Falling out of Heaven

by John Lynch

  I have things to do today. I have arranged to take my class to see a production of Chekhov’s The Seagull. It isn’t on the curriculum but months ago it seemed like a good idea, I thought that it would stir the artists in them and give them an appreciation of theatre. Most of them have signed up to come; some have dropped out at the last minute. I have hired a minibus which I will drive myself. My body feels as if it belongs to someone else. It doesn’t want to obey me, and I can feel the man at the car rental place looking at me quizzically as I bang my head when I climb into the cabin of the van. He asks me if I’m okay, and I look at him as if he’s crazy. I have a couple of whiskey miniatures in my jacket pocket. I might need to press them into service later on.

  The students are to be at the school ready to go at 6 p.m. It’s a four- or five-mile drive from the car hire. I stop twice to throw up. The second time I am hunched over in the layby, heaving as the tea-time traffic screams by. A few of them honk their horns at this pathetic figure bent double in the brisk wind dredging up what’s left of his insides.

  Just before I reach the school I take out one of the miniatures and down it in one. I know that my body will want to reject it so I take short quick breaths until the feeling of nausea passes. I then stuff three or four mints in my mouth and suck furiously, trying to kill the smell of vomit and whiskey. All this has made me late and I know that I won’t have time to splash my face in the school toilets before we go.

  I take the turn into the driveway of the school at speed, cutting across an oncoming car. He bangs on his horn, and slows down, for a moment I think that he is going to follow me. That’s all I need, I think, and am relieved when I see him decide to go on.

  The students are all waiting for me when I arrive; some are with their parents, sitting in their cars. I slow down as I approach, a speeding teacher would not go down too well. I pop another couple of mints in my mouth as I pull on the handbrake and jump out. I smile and bang my hands together.

  ‘Are you alright, Mr O’Rourke?’

  One of my pupils’ parents is standing looking at me. She is called Patricia Numby and I remember her from the parentteacher meetings, she always had one question more than the others, always wanted reassurance that her son was doing better than the others. I knew that she found me a little flighty. I think it was because I tried to joke with her once that every mother wants a Mozart to tuck in at night. It didn’t go down too well.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Numby, I’m fine…Really fine…Looking forward to our little trip.’

  ‘Well thank you for organising it. You look a little pale.’

  ‘It’s nothing, stomach upset…That’s all.’

  ‘Something you ate?’

  ‘Exactly…Something I ate…’

  ‘Right. What time do you expect to be back?’

  ‘Oh I would say around 11.30.’

  ‘Good. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’

  ‘Terrific…Terrific…Obviously apart from the stomach thing.’

  ‘Yes, there’s a lot of it going round. My friend Mr…’

  ‘Yes, well…We really should be going if we want to be on time…Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Numby…’

  She moves to step forward; as she does this I take a little pace backwards. I realise that she’s suspicious and wanted to get a smell of my breath. I smile at her and turn around to tell everyone to get ready to go. Before we leave I ask my pupils to behave on the journey down the M1, and pop another couple of mints in my mouth. One of them cheekily asks if he can have one, I tell them they’re medicinal and that I need every one I have.

  Once I get the students in the theatre and seated I can slip out and get myself together. I console myself with this as we travel down the motorway, the lights of the cars bleeding in and out of each other like long snakes of fluorescence. Part of me just wants to keep on driving deeper and deeper into the night.

  I am staring into the mirror. The play has started. I am in the Gents toilet. I have just drunk the last of my whiskey. I left just as Konstantin’s little play began. I have about fifty minutes or so before the interval.

  I can see deep circles of blackness beneath my eyes. I am staring at a stranger. I no longer see the person I was. As I splash my face with water I get the feeling that there is something I haven’t thought, a part of my mind that I haven’t been to.

  I don’t remember the short walk back to the auditorium or the look one of my students gives me as I take my place beside him. One of the actors on the stage forgets his lines for a moment and I loudly snort my disapproval. A few people look round in my direction and tell me to be quiet. I tell them to fuck off. I was happy, I was sure I was, just for a second it rose within me like the sun in July. My mind was hazy and the hard thinking in my brain had eased. I no longer thought of my hands at her throat or the beast that roared inside me as I forced myself onto her. Yes, I was at peace; it was something that I had been looking for all day and I was grateful that at last it had arrived, it was the final miniature that did it, and the two or three nips I had at the theatre bar. Thank God for Mr Johnny Walker. I laughed, it must have been louder than I remember because one of the ushers came down and suggested that I go outside for a moment. I told her that was impossible as I was a teacher and a man of character and that I had some pupils in my charge and to abandon them would be beyond reckless. I think she looked at me as if I was mad. Fuck it, I was used to that. It was the same look my sister had given when I lay in the hospital bed and she told me that I had tried to rape my wife, what the fuck is the world coming to, how can a man rape his own fucking wife. Konstantin has just brought on a dead seagull, one of my students beside me laughs and says something under his breath to one of his mates. I hit him a dig in the ribs with my elbow and tell him to be quiet. This is Art, I say, do you understand, this is fucking Art, you moron.

