Hell of a mess you are son. Hell of a mess indeed.
15
Blue-green glow of the civilized world on the night horizon. Streetlights. Traffic lights. This must be the promised land. The east is the beast and the west is the rest. Vancouver. I’ve been scalped, I think. Doused in acid. There’s a blurry aura of heat waves radiating from me hands and cheekbones. Any second now I’ll burst into flames. Thirsty. Tongue like rotted clapboard. Here’s a bench, a bus stop. Johnny misjudging the edge of the bench as he’s tryna sit, tumbling into the corner of the shelter. There’s no pain. The bus shelter ceiling a busy mess of black marker scrawls and scratches, hasty drawings of squirting cocks and cartoon tits, weed plants, lazy affirmations and slapdash messages from a bygone hour.
Tony ’94
Lisa loves Ribbons
J.R. wuz here
Redemption is overrated.
John 15:23
For a good time call your mama
Johnny being hoisted slowly, delicately to his feet. Silky perfume. Shampoo. Smoky sweet flesh. Firm hands on his shoulders, easing him to the sitting position. Grey Volkswagen idling tenderly on the curb outside the bus shelter. Bottle of water. Straw slipped into the gap where his teeth used to be. The water erupting in Johnny’s stomach, spurting back up his throat and fuming out his mouth, hot and acidic and yellow. Cold hand on his forehead. Stranger than kindness. No, that’s not right.
Youre burning up lover. Youre in bad shape . . .
Johnny’s better arm clasping around the woman’s slender thigh, pulling her close, resting his head against her stomach. Her fingers running through his hair. Each sob sends new lightning bolts of pain up through his broken torso, rattling his battered skull.
I’m sorry girl. I’m fucken sorry . . .
Shhhh . . . it’s okay . . . shhh . . .
No way of knowing if she understands, if the words in his head are anything more than useless grunts of garbled slop by the time they move past his tongue. He tells her he’s sorry, again and again.
For the teapot.
Lowest ever I sunk. No excuse. If I could take it back, get back to that morning. Youd be standin here now, in my fucken arms. Or youd be out there, arms open to the world, your heart beating, lungs, blood pumpin through your veins, smiling at people, turning heads, living. Alive. Youd be alive if I hadnt . . . if I didnt . . . I never loved . . . and I wanna come with you . . . I never . . . the look in your eye . . . my shirt soaked with . . . I wanted to feel . . . I wanted it to be . . . I’m sorry girl . . . I’m sorry . . .
Shhh . . . it’s okay . . . tell me where it is youre headed . . .
I wanna come with you . . . I wanna come with you . . .
Telephone booth, Shiner’s voice cackling through the receiver.
I cant make words.
Squash the earpiece hard against me forehead.
Sorry . . . sorry for the mess Shine, at your pad. I was grieving . . .
Hello??? Hello??? Who’s there???
Do us a favour Shiner, tell Tanya I’m good, met a nice girl, went to the beach . . .
Is that you Johnny Keough? Cocksucker. See if I gets my fucken hands on you . . .
And thanks man, for sorting me out . . . on the inside. I thought it was . . . I thought . . .
Hello??? Hello??? Who’s there?
Cold concrete steps overlookin a frenzied intersection. Manic cars, shuffling bodies. Horns and roars, bicycles. Johnny feeling a sudden burst of energy, like if he hadda get up to walk somewhere he could manage it.
The feeling passes.
Rusted chain-link fence across the way, ten or a dozen old vagabonds sat wrapped in blankets and garbage bags, cardboard boxes.
A grubby and matted little black-and-white dog growling over a greasy KFC box.
Bottles clinking.
Toothless junkie feller with arms outspread, shouting at a cop:
You’s a civil servant man! That means you work for me! You work for . . .
Cops cut him short, twist his arm up behind his back and spin him around, slap him over the bonnet of the cruiser.
Folks scurrying past, nobody paying the scene much mind.
Bowl of soup, maybe chicken, maybe turkey. Half an inch of yellow grease lapping off the rim of the Styrofoam bowl. Johnny gags at the thick steamy announcement of it in his cupped hands. But it’s not unwanted, the soup. Fucken mass starvation, man. He gawps at the useless spoon, imagines the ordeal of scooping it into the murk of the bowl, loading it up, steadying his hand for the three or four seconds between the bowl and his crusty, blistered lips. Workin the piping spoonful through the wider opening on the left side of his jaw.
Not gonna happen.
