by Laura Marney
Just for the hell of it Pierce decides to walk back to the plant. What harm can it do? It’s not as if he’s checking up on Sean, not as though he’s accusing him of shirking his responsibilities. Sean is after all the man who got the refrigeration plant built for God’s sake, if anyone on this island can make something happen then it’s Uncle Sean but it’ll do no damage to take a wander up there. If he’s there Pierce can tell him how sorry he is about the poem. He can tell him that his mum was asking when they should come. That’s all.
The van is still outside but the plant is locked up. Maybe the van has broken down and Sean has walked back to the village and, by way of avoiding Pierce, has gone straight to the pub. Pierce can’t help but get the feeling that Sean is still in there. He walks around the building looking for another entrance, hugging the walls to keep from tripping on rubble, but there is no other way in. The windows, such as they are, are too high up to see in. With his good arm he drags together five discarded wooden palettes and stacks them on top of each other. The rickety palettes retain a strong smell of fish, the whole place, even from the outside, smells of fish. Because of his plastered arm his balance is knocked askew and he is slow to climb the palette tower. He clings to the walls with his fingertips for fear of falling and slowly, carefully, raises himself up until he can see inside.
There is one light on inside which at first he takes to be a switch for the machinery but as his eyes adjust he sees that it is a strong beam pointing upwards. The light silhouettes a ragged outline in front of it. It could be sacks of oysters or something or it could be Sean.
‘Sean! It’s me, open up!’
The outline makes no move. Pierce bangs the window as hard as he can, nearly losing his balance on the shaky palettes.
‘Sean, please, it’s bloody freezing out here!’
If it is Sean the impudence of this remark will stir him to action, surely. But there is no response. Maybe it’s just a bag of oysters.
Getting down off the palettes is easier than getting up except that Pierce grazes the side of his hand on the new pebbledash and it bleeds a bit. As he walks back to the cottage he has to lower his throbbing arm to stop the blood running up inside the plaster. His hand stings so much it makes him cry. Fat tears roll down his face and bounce off with the jolting of his hurried angry stride. There is still no sign of Sean at the house but Pierce is not surprised. Inside the bar he purposefully approaches Roddie and Bill, who stand with a few of the other men. When they see him Roddie and Bill immediately separate from the others and meet him in the middle. Pierce is grateful for this. If he’s wrong this will bring down the wrath of the whole island on him.
‘Have you seen him?’
They both shake their heads.
‘Is there anywhere else he could be?’
‘There a million places he could be,’ says Bill sagely.
‘Yeah, well he’s not in the house, he’s not in the boat and his van is still up at the refrigeration plant.’
Roddie and Bill say nothing. Pierce doesn’t know what he wants them to say.
‘I think he’s up there. I looked in the window.’
‘How the hell did you look in the window?’ challenges Roddie.
‘I stood on palettes, okay? D’you not believe me?’
Both of them are silent again. This is not getting Pierce anywhere; he came to ask for their help.
‘Sorry, but I don’t think Sean is coping as well as he seems to be. I need to borrow a key. I think he’s up at the plant and I need to go and get him out of there before he freezes his bollocks off. Who are the key holders?’
‘I’ve got a key,’ Bill says slightly sheepishly before Roddie tugs his jumper and he is silenced.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ says Pierce through clenched teeth. ‘I only need it for half an hour, I’ll bring it straight back.’
Bill turns back to the other men and Roddie follows him. Pierce is left standing. He can’t believe these small-minded tight-arsed fucks. He’s only trying to help. He only wants Sean back here, safe and sipping a pint in the warmth and familiarity of the hotel bar. As his anger bubbles he marches toward the men who have now formed an exclusive huddle. This is pathetic, Pierce thinks. As he nears them Bill holds up his hand in a delaying gesture. He is close enough to them now to hear what they are saying. Surprisingly, Roddie is apparently pleading his case.
‘The boy knows he made an arse of himself last night and he’s sorry, he just said as much, didn’t he Bill?’
Bill nods confirmation.
‘There’s been no sign of him all day. I say we go up there and take a look.’
There is a murmur of hesitation, which becomes general approval. Bill, with a wave, signals Pierce to approach.
‘And I am really, really sorry about the poem,’ confesses Pierce. ‘I honestly never meant any offence.’ Tiredness, frustration and unaddressed grief put a catch in his voice. ‘Bernie is, was, one of the most important people in my…’
‘We’ll take the Land Rover. Tommy, you bring the rest of the lads in your car,’ says Roddie, rescuing Pierce from encroaching tears.
Chapter 22
Pierce is proved right. Sean is in the refrigeration plant, but no one could have predicted the sight that awaits them.
The beam of light that Pierce saw earlier when he peaked through the window is still as bright, brighter now that he is inside and seeing it close up. It is held in the hand, from the outstretched arm, of a statue. The Statue of Liberty. Bernie, upright, barefoot and crowned, swathed in pale green sheets, frozen and hard as copper, stands posed before them.
