by John Lynch
‘Attractive, aren’t they?’
I look around to see Clive looking at me.
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s just bullshit propaganda, brother. Like the rest of our stupid world. Just bullshit propaganda designed to make us pay with our souls.’
A Land of Paper
Today I won’t drink. I’ll ignore the rage that starts in me, ordering me to obey. I’ll sit here on this pavement and shake until I crack down the middle before I succumb. I know that things will be sent my way to bend my arm, to force me into raising a bottle to my head. I must soothe my body today, talk to it, tell it that everything will be alright. My mind is racing. I have become used to the dark land where drink takes me, where the sun is blotted out by shame, and the trees have withered limbs from lack of water. I have spent so long there that I can no longer tell when I am there and when I’m not. There is a woman standing in front of me staring at me as if I was less than human. If I blink maybe she will evaporate, dwindle into nothing, melt down into the shit and debris that litters the footpath. I would hold out my hand if it wasn’t shaking so much, just to annoy her, just to see the curl of disdain begin at the edge of her mouth. I could say something to her, bite her through the heart with some choice words but I think better of it. After a moment she moves off, she grunts as she does, fuck her, and fuck the look she gave me, fuck the ground she walks on.
Glass glints all around me as the morning sun moves into view. The shaking has moved to my heart, maybe it began there, I don’t know. I think of my old life, how it seems so remote now, separated by distance and the fever of my thinking. It seems like a land of paper delicately swaying in the black winds of my memory. I know now that all my life I was only one lit match away from burning it down. Even the people I knew and tried to love were too flimsy for my hard heart. Each day that passes another piece of my past is blown away, lifted and tossed into the distance, a huge swatch of paper dipping and fluttering in the breeze like a wounded white bird.
I think of the girl I fucked while her father, my friend, lay passed out downstairs. I see again the look on her face as I was having her, the way she lifted her head to mine, her fingers grabbing at the flesh on my back as if she was falling away. I remember her breath, as hot as hell burning into my conscience, her lips wet with passion. I was a man fucking back, hanging his soul from a meat hook, taking the fist of his sex and nailing anything that moved. She was as giving as a young girl can be, taking my rage, taking my fear, taking my humpbacked heart. I remember his face later when I told him that I’d had my way with his daughter, as if he had just been punched. It was revenge, it was sweet then but now I wonder why it tastes so bitter. I fucked her to fuck him. Simple as that.
I look around me at the street I’m on. I don’t remember arriving here. The days and thoughts come and go now, one bleeds into the other, folding and twisting in my mind. I am derailed, I know this, and I am looking out on a world bloated with its own importance. I was someone once, I think. I am fucking sure of it. Yes, I was someone. And now…Tomorrow I won’t drink.
The First Meeting
I am sitting beside a woman. She is older than me. She is smiling and looking at me as if she knows me. I want to tell her to stop. It’s uncomfortable, but she just keeps grinning at me as if I am the answer to all her problems. I shift my body slightly so that I am angled away from her, but I can still feel her eyes on me. Eventually I look back at her, anger flaring in my eyes.
‘This is your first time, isn’t it?’ she says.
I don’t say anything and I feel my anger slip away as quickly as it rose in me. There is something about the softness in her eyes that unnerves me, that makes me think again.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No…Well…Yes…’
I smile and I nod and realise how nervous I have been ever since we had all arrived, our counsellors telling us to find seats near the front of the meeting and to take them with the minimum of fuss.
‘Don’t worry, everyone has a first time…’ the woman says.
‘Excuse me, I don’t know your name.’
‘Pauline M. I’m an alcoholic. And you?’
‘Gabriel.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Gabriel. This is a big moment for you.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘Are you up the road at the treatment centre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. It’s a good place. You’re in good hands.’
The room we are in is small and it is filling by the second, smoke hangs in the air and men hand chairs across seated bodies, nodding to one another. Everyone seems to be smiling and it irritates me. I want to leave to stand outside, to be swallowed by the darkness and smoke one cigarette after another.
‘You’re a very brave man,’ Pauline says to me.
‘So everyone keeps telling me.’
‘Well that’s maybe because you are. We’re not as weak as other people think. In fact if anything it’s the opposite.’
There is a small hatch at the far end of the room opposite the entrance. A young man is handing teas and coffees out through it. His scalp is shaved and his nose looks like it’s been broken a few times. He is wearing a grey V-necked sweater and politely nods as people come and collect their drinks from him. On the walls are posters with sayings written on them in large bold type. A lot of them contain the word God and for a moment I think about using that as an excuse to leave but I know that won’t hold sway with my counsellors. In fact it was one of the final things that Alf said to me when he had pulled me aside earlier that day.
‘Tonight you’re going to see and hear a lot of “God” business. It will be difficult. It was difficult for me. I thought that I had landed in a bloody cult or something. Ignore it. Focus on the stories you hear. Leave the God thing for those who are comfortable with it. All you have to do is say that I am beaten and only you can save me. By that I mean the solidarity of the room or the power of people’s experiences. The God issue is for another time.’
‘Hi.’
I look up to see an older man standing over me. He nods at Pauline and she smiles back.