A straw lands in his lap, sheathed in white paper. A passing phantom snarls his name, maybe, Drink up Johnny. Vaguely feminine voice. How could a woman know your name? Johnny staring at the straw.
Commotion, jovial camaraderie all about him.
A quick gritty gust of wind steals the straw from his lap.
The soup stops steaming.
Knuckles on his right hand black and scabbed, oozing cloudy yellow pus.
The soup, a chunky oily puddle on the concrete before him.
Close to three dollars in small, small change gathered in the bottom of the bowl.
A dog lapping at Johnny’s dirty rag of a sock. His big toe poking out, the nail purple and bloody. The left foot bootless too, wrapped in some sort of renegade cast made from oily strips of blue plaid shirt.
A lit cigarette poked into his mouth.
Johnny, afraid to breathe.
Man with a beard, beads, braids in the beard, tattered grey blanket with a slit cut through for his head to fit, he’s tapping Johnny on the shoulder. Takes Johnny ten, fifteen seconds to raise his chin, focus his eyes on the man. Curdling puddle of blood on the concrete between Johnny’s feet.
Johnny is pulled to a standing position.
He’s being carried by this man, his dead foot dragging behind in the grit at the edge of the sidewalk.
I even got us some fresh works Johnny, come on, straighten up little bro, straighten up for the grand finale . . .
Johnny wants to say, wants to ask How do you know my name?
Nothing forthcoming from his throat but a low snarly mumble.
Is that you Shiner?
Shit little brother, youre in rough shape, sick as a goddamn dog, sweating like that. You’ll be feeling good soon. This is some black shit, Mississippi Mud they call it. Aint seen this shit in years, round these parts. Make you feel all nice and cozy, learn you not to fuck with what’s not yours . . .
Shiner wait, hear me out man, I wasnt thinkin clear . . . I was . . .
Keep an eye out for the fuzz bro, that’s all you gotta do . . .
Blackened bottom of a tin can, the edges folded inward. Modest pinch of grainy brown powder down there. Johnny holding the can steady, steady. Bottle stopper half filled with water, tipped gently, gently over the brown powder.
Steady Johnny. Steady Johnny.
Shit little brother, we need a light. You got a light under that thing?
Johnny watches the man’s arms disappear beneath the poncho, yellow claws snaking through the pockets of Pius’s old suit coat, the inside pocket, the crinkle of plastic. Something stirs way back in Johnny’s skull, nagging glint of memory, something important, like purpose.
The hands come out of Johnny’s coat with a white Bic lighter and a folded plastic bag. The bearded man stands before Johnny, opening the bag. Pulls a faded Tim Hortons donut bag from within the plastic one.
What the fuck you got in here bro? Fuck is this shit?
Dont, dont, dont . . .
Fine curling cloud of grey dust shaken from the bag.
That’s my girl . . . that’s my girl . . . I did it . . . I did it . . .
A sprinkle of ash from the paper bag falls into the can, into the mixture of brown mud water. The lighter’s thin green flame beneath the can, the mixture bubbling, fro
thing.
Shit Johnny man, that’s your name, yeah, Johnny? Youre gonna be alright. Youre gonna make it. The good guys always make it. Should be feelin cozy and warm pretty soon brother, cozy and warm.
Where’s the beach? Where’s the beach?
Johnny feels like he’s screamin it, the effort it takes to string it together in his head.
There is no answer.
Smutty ragged strip of orange bandana wrapped about Johnny’s exposed bicep. Angry worms popping up beneath the flesh of his arms. Distant bite of the needle, the pull and the plunge, the cold, cold burn. Johnny lets his head fall heavily to the left, watches the wind lick at the corner of the donut bag, flipping it over, the last of the contents spilling out, swirling and dancing towards that dazzling brilliance at the mouth of the alleyway.
Ah no, Johnny man. Come on little bro. Where you going Johnny? C’mon Johnny, watcha doing?
Voices.
Easy, abandoned laughter.
Faint squelch of seagulls.
Heaving surf.
Tender breeze.
Barefooted blond girl dashing along the shoreline, coaxing a kite into the air.
Scrappy black-and-white mutt rushing at a wary flock of gulls sunning on the sand.
Sand.
Scoop a handful and feel it stream between your fingers, lustrous and forgiving.
Shimmering golden sand.
Hey Johnny! I got one! I got one! Come on!
To the far left a sandy-haired boy of eleven or twelve leans over the railing of a bridge, fighting to land a monstrous sea trout.
