We'll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the myth of the friendly Newfoundlander.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Joel Thomas Hynes

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  What’s going on Johnny?

  Come on, whatcha doing? How are ya? Poor Johnny. Touchy Johnny. In this mindset. How you are? Imagine. How’s our John-John doing? How’s he makin out, comin along, doing for himself? How’s he keepin? Fuck. Slung halfways out the window for a haul, cause that’s what this piss-arsed place is come to. Imagine that, tumbling out onto the street for the sake of a stale Number 7 cause where he might pollute his own room. Where he sleeps alone. Poor old Johnny. The vinyl sill busted and gouging into his ribcage. Oh yeah, Johnny could very well settle out on the front step, but that means back and forth the stairs every time and then sat out there, watchin the street . . . the temptation is too much now aint it? Might get foolish. Might wander off.

  Buddy from next door takes his garbage out for tomorrow morning.

  How together he is, how on top of it all he must be, hey Johnny? Then he sees a splotch of birdshit on his rig and dont he go over and polish it off with his sleeve! Rather have diseased pigeon shit on the clothes he’s wearing than on the rig he drives. Pigeon shit. That’s what’s in his head too. All their heads. Dont bother askin Johnny what’s going on around him. Who’s screwing who. What the fuck is going on. Carry on little mouse, carry on.

  Good night, buddy goes. Good night.

  He makes for his door then.

  What? What? Johnny shouts down. What did you just say to me? What?

  He looks up at Johnny then. Looks right at old John-John, that’s what he does. Looks right fucken at me. You cant fathom the gall.

  Excuse me, buddy goes, what?

  Right grand about it. Like first he’s tryna be all macho-cool and casual about it, the man, taking out the garbage. But soon as he’s called on it, soon as he’s brought to task, he’s rattled to the core and so instinct kicks in and he figures he might as well pretend he’s better and better off and better for it by tossing in some kinda upper-crust turn of phrase. But our John-John’s on it, dont even bother.

  Excuse me, buddy goes.

  His hand is on the knob and Johnny can tell buddy thinks he knows a thing or two about the likes of fellas like Johnny, hanging out his window with the splintered vinyl gouging into his liver, lookin like he’s waiting for the fire department to come rescue him. But Johnny dont need no rescuing tonight, no not tonight. He can think of a few that do. But not Johnny, not tonight. But buddy might, yes, he might need a rescuing. Buddy might need the jaws of life to separate him from the sidewalk before all the good nights are said and done this night.

  Excuse me?

  You heard me, I said what? What did you just say to me?

  I said good night.

  Why, Johnny goes, what for? What’s my night got to do with yours?

  I said good night, buddy goes, I was being friendly. We’re neighbours.

  Well now Johnny, fancy that. Being friendly. Friendly neighbours. What’s the score little man? Dont know do ya? Ask him Johnny. Betcha he dont know. Playing the role, that’s all. Role-playing. Dress rehearsal, all of it.

  You wait right there, Johnny goes, you wait right there.

  What? Why?

  Cause I’m coming down. I wants to have a little chat with you.

  No thanks, he goes, no thanks.

  And then buddy’s away off into his house and the door latches behind him right quick. Hear how quick he latched that door? All scruffy rough and tumble with the birdshit on his sleeve and the hefty black boots with a dollar’s worth of steel peeking through the right toe. He looks the part alright, he looks the part. But is he? That’s always the grey zone. That’s always the part you have to crack open. Is he the part or simply tryna look the part? Man or mouse? Mouse or man? Johnny slings the butt end at the back of buddy’s rig and it hits it dead-on the back window and a shower of sparks floats to the ground and one settles into a puddle of grease or oil and stays glowing for a bit and Johnny’s hoping, hoping, praying that something catches fire and blows everything to goddamn smithereens. That lovely rig up in flames, the bonnet landing up near Tulk’s somewhere, bumper all aflame and rocketing in through the windshield of the car behind and then that bastard catching and blowing to bits, burning shrapnel flying into the shanty houses, a scorching fender right in on the kitchen table, right smack flame-smashing mad in the middle of the late-night decaf tea-party chatter and then the widespread panic with the howlin scramble for children and computers and photo albums and dogs and hamsters and these fucken little tarpaper shacks all leant one into the other burning and tumbling right down over the hill into the harbour. And Johnny knows, better than any man out there, Johnny knows that harbour’s gonna catch what with five hundred years of toxic venomous scum and poisonous chemical slop gurgling and spluttering, seething a hundred fathoms deep. You knows there’s something flammable about all that, something explosive. Burn burn burn. Right to the ground, right to the bottom of the harbour. Burn the works. And Johnny with it. Yeah. Cause they can batter to fuck this time around if they thinks Johnny’s going kickin flaming doors in again and crawling around lookin to save grizzled old farts who could very well drop dead tomorrow anyhow. Fucken Charlie, Christ.

