,’ he said.

  We walked across the fields to the lakeside, me slightly behind him as usual watching how he strode across the ground as if it belonged to him, cursing now and then if his Wellington got snagged in ragweed or a tangle of bramble.

  I watched as his fat hands held the hook, I noticed they were shaking, the fishing line vibrating wildly as he tried to thread it through the hook’s eye. He stopped and looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t say anything but turned to gaze out across the water, its surface as pure as polished steel.

  ‘You couldn’t buy that, could you?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  I wanted to tell him that he should thread the float onto the line first but hadn’t the nerve. I knew that it was best to let him discover it for himself, I knew that I’d still get the blame but not as much.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said when he realised. ‘Hand me one of those floats. No, not that one, you moron, the other one. The thin one.’

  I watched as this bear of a man crouched over the tackle, his shoulders rounded, his head buried in his chin. I saw the bulging of his muscles through his clothes, the powerful fuck-you body. I felt so puny in comparison, so weedy and girlish. I knew he’d wished for a stronger son, someone who could bounce others out of his way, someone who could take on the world and still have strength left for the fight at home.

  As I stood and looked at him grapple with the fishing line I knew that his patience was ebbing from him so I began to inch my way to the water’s edge to peer into the hidden world beneath.

  ‘Where the fuck you going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Well come here and thread this bastard line. I have to take a piss.’

  He shoved the rod at me and marched off to a bunch of reeds that lay in a clump behind us. I heard him grunt and mutter as he turned his back on me. Then when I looked over I saw him reach into his coat pocket and pull out a small bottle. He put it to his head and I saw his body relax for the first time that day as he took a swig. He then took his piss, whistling as he did so.

  For the next two hours or so we fished, watching the bob of our floats on the water’s surface as the sun rose like an angry tyrant beating its hot displeasure down on our heads.

  ‘It’s too fucking hot,’ my father said at one point as if it was my fault.

  As the morning wore on he no longer hid the bottle from me, and I knew that the day was taking a very different turn, one that would need me at my most vigilant. I took comfort in the water and its long calm shine, enjoying the bounce of the sunlight off it. I watched swallows coming in low, their wings working furiously as they grabbed quick sips, and then saw them climb again into the blueness of the sky.

  Now and then I reeled in and checked the worm; once or twice I changed it, throwing the dead one into the water. I imagined it tumbling into the depths, its torn body wriggling and twisting down deeper into the darkness. I felt sorry for it, I felt strange that I did, it was only a worm.

  ‘What’s up?’ my father asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You look a bit puce in the face.’

  ‘I’m okay…I mean…Sorry…Fine.’

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘I’m alright, Dad.’

  ‘Come here when you’re told. Come here.’

  I remember how I picked my way across to him, stepping between reeds and small pools of stale water until I stood by him.

  ‘Sit…Sit…Sit.’

  He patted the grass beside him and I knew better than to hesitate more than I already had.

  As I sat I felt the cold water seep through my jeans and run down the top of my legs. After a moment of us both looking out at the glinting water in front of us he put his arm around me. There was no life in it, it just lay across my shoulders like a large timber, and it was heavy and uncomfortable.

  ‘Ah…It’s all fucked, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is, Dad?’

  ‘The whole fucking shooting match. Don’t you think?’

  He finished what
was left in his bottle, burped loudly and threw it into the lake, then he drew me close to him, his large bicep tightening around the back of my neck, so that my face was buried in his chest. He smelled of old fish and chips and dried sweat.

  ‘Trust no fucker. Man or fucking beast, do you hear?’

  I muffled that I did. I could hear his heartbeat, it sounded steady and deep like the pounding of a large kitchen clock.

  ‘Has your mammy been talking to you?’ he asked.

  ‘About what, Dad?’

  ‘Oh you know. Me. Stuff like that?’

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘Good.’

  I could feel his grip on me. I felt his breath; it was hot and heavy like the blast from an opened oven.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I mean yes.’