‘My name’s Frank the Book.’
‘Frank the Book?’
‘I own a wee bookshop in the city centre. It’s called Books in Nooks.’
‘Right.’
‘First-timer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pleased to meet you, son. Mind if I sit next to you?’
‘No.’
I watch as he lowers himself into the seat next to me. He is a big man and he smells of biscuits and coffee. He winks at me and shouts a large hello to every person that passes him. One or two people stop to talk with him. He asks them how they’re doing, I hear him tell a small ratty-looking youth to take the second thought, dismiss the first and go with the second. The youth nods at him and tells him it’s difficult. Of course it’s fucking difficult, he roars, we’re not the same as others. We’re built differently, and he looks to me as he says this to make sure that I’m listening. It’s the first thought that does the damage if we obey it. It tells us to pick up the drink, to shag the girl, to tell the driver who’s just cut us up exactly what we think of him. The second thought is the normal thought, he says, looking at me, his eyes full of humour and mischief.
‘I bet that your first thought has got you into some scrapes in your time,’ he says to me.
I don’t reply but look away at a large poster that says ‘Let Go and Let God’ in large black type. It is hanging on the wall behind a desk at the front of the room. I think of my mother and what she would say if she saw me in a place like this. For the first time in a very long while, her memory doesn’t slice me up inside, or bring the sour taste of anger to my mouth.
‘You want this,’ Frank says to me.
‘What?’
‘Your soul wants this. It’s begging you to open up your ears and listen.’
A man is hovering around the desk at the top of the room.<
br />
He has a folder in his hands and he is gesturing to a woman to come and join him, which she does. They both sit down and the man picks up a small hand bell that is sitting in front of him and rings it. He has to do it a second time as the first one fails to stop the hubbub of people talking and laughing. Gradually the room falls quiet and he clears his throat and says: ‘Hello, everyone. My name is Fergal and I’m an alcoholic.’
‘Hello, Fergal,’ the room says en masse as if it suddenly had one throat.
‘Is there anyone else here who is an alcoholic?’
People snigger as he says this and then a forest of hands is raised high. I don’t, my stubborness is still alive and well. Frank and Pauline raise their hands, smiling as they do so.
‘At least I am not alone,’ Fergal says. Again people laugh. ‘I think that we’ve all spent more than enough time alone in our lives, don’t you agree?’
‘Yes,’ the room says.
Fergal then gets someone to read out the twelve steps of AA. It sounds like the manifesto for a cult and all I can hear over and over again is the word God, until I almost believe that I am back in my living room as a child with my mother holding me down by the neck, breathing the hot passion of her belief into my young brain.
My head starts to swim. I stand and begin to make my way out of the meeting, avoiding everyone’s eyes as I do so. Once outside I lean against the wall of the building, taking in deep gulps of the night air. It takes a few moments to calm my body down. I fumble in my pockets for a cigarette and quickly light it. I don’t see Frank the Book. I don’t even hear him arriving.
‘If you want to think this one out on your own, just let me know and I’ll piss off,’ he says. ‘But if you’re built in any way like me thinking will only make it worse.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’ I ask, looking at him.
‘Do…Don’t think, do…Action is character…’
‘Right…Do…’
‘Yes, do…Or at least be willing…’
‘Willing?’
‘To change. Because God knows and tell me if I’m stepping over the line here. The old you landed you in this place at the end of a long night where everything you touched broke into pieces, where every step you took was a fall. Now if you’re anything like me, that is…And I have a suspicion that you might be…’
I look away. I see a man trying to cross the road opposite us. He is drunk. I watch as he staggers out into the glare of the headlights from the oncoming traffic and then wince as I see him lurch back again to avoid being hit. I hear the high drone of the car horns as they sound their disapproval at him.
‘Now,’ Frank says. ‘We look at that poor fucker over there. Us…people like you and me. And we don’t see what other men see. Sure he looks pathetic. He looks fucking hopeless. But you know what the fucked-up point of it all is. Somewhere fuckers like us…We find it attractive. No worries. No cares. Like him. Just bobbing along like a float cut loose from a fishing line. That’s what we want. That’s what we fucking crave.’
‘I ended up sleeping in fucking bins,’ I say.
‘I know.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I did too. That’s how I know. Your story is my story. That’s all that room in there is about.’
Killing Two Birds
The next day Clive has a fit. Three orderlies try to restrain him. They called me because they said he liked me. I asked why he had lost it, he was doing so well. Someone had moved the Bible he was reading. They had taken it from his bedside table, looked through it and then left it on the bed instead of putting it back where they found it. He went crazy and challenged his roommate who told him to fuck off, that he didn’t read pornography. That only made things worse. He grabbed the guy by the throat and shook him until his nose bled and then he butted him in the face. He was gone, he was history, I knew that much. His ninth treatment was over almost as soon as it began.
When I reach him he is on the ground screaming his head off as nurses swarm all over him, pinning him down. I stand there not knowing what to say or do. I look at my friend’s face bulging with rage and I see myself there. He is fighting himself; he is trying to break the bars that hold his spirit. He wants out, like I do.