Yawning, broad river curving to the ocean.
Another boy, in orange shorts, bobbing along in a new rubber dinghy, feet trailing the warm foamy waters, hands tucked idly behind his head, sunglasses, basking in the lazy midday sun.
Little dog yapping, leaping, bounding along in the sand.
Solitary crow perched on a mooring post.
The girl runs past again, the kite launched now, high up in the sky.
Johnny shields his eyes from the sun to see the kite glowing neon pink, a map of all the solar system gleaming across the face of it.
The girl turns towards him, running backwards along the beach, her steely blue eyes glinting beneath the summer skies.
She smiles at me.
Hey Johnny! You made it!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Alright, special thanks to my infinitely inspiring son Percy, love of my life, and to his lovely mama Sherry-Lynn White. Much love and gratitude to the brilliant and beautiful Shauna MacDonald, for plucking me out of the crowd and shining up my tarry old heart—xxx. To my dearly departed uncle Ron Hynes, who read an early draft of this book and suggested I burn it. Lily Hynes. Connie Corkum-Hynes. Lois Hynes. Gary and Dolores Hynes. Blair Harvey. Lois Brown. Alison Gzowski. Ruth Lawrence. Aislinn Hunter. Patricia Isaac. Nicole Kane. Jenny Rocket (and Audrey and Bob and Jackie and Jason). Sherrie Rose. Sheila Sullivan. Des Walsh. Mary Walsh.
Carolyn Forde, my tireless agent at Westwood Creative Artists. Jennifer Lambert, my awesome editor at HarperCollins. Iris Tupholme. Noelle Zitzer. Stephanie Nuñez. My manager Perry Zimel and all the gang over at OAZ.
Staff and residents of Her Majesty’s Penitentiary (2008–12). Angela Asher. Amy Bedford. Terry-Jean Bedford. Erin Breen. Jonathan Bronfman. Karen Bruce. Amanda Brugel. Tassie and Amy Cameron. Alan Collins. Kiezauna Gallimore. Eliane Gagnon. Maria Doyle-Kennedy. Kieran Kennedy. Megan Follows. Risa Braman-Garcia. Rene Garcia. Alexandra Gonzalez. Hallie Gyles. Taylor Hickson. Amy House. Kate Kawaja. Ivy Mairi. Robert Joy. Henry Krieger. Adriana Maggs. Alex Malolos. Greg Malone and White. Eamon McGrath. Melanie Oates. Lori Oberding. Cyril and Vera O’Keefe. Marnie Parsons. Colleen Power. Gerry Rogers. Suzanne Sicchia. Gavin Simms. Christian Sparkes. Lisa Rose Snow. Alison Rideout. Tracey Waddleton. Todd Wall. Sabrina Whyatt. Christopher Richardson. Running the Goat Books and Broadsides. Killick Press. Pedlar Press. The Resource Centre for the Arts. MusicNL. Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council. Canada Council for the Arts. City of St. John’s. The Canadian Film Centre. NIFCO. Take the Shot Productions. Pope Productions. CBC Radio.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOEL THOMAS HYNES is an award-winning multidisciplinary artist from Calvert, Newfoundland. He is the author of numerous acclaimed works, including Down to the Dirt, Right Away Monday, Straight Razor Days, God Help Thee: A Manifesto and Say Nothing Saw Wood (adapted for film under the title Cast No Shadow and nominated for four Canadian Screen Awards). Also a musician, Hynes writes and directs for film and theatre, and works as an actor in television and film. He has performed in productions including Down to the Dirt, The Book of Negroes, Rookie Blue, Republic of Doyle, Eyewitness and, currently, Orphan Black and Frontier.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at harpercollins.ca.
ALSO BY JOEL THOMAS HYNES
FICTION
Right Away Monday
Down to the Dirt
Say Nothing Saw Wood
NON-FICTION
Straight Razor Days
God Help Thee: A Manifesto
DRAMA
Incinerator Road
Broken Accidents
The Devil You Don’t Know (co-written with Sherry White)
SCREENPLAYS
Cast No Shadow (adapted from Say Nothing Saw Wood)
CREDITS
Cover design by Michel Vrana
Cover images from iStockphoto.com
COPYRIGHT
We’ll All Be Burnt in Our Beds Some Night
Copyright © 2017 by Joel Thomas Hynes.
All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition: March 2017 EPub ISBN: 9781443447850
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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ISBN 978-1-44344-783-6
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