  I watch as the actor lays the dead seagull at Nina’s feet and something begins to stir in me, something that has lain dormant for a very long time, it’s like the first cry of love from a child’s lips and it brings tears to my eyes.

  I don’t notice that I have stood up and am making my way towards the stage forcing my way through people’s crossed legs. I think I shout something at the actors. I know that I feel sorry for the bird that lies lifelessly in front of them. I remember wanting to cradle it in my arms, to woo it back to life. I know that I am angry at the world for killing it, for ripping it from the sky, just like I was, I think, just like I was.

  It takes the parents of my students some time to organise lifts to take them all back to Newry. They tell me that it took three men to stop me climbing onto the stage. I don’t know, I say, when they tell me, I can’t remember, I’m sorry, I can’t remember. The manager of the theatre is standing in front of me; there is a man beside him. They both have that look on their faces; it’s a mixture of anger and pity. The man is taking notes. He tells me he is head of security at the theatre and if he had his way he would throw the book at me.

  I know that I have a better chance with the manager and it’s him that I focus on, fixing him with my eyes whenever I can. It seems to work because through his speech about how he believes the theatre to be a sacred space, a church, if you like, where people come to pay homage to great works of art, his face softens until eventually he tells me that he has a brother who drank and that he knows the pain that lives in the hearts of people like me. I’ll let it go, he says. He looks to the security guy who is disappointed not to have the satisfaction of charging me. I thank him, I think I even cried a little tear to emphasise my sincerity. Then I call my wife. I tell her that I need her help. Her voice is bloodless and cold and she asks me what it is I want. A lift home, I say. She asks where I am. Outside the Lyric Theatre, I say. Wait there, she says and hangs up. An hour or so later I see my brother-in-law’s van pull up. I curse quietly to myself and think about hiding until he drives off, but I know that he has seen me. He parks on the other side of the road and barely looks at me but just sits there with the engine i
dling. As I get into the van he crunches it into first gear and hardly waits for me to bang the door shut before moving off. I think I thanked him as we travelled back to my home, I’m not sure, but he doesn’t speak to me, keeps his eyes dead ahead, his left hand moving back and forth across the gear stick, his right hand flipping the steering wheel this way and that. So I settle into the silence that he seems so determined to put in place. In my mind I know that the ground is moving up to meet me at a greater speed than ever before.

  Torn Down

  ‘My name is…Gabriel.’

  ‘Okay…Good.’

  ‘Gabriel.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘O’Rourke…Gabriel O’Rourke…’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And how do you feel, Gabriel O’Rourke?’

  ‘Strange…’

  ‘It’s to be expected. But don’t worry. Please try not to worry.’

  I can’t help feeling disgust at myself. I have given in. It has taken a while but I have succumbed nonetheless. I tell myself to ignore the grin of victory on this young man’s face; he’s just doing his job. He had to pull me from the sky; he had to tear me down so that I sat across from him just as I do now, meek and full of yeses and nos. It feels strange to say my name; it tastes dusty and dry on my tongue as if I have just put a handful of dirt in my mouth. I know that I am back in the dull plain world that I have spent my life fleeing. I smile.

  ‘What’s funny, Gabriel?’

  ‘Everything. Everything is fucking funny.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Such as…?’

  ‘Such as not knowing when you’re standing or when you’re sitting, when you’re crying or laughing or…’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or when you’re falling and when you’re not.’

  Falling Together

  There is that old familiar smell of bacon grease and the sound of the kitchen clock. My mother stands over me, she is concerned. I am crying. My tears are the kind that will not let anyone in, especially those closest to you. This angers my mother though she tries not to show it.

  ‘Don’t cry, son.’

  Her hand is on my shoulder. I know that she doesn’t know what to say next.

  ‘Son…God is with you.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘Don’t, son…Don’t disrespect Him…’

  My head is in my hands, I feel my hot breath against my palms.

  ‘What is it, son? What has you so?’

  I try to answer, to tell of his heavy touch and the thrust of his hand on my sex. I want to scream that the devil walked the gardens of the Lord and that no-one was safe.

  ‘Pray with me, son…Let’s pray for the touch of God’s love, for His grace, for His compassion.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pray with me.’ Her voice is more urgent now.

  I look at her across these years that have fallen and I see the need in her eyes. Don’t betray me, they say. She takes my hands in hers. Her eyes soften, and she rubs my forearm making small shushing noises.

  ‘There’s nothing so big or so small that God can’t handle.’

  A cow lows in the bottom field. My mother cocks her head and a tear rises in her eye. I watch it as it sits there, unsure as to whether to fall.

  I feel stupid sitting there waiting for the prayer that I know will do no good. After what seems an age she focuses once more on me, her eyes searching mine.

  ‘God loves everyone and everything that moves on the face of this earth, Gabriel; He makes no distinction, no exception.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  ‘Mammy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The words dance on the tip of my tongue, the black words that speak of sin, and defilement. But I stop short of uttering them.

