Mr Lynch’s Holiday

by Catherine O’Flynn

  ‘Christ, Laura,’ Eamonn said, ‘did you see their eyes? They’re like wolves. It’s like they want to consume us.’

  ‘You’d get off lightly. At least Cheryl is an attractive woman. I’d get Lovejoy!’

  He shuddered. ‘My God. Wife-swapping in El Dorado. We’re trapped in retro-porn.’

  After that they seriously started to extricate themselves from Roger and Cheryl’s company. Laura was less extreme. She found them creepy but ultimately harmless. She would sometimes keep up appearances to avoid looking rude. Eamonn however was assiduous in his efforts to elude them. He had a terror that the older couple would somehow detect the hairline crack in his armour; that, like animals, they would pick up the scent of the tiny, unwilled grain of desire he had for Cheryl.

  Lost in his thoughts he had walked too far, missing the turning for Roger and Cheryl’s house, and now found himself walking down an uninhabited street at the bottom edge of the development. He swore aloud at the prospect of traipsing back uphill in the heat. His head pounded violently and he wished he had thought to have a drink before he left the apartment. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees in front of one of the unfinished houses but had a curious feeling that he was not alone. Scaffolding surrounded the structure and loose plastic sheeting hung down over the partially built walls. He raised his head to look through the door frame into the empty shell of the building. In the shadowy interior he thought he saw something move across the opening.

  ‘Hello?’

  The afternoon silence hung heavily. He tilted his head, squinting into the dark. He shielded his eyes and took a step forward. There was a different quality to the darkness in one spot, something denser, more solid. He stepped closer and there, for a split second, he saw a pair of eyes looking back at him. He jerked backwards and as he did felt a shifting in his head, like sand sliding from one side to another, suddenly black flies seemed to be everywhere at the edge of his vision and as he batted them away his ears filled with a high-pitched screeching.

  The first thing he became aware of was the heat of the tarmac pressing through his T-shirt. He moved his hand and discovered he was flat on his back. He was aware of a presence beside him. He opened his eyes and saw the outline of what appeared to be a boy’s head looking down at him, silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. He couldn’t make sense of the image and closed his eyes again. Some time later there was a voice.

  ‘Eamonn. Eamonn. Can you hear me?’

  He opened his eyes once more to see Roger’s face leaning over him.

  ‘Jesus, thank God, I thought you’d carked it. Are you all right? Can you move?’

  He sat up slowly. ‘I think I fainted.’

  ‘I thought you’d had a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Roger sat down heavily next to Eamonn. ‘Fainted? What am I supposed to do? Loosen your stays?’ He reached into a side pocket on his shorts and produced a small metal flask. ‘Have some of this.’

  Eamonn took a swig of brandy. ‘You’re like a St Bernard’s. How did you find me here?’

  ‘I was returning from the hunt.’

  Eamonn focused on Roger’s appearance, some kind of overfed Bavarian assassin. ‘You’re carrying a gun.’

  ‘Beretta. Very nice.’

  Eamonn shook his head, trying to bring the world back into alignment.

  Roger took a slug of the brandy. ‘Been out since dawn. Going for the “Grand Slam”.’

  ‘You’ve been playing tennis?’

  ‘Not tennis, you dick. The Ibex Grand Slam.’

  ‘Are Ibex the sponsors?’

  ‘Are you concussed?’

  Eamonn felt helpless. ‘I don’t understand anything that’s happening. Me. You. The pain in my head. The words coming out of your mouth.’

  ‘An ibex, Eamonn. It’s not that hard to understand. It’s an animal. A goat … I think. Big horns anyway. You’ve got four types in Spain – your Gredos, Ronda, Sierra Nevada and … the other one.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So. You kill all four and that’s your Grand Slam.’

  Eamonn put his head in his hands. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Here we go. Here comes the hand-wringing. I’m embracing the culture. You should try it sometime.’

  ‘A day killing goats. All kinds of goats.’

  ‘It was just something to do. Ian and I thought we’d give it a go.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Another bloody con. No fucking goats in this country as far as I can see.’ He pointed the gun at the empty house. ‘The hunting element was getting all the gear really – choosing the guns and the clothes. After that it was a drag. I don’t know what the fuck we’d have done with a dead goat anyway.’ He wiped his face with his sleeve and spat. ‘We don’t see you any more.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Just been busy, work, you know.’

  ‘We should stick together. All in the same boat. Sod all else to do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger stood and reached out a hand to help Eamonn up.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Eamonn straightened up, rubbing the back of his head, which was throbbing steadily.

  ‘Haven’t seen lovely Laura for ages either. I thought we had a nice little scene going on. The four of us. We had some laughs.’

  Eamonn said nothing.

  ‘You need to unwind. Relax. You’re too uptight. Both of you. Let yourselves go a bit. Let Uncle Roger and Aunty Cheryl sort you out.’