  ‘What about Ciara?’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Has she said anything?’

  I knew that I must answer quickly or that he would be onto me, but she had said something, the other night as we had lain in bed together listening in the dark as my father’s rage shook the house. She had whispered it to me as we had held each other; she had told me that he had touched her in her private place.

  ‘No, Dad.’

  ‘Nothing. She’s said nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  He let me go. I blinked as I sat back up and rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  His eyes had a faraway look as if he was watching something in the distance that he couldn’t take his eyes from. They looked hard and flinty.

  ‘You never knew your grandfather, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a hard bastard…’

  He stopped. He searched his pockets; I knew he was looking for the bottle and that he’d forgotten that he finished it.

  ‘Trust no fucker. That’s all.’

  He got up and gestured to the rods.

  ‘Reel them in. Let’s see what your mother has for breakfast.’

  Clouds

  How long have I been here staring into this man’s eyes? I don’t remember coming here, taking my place in front of him in this bare room, beneath the pale glow of the fluorescent strip-light. He can see my confusion because he suggests that I try and relax, to think positive thoughts. He tells me that I have been on a journey; that everyone has been worried about me. I can’t hold his gaze when he says this. They obviously think that I’m well enough to be moved, but I still feel fragile and I recall the panic I felt in the small room they put me in only a little while before. He waits and then he begins talking again: he’s listing the medication that I’m on and he’s saying that I have been very sick and that they weren’t sure if I would make it. I feel like telling him to fuck off but I know that’s exactly what he wants me to do, that he will see that as a connection or some such bullshit.

  I shift slightly in my seat and look at him. I think I frighten him because he stops talking and just stares at me. He then picks up a notepad that is by his feet and scribbles something in it. This annoys me, I feel like an animal in a zoo being monitored and noted. But I decide to smile at him, instead of showing my anger. This seems to unnerve him even more because he gets to his feet and goes to the door of the room we’re in and knocks on it. After a moment it is opened and a young man sticks his head in. They whisper together, throwing me glances now and then. I like this even less and decide to make a sound to show my displeasure. They both stop and look at me as I growl at them. The young man who opened the door puts his forefinger to his mouth, but it doesn’t make any difference, my growling has taken on a life of its own. It’s a sound I have made many times before, it’s one I learnt as I fell, it’s the noise that clouds make when they collide.

  The Stain

  First the breathing, it fills the room. Then the hurried discard of clothing. I see his silhouette, it seems mountainous against the faint tablet of light coming from the window. I am peeping through the folds of the bedcovers. I pray for sleep, begging for it to pass over my eyes. I hear the snort he makes, like a bull staking territory. I watch as his shape bends slightly as his trousers drop. For a moment he stands there and then pulls a hand across his chest, scratching at the hair it finds there. I smell him; it is the smell of bars, of wet ashtrays, of piss and fading aftershave. My heart is pounding, my body frozen in fear; I am praying to a God I have no love for. I see him lurch towards the side of the bed, and hear him curse the darkness. I feel like vomiting. I gulp quickly, and still I implore heaven for sleep. His body makes the springs of the bed groan as he lies down beside me. Then his breathing again, it comes quick and fast now as if he has just run a race.

  ‘No, Daddy…Please, no…Please…No…No…’

  His hands are on my young skin, touch, dig, grab, on they come. Nipple and cock, balls and hair and the smell of man, the worst of man, it moves across me. I feel my softness respond, hardening against my will, the world is small and narrow like a closed fist. His grunts shoot through my heart like bullets tearing at the sweet meat of my goodness. I become a dead boy made of disappointment and dust, an eight-year-old clawing at the blackness descending into his soul.

  ‘No…No…’

  He is moving me, adjusting me, pawing at me. My whimpers rise in the air. I remember whispering that if God was nearby, to step in to halt the horror that was taking place under his gaze. I waited for the saviour to split my attacker in two like lightning striking an old oak. Instead it was me who divided, cleaved into two separate beings as I lay there, my father’s breath of whiskey and death moving across my body.