  ‘Nothing, Mammy.’

  I want to tell her that there is someone else there crouching in the dark and that my body already belonged to him, and that the thief wore a husband’s clothes. He had got there first and claimed me for himself. It was his skin I felt next to mine, man skin, broken and leathered. Sweaty piss-smelling skin. I want to tell her that God watched and did nothing. Maybe God enjoyed what he was seeing because he didn’t stop it. I remember I began to rock in my seat, gently as the violence of the memory worked its way through my body and into my thinking. I wonder at her blindness.

  ‘Gabriel.’

  ‘Yes, Mammy.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rock like that.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t think that God loves me…’

  Suddenly she drops her head. She looks away from me and I realise that she knows. That through all the smoke and fog of our unhappiness, she knows. She has kept it from us, from herself, and has looked for refuge in the high clouds of God’s love, and the soft embrace of His saints and angels.

  As I fall into that kitchen, into the tension of my mother’s touch, of her hands, I see now that the secret lives in her too and that she has buried it deep within herself and looks out on the world with the eyes of a convert.

  ‘Mammy,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s alright.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  This time there are no fireworks, no high language, just a simple plea, and for the first time stillness comes to her, it settles on her like a sea bird finding land, its wings weary from the hunt. She has found the end of love.

  Take it Back

  My father died trying to crack open Petey’s head between his bare hands. I was seventeen and was with him in the town when he suggested that we have a drink before returning home. It was a hot July day and I remember feeling thankful for the coolness of the pub’s interior. It was only after he had drunk half of his first pint that my father first noticed Petey. He was sitting in the far corner near the exit for the toilets tinkering with a crossword. I can still see the debate in my dad’s eyes as he thought about leaving, but instead he ordered another drink. It was a while before Petey saw us. I could see him in the reflection of the large mirror that hung above the bar. He stared at us for a full minute before calling over one of the young students that worked at clearing up and taking orders from the floor. I saw him whisper in the young man’s ear and indicate my father with a nod of his head. Two minutes later a fresh pint arrived in front of my father.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s from your mate.’

  ‘What mate?’

  ‘Petey,’ the barman said.

  ‘Take it back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take it back.’

  ‘Fuck it, Johnny. It’s poured.’

  ‘So?’

  My father then lifted the pint and walked over towards Petey. He placed the drink on the table in front of him.

  ‘I don’t want anything from you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be like this,’ Petey said.

  ‘I’ll be any fucking way I please.’

  ‘There’s no need for this.’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘No-one’s disputing that.’

  ‘Stay the fuck away.’

  I remember feeling relieved when my father turned and started to make his way towards me, but then something crossed his eyes. He turned and lunged at Petey, using his greater strength to drag him clear across the small table and into the middle of the floor. The barman called on my dad to stop but he just ignored him. Petey just sat there as my father’s hands found the side of his head and began to squeeze.

  ‘She’s mine. She’s fucking mine.’

  ‘Johnny…’

  ‘Fight me.’

  ‘Johnny, no…’

  I can still see Petey’s head in my father’s lap like a cradled lover and how his lips were puckered as if he was waiting for a kiss to be planted on
them. A space cleared around them. A man at the bar started to laugh, an old drunk who spent every day in the same spot nodding into the debris of his past. One of Petey’s mates tried to prise my dad’s hands off the man’s face. He then thumped dad hard across the head, I saw the blow register in my father’s eyes, but it didn’t shake his grip; he just spat out a grunt and applied more pressure to Petey’s head.

  I looked at the large splay of my father’s fingers as they lay across the sides of his head and knew that Petey would be lucky to walk away. The barman asked me to say something, to intervene, but all I could do was shyly shake my head like a girl being asked for a first kiss.

  Then suddenly my father looked up at me, there was something in his look that told me there was a problem. His hands left Petey’s head and reached up to his heart and began tearing at the clothing that covered it. I still see him ripping at his shirt buttons before his upper body fell backwards his head landing with a smack on the bar room floor. For a moment no-one moved, and then Petey rolled free of my father’s prostrate body, got to his feet and quietly said: ‘Call an ambulance. For God’s sake, call an ambulance.’

  By the time we had reached the hospital he was already dead. I remember us waiting to see him, how my mother stood, her head slightly to one side so that she looked like a little girl, and my sister crying and holding on to her arm. I lit a cigarette and when my mother told me that you weren’t allowed to smoke I said: ‘I’d like to see someone try and stop me.’

  When she saw him at last she was brief. She stood by his lifeless body and whispered something that none of us could hear and then she placed the tips of her fingers on the knuckles of one of his large hands and traced each one. She looked as if she was paying homage to the force that lived there, to the weapons that she knew he relied on.

  We buried him. Sleet whipped through the air and cloud lay heavy and grey over the land like dark slabs of stone. That night I got drunk. I seemed to be carried by a black energy from bar to bar. People came up to me to pay their respects; some I tolerated, some I treated with disdain, others who were drinking pals of our father I hung on to, as if they were living Bibles.