  Johnny hears buddy mumbling something down there.

  Through the walls. Cause that’s the way, that’s the way they got us all jammed in. So we can all hear each other belching and farting through the goddamn walls. Tarpaper shacks with big bloated price tags, all slapped together and clung to the side of the cliff like gulls huddling, cluster-fucked. Waiting. You wouldnt even wanna know the state of this dive Johnny’s set up in. One of old Quinn’s spots and the welfare pays Quinn a fortune to let it rot and crumble around the likes of Johnny, fellas like that. The bad guys.

  Mumble mumble down there. Some sorta big talk to his wife or his girlfriend. An oath, a curse. Talkin about Johnny, gotta be. Big talk, nothing he’d say to Johnny’s face. Role-playing. Shag this. Johnny’s down the stairs and out the front hall to the door. He dont even bother to put the sneakers on cause he’s not gonna be using his feet. You gotta be able to dance, dance, dance whenever the mood takes you. That’s the rule, that’s the law. Johnny gives the knuckles a good scrape across the panelling in the porch before he opens the door. Sting and burn, bleed, come on bleed. Clench and release, clench and release. Buddy started it didnt he? Good night, he says. Johnny’s night. Good. Johnny raps on buddy’s door. It’s a new door with a big patterned window to let the light in. Must be nice, letting all that light in. Must be nice to have it all lined up, new doors, taking the garbage out.

  Someone passes up the street behind Johnny. It’s one of Shiner’s girls. Lookin no worse for the wear, gotta say. Gotta say. She looks to be jonesing for a little soul food, no question. But she got that sturdy scuff about herself, that kinda dont-fuck-with-me baygirl stride. Sneakers and jeans. Busy busy. There’ll always be money in love, like the fella says. Lotsa burdens needing a lift, egos stroked, arses spanked. Imagin
e that, paying someone to smack your arse! Johnny’s . . . fucken . . . old Pius, he woulda made himself a fortune in his day.

  In his day.

  Johnny dont know the girl’s name, but he says to her anyhow:

  Hey little Susie, hey.

  She stops for a second and swivels her head. Heavy drip at the tip of her nose. She must be hurting, yeah, making a beeline for Shiner’s gear. He says to her:

  Tell Shiner I needs him to drop down, tell him it’s Johnny. Can you do that for me?

  Susie nods and mumbles, totters on up the hill. She’s hurtin now, she’s feelin it.

  Quite the package. Somebody’s daughter. Christ knows what kinda wars she’s come through before she landed in Shiner’s lap.

  Johnny’s back to the garbage man’s door and raps again, hard this time. Just a nudge, you know, one little bump and you knows the glass is going in onto the porch floor. If that’s the way shit goes down.

  Cold sting on the knuckles.

  Hey Johnny, is that your phone going off now, up the stairs?

  Listen.

  Is it?

  Just your luck, first time you stepped out tonight.

  Fucken phone.

  Buddy’s missus comes to the window. No comment from Johnny, but still and all it must be nice. Must be a fine life for some. They got these red lights on in there, nice hanging lamp with a red bulb that looks all cozy and slutty seductive all the one time. Must be nice. Atmosphere. She goes for the handle and then sees it’s not someone she knows and then sorta raises her eyebrows at Johnny.