  Eamonn forced a half-smile and started to walk away, but Roger called him back. ‘Hey! Don’t forget this.’ He picked up a bottle of water from the road.

  ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’ said Eamonn.

  Roger shook his head. ‘I stick with Señor Torres.’

  Eamonn took the bottle. It was cold, wet with condensation on the outside. He looked over at the house. ‘You didn’t see anyone about, did you? Before you found me.’

  Roger looked at him. ‘No. Why?’

  Eamonn hesitated. ‘I thought someone else was here.’

  Roger looked around. ‘You see?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Another reason for this.’ He patted the gun. ‘Something rotten in the state of Lomaverde.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re not wanted here, Eamonn. Vultures are circling the stricken ship. Do you think Esteban’s going to stand in the way of the mob?’

  ‘What mob?’

  ‘Whoever they might be. The country’s in collapse. Civil unrest. It’s just a matter of time. We need to be ready.’

  ‘To shoot people?’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Is that part of the Grand Slam too?’

  ‘I hope you find it funny when it happens.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that you’re losing your mind?’

  ‘Hey, I’m not the one who imagined I saw someone. I’m not the one who passed out.’

  ‘It was probably just a local kid.’

  ‘Yeah, casing the joint.’

  They started walking back up the road.

  ‘I can’t believe someone gave you a gun licence.’

  ‘You might be grateful someday.’

  ‘Yeah, when the goats come for us.’

  Eamonn glanced back over his shoulder. He felt them still, the eyes, watching his every step.

  23

  He walked down her road, but when he reached her door he hesitated and turned back. At their lunch together she’d spoken about her painting, how it helped clear her mind, focusing just on colour and texture, forgetting all the other things in her life. He’d asked her then: ‘I’d imagine it would put you off, would it? Having someone there watching you paint. Seeing how you do it.’ She thought about it and he saw that he had put her in an awkward position, so he answered for her: ‘Oh it would, it would, I’m sure. Very distracting, having someone in the way.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. With some people, yes, but I don’t think yo
u would disturb me.’

  ‘I just … I know nothing about it, really. I’ve never seen anyone paint. I’d be interested to see how it’s done, like.’

  She had smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  But now he wasn’t sure what he had been thinking of when he made the suggestion. He had been easy in her company, had drunk a little too much of her wine and let himself be carried away. What did he know about painting? Why would she want some ignoramus sitting there, watching her and making idiot comments? Better to be suspected a fool, he thought, than open your mouth and prove them right.

  He was walking back up the hill when he heard a voice calling his name.

  ‘Hello there.’ Esteban was sitting on a plastic chair in the shade of his security cabin. ‘Are you exploring again? Another empty house?’

  Dermot shook his head. ‘No. No particular destination in mind. Just fancied a wander.’

  Esteban smiled. ‘“Just fancied a wander.”’

  ‘I felt like a walk.’

  ‘Yes. I understand. If there is no hurry, join me, please.’ He disappeared into his cabin and returned with a stool, which he sat on. ‘Here,’ he gestured at the chair, ‘please, sit.’

  Dermot did as he was told.

  Esteban was silent for a moment and then said, ‘I worry that maybe I sound stupid the last time we meet.’

  Dermot looked at him in surprise. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘“Your country is so wonderful. I love Ireland.” All these things. I sound like a child.’

  ‘It was nice to hear it.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I was there and I have happy memories. It’s so different to here, so green of course, so … different. Perhaps I think everywhere is better than here.’

  Dermot looked around at the deserted estate. ‘I’d say it must be awful dull for you.’ He saw from Esteban’s face that he had not understood and he tried again. ‘The days must be very long. There’s nothing to do.’

  ‘I check cameras. I read books.’ He smiled. ‘I speak to everyone to practise English.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, the days are long.’ He was silent for a while. ‘But it is a job and not everyone has a job. Most of my friends?’ He blew air from his mouth. ‘Nada.’

  Dermot shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It was the same when I was growing up back in Ireland. Nothing to do. No work. No opportunities.’

  Esteban lit a cigarette. ‘My mother did not want me to take this job. She never trust the people who own it, the developers. They have a very bad reputation here. When they were building it, they did not do things in a good way. Everything cheap. One man, a worker, died. An injury to his head, bricks fell, he had no protection.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No. It’s not what they tell people when they come to buy their houses. The man’s family, they never got the money, the compensation. It was all bad. Some people have superstition about this place, said it was bad luck to work here, bad luck to build here.’

  ‘Is that what your mother thought?’

  ‘No, my mother, she’s not like that. But she did not trust the developers. She said they would not pay me. She was right in the end.’ He flicked a plastic bottle top into the road. ‘Mothers are always right, aren’t they?’

  Dermot smiled. ‘Always.’

  ‘So when you were in my situation, you left your country, you moved to England?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘To London, “where the nightlife is unequalled”.’ Dermot looked at him and Esteban laughed. ‘I always remember that sentence from my schoolbook.’