One of the nurses lying across him sees me standing there and motions with his head that I should try and talk to him. But I am frozen by the fear in my friend’s eyes. He is a big man and suddenly he decides to get to his feet.
‘Fucking bastards, I’ll take every one of you with me.’
I watch as they try and stop him but he succeeds in shaking one of them free and finds his feet, grunting as he hauls himself to a standing position. He manages to get one of his arms loose and starts using it, swotting one or two of the nurses across the face.
‘How do you like that, you fuckers. How do you like them fucking apples.’
One of the nurses falls backwards into a large rose bush. I can’t help smiling. It is then that he sees me for the first time. He stops and nods at me. I say nothing but nod back. I knew that this was goodbye, that he wouldn’t come back from this one. I see the sweat on his brow, and the wildness in his eyes. He was going to lose everything; he knew it and I did too. I hear the sound of feet thumping on the pavement behind me. I turn and look and see four more orderlies hurrying to help their colleagues. I step out of the way to let them past. Clive gets one of them with a sweet left hook just as he arrives.
Then he begins running; he takes off across the large garden. As he does he yells ‘Fuck it’ at the top of his voice. One or two passing inmates begin applauding him. It looks like a crazy silent film, Clive tearing across the grass with seven men in white chasing him. When they catch him, they don’t fuck around this time; I see one or two of them put a dig in as he crashes to the ground. One of the orderlies sits on his head while the others hold his arms and legs down. They then turn him over onto his front and pull his arms across his back.
He is led away. I stand there looking at the marks in the grass. I think of the madness I saw in him, and how attractive it was to someone like me. His roommate is led past me, a handkerchief pressed up against his nose, his head held back. His name is Stuart, and he works in a bank. Clive had never liked him. He said that he was one of those high-flying fuckers, who think everything was expenses this and expenses that. His bank was paying for his treatment which riled him even more. So I suppose it was coming. He had been waiting, biding his time, until he couldn’t bear it anymore and had to get out. So he used Stuart to do it, killing two birds with one stone.
Being Kissed by Angels
Josey is crying although she tries to hide it when she sees me approaching, running the palms of her hands quickly across her face and forcing a smile to her lips. I stand for a moment before I sit. The day is bright and the sunlight makes the frost on the branches of the trees glitter and sparkle like the treasure in a pirate’s cave. She is sitting on one of the benches in the grounds. I think about leaving her to her thoughts, but she makes a small gesture with her hand, patting the space beside her, indicating that I should join her. As I do I offer her a cigarette, she takes it. I light it and watch as she inhales deeply, sucking her cheeks in and blowing out fiercely as if she was trying to expel every bad thought she ever had. I ask her if she needs anything, she shakes her head and looks at me, we hold the gaze for a second and then break it. It seems a lifetime ago since we both met in the lock-up ward. We are different now, our time here has seen to that. We no longer view the world with the same disgust or cynicism, but in its place is an emptiness that we will spend the rest of our lives fighting. I gently place my hand on hers. She lets it stay there for a moment before moving it back to my lap, smiling as she does so.
‘That’s the last thing we need, Gabriel.’
I nod. I feel foolish but it quickly fades. I laugh quietly, my breath forming small speech bubbles in the frosty air.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing…I was thinking about how abs
urd this is…’
‘What?’
‘All this…Being here…’
‘Yes…It’s funny…’
‘And scary…’
‘Yes and scary…Very scary…’
I remember the previous week in group therapy when she had talked about her mother and the words had stuck in her throat and tears had risen to sit in her eyes. We had waited, each one of us in that room knew those tears, we had tasted them in our time in this place. Alf had been the facilitator. He was gentle with her. He had steered her to the point where she was facing what she had spent her life fleeing. He had walked her down the corridors of her youth, his voice calmly telling her that she had nothing to fear. Her body grew more and more still until she sat rock solid in the face of his questions, her eyes wide and unblinking. She had reached the point where there was nowhere else to go, no-one else to see except her mother. Her voice grew younger and younger as she described how she was beaten every time she had tried to assert herself, how she had to wear dresses that completely covered her skinny body, how make-up was forbidden, how any potential boyfriend had been scared off and threatened. She described waking in the middle of the night with the demonic shape of her mother bent over her, cursing her and the husband who had fled many years before.
‘It’s your fault,’ she would say.
She described the first time she used. She had smoked a couple of joints with some friends. One of them, a man, was older than the others. She talked about the freedom she had felt as she got stoned and left her mind behind. She said it was like being kissed by angels. She stayed the night with her friends and the older man came to her bed, ignoring her whimpers of protest, forcing himself on her. She knew then that she could trust no-one and vowed from then on to take before she was taken. She moved on to heavier drugs and more destructive men. She spoke about leaving home, just packing her things and going without a word of goodbye. She said that her illness had made her do things that she wasn’t proud of, horrible depraved things. Why not? she said, looking around the room at the rest of us. I was worth less than nothing so…why not be less than nothing? Men had abused her; one or two had kept her imprisoned in her own apartment, ripping the phone out of the wall, locking her in, fucking her when they felt like it, and beating her when they didn’t. Eventually she had returned to her mother, she had crawled back, she said. It was humiliating, her mother had won, she always won.