  That’s your phone going off Johnny, listen . . . Fuck.

  I needs to talk to your fella, Johnny goes.

  She looks our John-John up and down and he knows full bloody well that if she could get away with it, the right time and circumstances, she’d fly at him and they wouldnt stop till they were spent, spent and spent. Sweaty and sticky and chowing down on fish and chips in their bathrobes. You can see it in her eyes. She wants to. But money and heat bills and garbage days and cozy red lights and pigeons shitting on the paint job, all that mundane slop bogs down the instinct, wraps around you like that bubbly plastic stuff that comes with important packages and it incubates you, shields you, suffocates your drive. It softens you.

  Is your fella in?

  Johnny sorta half smiles, tryna make it sound friendly, neighbourly. But she’s a wise one, this one, she’s a wise one. She knows not to open the door to strangers. Nice arse on her though, wouldnt have to pay Johnny to have a smack at it. She swings round on her heels and shouts out to her man:

  I figured I’d let you get it.

  She figured that, didnt she. Cause she’s the one running the show, calling the shots. Dont ask, dont bother. Buddy pulls back the curtain then, and here’s Johnny. Nothing to it. Good night.

  What? he goes.

  Come on out, Johnny says, come on out for a chat.

  About what, he goes.

  And he sounds heftier now, with the door there between it all, the security of that crisp new window. What’s the score, little guy? Ask him Johnny. Betcha he dont fucken know. One smack, one little tap and Johnny’s right through that window with his hand around your face. And then curled up for a movie on that swanky red chesterfield underneath the cozy slutty red light with your missus. Johnny’s missus.

  Come on out for a chat.

  He stares at Johnny then and he knows, he knows that Johnny’s the last standin Newfoundland wolf and he’s the lost little lamb about to be led astray. Johnny’s the hatchet and buddy’s a little junk of year-old spruce en route to the split box behind the stove. Johnny’s the big hungry tomcat lookin for a bouncy meal. And he’s the scared little mouse. And one more step, a turn of that knob, and there’s the slaughter and the feast. Come on, little fella, step out onto the chopping block. But he knows. He knows. You can tell. Even through the glass. That’s all that’s between Johnny and your days, little mouse. A sheet of glass. A door. A wall. A rig with a splotch of birdshit. Garbage days. Good night.

  No, buddy says, no thanks.

  Ahhh Johnny, you gotta laugh. A mouse in a man’s boots. No thanks? Fair enough then. He dont even wanna have a chat. Christ Johnny, neighbours who wont even have a friendly chat with you? Very well. Wait it out will we?

  Very well, Johnny goes. I’ll see you around, neighbour.

  Alright, buddy says, then sorta shakes his head like he’s seen it all now. Seen it all, seen it all. And he disappears behind the curtain and the little red light in the porch goes out.

  Johnny’s back up the stairs again with the heart racing cause he can still feel the echo of the phone when he gets back to the room. Johnny was gone, what, not twenty seconds and off it goes. Christ. Sure enough then, the moment his foot hits the grungy old carpet inside his door it starts ringing again. It’s like they knows. It’s like someone must be calling up as soon as you steps out onto the street. Cause that’s too much of a fluke if you asks our John-John. Someone must be watchin, of course they are. Of course they are. Come on Johnny, where are ya? Dont even think about it. Smack dab in the middle of the Hood. Eyes everywhere. Watchin. Prolly gettin paid for it. It rang in as soon as you stepped out and then again as soon as youre back. Might as well be on the bracelet for fuck sakes. No. None for Johnny thanks, that bracelet business. Shiner was on that one time. Big red itch scabbed around his ankle, he said, and the smell off it. Wander out of range for more than thirty seconds or so and this little electronic box kicks in and sends a signal to the phone line and then the phone calls the station on you. And if you smashes up the box, same thing. Something, that is. Boxes in the corner. Even the phone is watching, waiting for the very minute you fucks up. The very minute. Ratbags all around.