  ‘Ah, right, no, not London. Birmingham. The nightlife in Birmingham, well I’d say it was equalled, but it was good enough for me.’

  ‘And for me too, I’m sure.’ Esteban blew out smoke. ‘I think about it often.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Leaving.’

  ‘Do you think you will?’

  ‘I don’t know. We always think it’s better somewhere else. The green grass – that thing. Maybe it’s an illusion. I work here. Lomaverde. Even the name is a lie. I see the people who live here. Are they happy?’

  Dermot shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what they were looking for. They didn’t come here out of desperation. They weren’t looking for jobs. Not like those poor souls in the boats the other day.’

  Esteban sighed. ‘People struggle to survive. It can make them do wrong things. Things people know are not … good idea.’

  ‘Risk their lives.’

  ‘Yes, that, but other things too.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Things that are not in the law, you know? The black money – there is a lot of that.’

  ‘Black money?’

  ‘Hidden. The government doesn’t know. Illegal.’

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. It happens when times are hard.’

  Esteban blew out smoke and Dermot looked at him.

  ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s an option.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘In England. They always need bus drivers.’

  Esteban laughed. ‘Maybe one day.’

  ‘Why not now? It’s easy these days, step off a plane, no need for visas or permits. Your English is good enough.’

  ‘Getting there is easy, but leaving here, I don’t know. My cousin, he is a few years younger than me. We grow up together, he doesn’t speak English. I’d feel bad leaving him here. And my mother, we’re good friends. If I go she has only my dad. He is nice man, but he doesn’t talk much.’ He threw his cigarette on the ground. ‘Maybe I’m a coward.’

  Dermot was silent for a while. ‘I never thought much about all that.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I never stopped to think what I was leaving behind. I thought if I did that I’d never get away.’

  Esteban shrugged. ‘Perhaps you were right.’

  24

  In the first few months he’d spent his afternoons making notes about his novel. Some days he thought he had too many ideas and other days not enough. Some days the scale was too ambitious, other days too narrow. One week he was convinced it would be first person, present tense, the next week it was multiple viewpoint, past historical. In the densely packed document entitled ‘Scope’ there were twenty-eight different themes he thought the novel would touch upon. The main character was a hospital porter called Wayne, or possibly a banker called Justin, or a child detective called Pip, or maybe all of them and more in a literary maelstrom of fragments and traces that would be far greater than the sum of its parts. And throughout all these vital, preliminary considerations and crucial decision-making stages came the steady tap-tap-tap of Laura’s keyboard.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘OK, I guess.’

  ‘You seem to be writing a lot. You’re like Ernie Wise bashing out a play a night.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘I thought you’d be doing research first.’

  ‘Well, I do a bit of both each day. I think if I spend too long thinking about it, I won’t ever actually write it.’

  He said nothing.

  As the weeks passed, his notes folder expanded.

  She asked him eagerly: ‘Is there anything you can read to me?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘But it’s going OK?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘I mean, you have actually started and everything?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by “started”. I mean, how do we define “the start”? I’m not sure that we can.’

  After a while he stopped adding to his notes and shortly after that he stopped opening the folder. He found the contents unsettling. A tangled knot of half-ideas and desires with no discernible beginning or end. A list of resolutions and ambitions. He sat and stared at the folder icon on his desktop and listened to Laura’s tap-tap-tap day after day until he finally realized his mistake.


  ‘Laura!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve had a breakthrough.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘I haven’t been writing a novel.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’ve been writing about a novel.’

  ‘Isn’t that a start?’

  ‘No. It turns out that was the work I was engaged upon. I’ve written thirty thousand words about a novel. Now I’ve finished.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to write the novel itself?’

  ‘What? And spoil it?’

  ‘Eamonn. Come on. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You’re attacking yourself. Giving yourself a hard time. What you’re trying to do is insanely hard. It’d be crazy if you didn’t get stuck sometimes.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I’m not doing the same thing. You’re doing something more ambitious.’

  ‘No. That’s not it. I’m not cut out for this.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m not the literary type, am I? I mean, look at us. Your father has written books, your mother has papers published in journals. You grew up with this kind of stuff. What the fuck do I know? I’m not from that background.’

  She stared at him for a long time. ‘Please tell me you’re not turning this into a class issue.’

  ‘I’m not turning this into a class issue. I’m just saying you have a confidence and I suppose a sense of entitlement. Why shouldn’t you write a book? You know you can do it. I know I can’t.’

  ‘Why does this feel as if you’re attacking me?’

  ‘I’m not attacking you.’

  ‘All I’ve ever done is encourage you.’

  ‘I know, just as your parents encouraged you all through your life.’

  ‘Will you stop talking about my fucking parents! It’s not their fault that you’re not writing your book.’

  ‘No, I know, it’s mine. I’m useless.’

  ‘Jesus. Do you know how tiring this is?’