  I saw the butterfly kite; I saw it flit on the quickening wind like a spirit beyond flesh. I watched it in my mind as it spiralled and twisted, eager for the lift of the breeze. I saw it soar against the blueness and beauty of a summer’s day, its long tail of ribbon swirling in the air. My heart sang to it, pleaded to join it. As I leapt free of my small body to move in the air with the kite I looked back at the child whose body was obscured by the writhing shadow that was his father. I cursed God and all his saints. The boy below me was no more than a husk, the facsimile of a child.

  I remember being carried along on gusts and bursts of wind, wishing I could stay there forever caught in the world of birds and coming rain. I felt at home, at peace.

  When he spilled across me, I plummeted back down into the flesh of my body, landing with a jolt into a pool of stickiness and the pull of his fingernails on my belly. I felt a great sadness envelop me, like a dark rain cloud, and in it shame and self-disgust lurked like assassins waiting to pounce.

  Sometimes he stayed in the bed with me, falling asleep almost instantly, his snore shuddering through the bed, his large chest rising and falling, his hands twitching across my body every now and then, as if they still owned it, still claimed it. If he lay on his side facing me he would gather me to him in a hug. My face would then lie against the wiry hairs on his chest or my lips would find themselves pressed to one of his nipples. I can recall the soft pinkness of it against my mouth and how I gagged.

  I knew then I was condemned, that later in life men would look at me with pity and women would sense my obscene history even before I had crossed the threshold of their hearts. Something died in me all those nights ago when the moon spied through the curtains, and that man took the child in me away and cast him into the wilderness.

  He broke the thread in me, the one that holds on to life. It dangled within me useless and torn. I watched him as I grew older, followed him with my eyes as he patrolled our home, as he planted the flag of conquest in every bedroom of the house. I dreamt of picking him apart, of taking his flesh from his bones. My world was shaped in gunfire and thunder, and the sly reach of my father’s hand across my balls.

  Honour Him

  This time there are three of them. One stands behind me, one at the door and the third is seated in front of me. The one in front of me is the one who was here before. He is speaking
to me. He is asking me my name. I laugh, and then I’m surprised to find I begin crying in almost the same breath. I am annoyed with myself because this will only make him pity me. So I bang my head hard with my hand to stop the tears. The man behind me stoops down so that his face is inches from mine. It’s alright, he tells me, everything is alright. He then turns to his colleagues and tells them that I was in a pretty raw state when I was taken from the holding room, that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to leave me alone there for so long, that I was sweating and shaking when they found me.

  I wave a hand at him as if to say you don’t understand, none of you do. It has nothing to do with that.

  I am angry because I know that if I’m crying it means that I am still attached to this world. I wait a moment and a part of me wants to speak to them to explain, but I don’t. If I speak then I will be truly lost. I will be no better or no worse than them. I know that they are waiting, I can tell because their breathing is different. They can wait all they want.

  I wish that these tears would stop falling. I must try and think of something else. I hold myself by clasping my arms about my body and I lean forward. Don’t do that, one of them says, please sit up straight. I ignore him. Then I feel his hands on me pulling at me. Like she did a long time ago, her hand on the nape of my neck pushing those words out, those God words, those love words. ‘Feel Him, Gabriel, give yourself to Him, honour Him, Gabriel, feel His love, can you feel Him, Gabriel?’ His hand on my tiny cock, moving and pushing, digging and probing. Can you feel him, Gabriel? Can you feel the hardness of his sex? This is his love, Gabriel, and this is his gift. Honour him, Gabriel, honour your father in heaven.

  The Seagull

  I know that I must forget the events of the past few days, though pieces of it rise in me, like a dying man’s last words, fighting to be heard. My wife decided not to press charges and the hospital released me on the understanding that I would get the help I needed. I nodded and assured them I would. My sister wasn’t pleased and my brother-in-law even less, but fuck them, as the man said.