  Johnny’s phone is still ringing.

  Ring ring. Fuck off phone. He lets it go for another bit. Then he’s gotta answer or there’ll be lots more trouble than he needs tonight, this good night.

  Hello, Johnny goes.

  Johnny this is Constable Hepditch, checking in, just calling down, you know.

  I’m good man, thanks.

  How’s our Johnny tonight?

  Best kind.

  Away from the phone for a bit Johnny?

  I never stirred.

  Out patrolling for a lady in distress?

  I was reading a book on the bed there.

  Reading? Jesus. What book?

  What odds is that?

  Just making conversation Johnny, no need to get lippy.

  I’m not, I’m just sayin what difference does it . . .

  Exactly, what book were you reading Johnny?

  White Fang, alright?

  I thought that was a kids’ book, isnt it? Jack London? Yes, I musta read that when I was ten years old Johnny.

  Listen . . .

  You werent out on the street or nothing just now Johnny?

  No. What? I said I never stirred.

  Well you mighta thought to pick up the phone when it rang.

  I was on the toilet if you needs to know, alright?

  Me and the lads were talking about you earlier Johnny, saying how lucky, just how fantastically lucky it was for that old couple in the fire that you happened by when you did.

  This is Hepditch. Jealous. Knows he’d never have the fucken guts to face the flames like Johnny did. No commendations coming to Hepditch any time soon. No write-ups about him in the paper. No one talkin him up, callin him a hero. And it’s not like Johnny is thinkin of himself that way, like he’s a hero. That’s just . . . it’s not like that. He just went and done it, what needed to be done. It’s not like something youre gonna stop and think about. Not really. I just went on in and done it. Never put much thought into it really. You go on and do it, you know? That’s all Johnny’s gonna say on the matter. The old couple’s daughter tracked me down a couple of weeks afterwards, after the big blaze. She was all teary-eyed and slobbering when she saw the state of me fingers with the ragged bandages. That was on account of that fucken budgie
bird, the cage when I grabbed it, tore the skin right off me hands. I’m out on the street and the old couple are safe and sound and the missus starts pointin up at the house shoutin for someone named Charlie. Next thing, fool he is, Johnny’s gone back inside with a coat over his head and bawlin out for Charlie! Charlie!?! Only by chance I spots this framed picture of a budgie bird on a shelf in the hallway and here’s the very name, Charlie, dancing across the bottom of the frame.

  Stupid cartoon letters.

  Fucken budgie bird?

  Anyhow, the old couple’s daughter cryin and that, on my doorstep, well I spose I musta been a sight, no eyebrows and the lids of me eyes all red and raw, me head nothing only stubble. But that’s whatcha gets, those kinds of results, running into a burning building. No bother. She’s there with the snots and hiccups and I’m tryna, I dont know, settle her down, cause she’s standin there on my ratty doorstep and there’s folks gawking all up and down Lime Street and you knows bloody well they’re gonna think we’re in a big racket, me and this missus. So I’m tryna settle her down and when she finally composes herself she looks at me and says thanks and asks me if I was afraid or not, when I done what I done. And it crossed me mind, there and then to . . . I dont know . . . out with it. But. Well she drove a long ways. And the way she was lookin at me. Her chin quivering like that. So I said all that same old stuff you always hears, on the news and that, same stuff everybody says, how I only done what anybody woulda done, how I spose I never thought about being afraid, never stopped to think about it at the time. I saw what was going on and thought to meself, well, this is where I am right now in the world, that’s all. I happened by at the right time. And thinkin back anyhow, I was going through a kind of meltdown phase. Everybody was. And this wasnt even a week before all that shit went down with my girl . . . with Madonna. Fuck. The two of us were well into it all again. All the madness that goes along with it. Shit was not good. I was slipping back, slipping back into the old ways I spose. Next thing I knows I’m tangled up in this blazing house fire. Riskin me life to save a fucken budgie bird. What odds, I said, maybe this is a better way to go.