In front of her, Sean is slumped on a plastic chair, lifeless.
Pierce touches the bare skin on Bernie’s arm. Dead cold. He moves to Sean and puts a hand on his uncle’s face. Not quite so cold.
‘Sean! Roddie! I think he’s alive! Roddie!’
‘No way!’
‘Uncle Sean, wake up!’
Pierce vigorously shakes him and Sean falls forward. Pierce is lying on the floor with him, his arms around him on the sub-zero concrete floor. Bill is pulling at Sean’s neck, looking for a pulse.
‘Get a mirror! Somebody, quick!’
There is no mirror but it seems there is a pulse, a faint slow pulse, but a pulse. The men, all fishermen, have seen death and dying before but even so they are panicking, crowding together to lift him. The beautiful sculpture he has created from his wife’s body is ignored while they haul Sean between them out to the car. Once there, Pierce insists and has to fight off the others to get in beside his uncle.
Sean’s skin is grey. Pierce puts his ear to Sean’s lips and thinks he feels breath but it could be condensation from the white frosting that covers Sean’s clothes. He slaps his face gently and then harder but Sean doesn’t open his eyes. He shouts in his ear.
‘Don’t die, Sean, don’t fucking die!’
It occurs to Pierce that if Sean dies it will be his fault. Too much time has been wasted and he’s responsible. If he hadn’t recited that poem, people in the village would still be speaking to him, they would have taken him seriously the first time. Roddie and Bill would have given him the key or come with him straight away. As a progression from this, another thought strikes him, a much worse thought.
Perhaps Sean modelled Bernie like this because he thought Pierce’s poem labelled her, damned her, with ordinariness. Well she certainly isn’t ordinary now. Amongst dead bodies she is quite spectacularly extraordinary. She looks amazing. This is a much truer reflection of Bernie’s spirit than Pierce’s piece of shit poem could ever be. What he’d intended as panegyric, a heroic eulogy for his gorgeous funny wonderful auntie, she who was so exceptionally herself, was no more than lazy thoughtless doggerel.
He sold her short. Sean knows it, and this is all Pierce’s fault.
He lifts Sean’s limp lifeless hand and begins to rub. Bill, from the driving seat turns and blasts him.
‘For God’s sake, don’t do that! It’s hypothermia; I
’ve seen it before. You’ll do more damage than anything else.
‘Well what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and let him die?’
‘Calm down. Everybody. Just calm down,’ says Robbie. ‘We have to keep him warm. Andy’ll phone for the doctor…’
‘The quilt!’ Pierce shouts. ‘He brought Bernie here in a duvet, it’s probably in the back of the van.’
‘Right. Tommy, can you see if it’s there?’ Roddie asks.
Tommy runs to the van but it’s locked and as he runs back towards them Pierce is fumbling in Sean’s trouser pockets. He passes the keys in to the front of the car to Roddie. Like a fire bucket, the keys are relayed to everyone along the route from Pierce to Tommy, as is the duvet on the way back.
‘Get in beside him,’ Bill tells Pierce. ‘Give him your body heat, that’s it, cuddle in to him, that’s the best thing you can do.’
Pierce tries to cover as much surface area as possible, even pressing his face to his uncle’s. Despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, a line from a song keeps running through Pierce’s head.
When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.
While they are in the car Pierce thinks he feels Sean eyelids flutter on his face. He tells Roddie this and for the rest of the journey they all, including Bill the driver, study Sean’s face intently. It is not until they are back at the house that Sean does it again, this time witnessed and confirmed by the others. All three bars of the electric fire are turned on, an unheard of extravagance in this house. Like lovers Pierce and Sean lie under the duvet on the couch in the living room surrounded by middle-aged men. Pierce has another go at reviving Sean; he tries blowing on his face and surreptitiously flicking his ears.
‘The doctor’s on his way,’ Andy reports. ‘But he says it’s probably going to be an air ambulance. And he says not to expect too much, if he’s been lying in the plant all day the chances are not great.’
Pierce does not want to hear this and more vigorously pings his uncle’s ear. He feels a little guilty, the ear is red now but at least it’s keeping the circulation going. Sean’s eyes open. He tries to say something. Pierce puts his ear to Sean’s mouth to hear what he is trying to say. The men wait expectantly.
‘He’s saying his ear hurts.’
The others look slightly confused by this but everyone is relieved.
‘How are you feeling, Sean?’ Roddie bawls at him.
‘He’s saying: cold.’
This is generally interpreted as a positive response. The atmosphere becomes more relaxed and the men begin to talk amongst themselves. Within the privacy of the duvet Pierce asks questions by whispering.
‘Sean, do you know where you are and what’s happened?’
Sean holds Pierce’s eye and slowly nods his head.
‘Hypothermia,’ he whispers. ‘Nice way.’
‘Did you mean it to happen?’
Again the slow nod, this time accompanied by a sensuous smile.
‘Uncle Sean, I’m so sorry. Was it because of the poem? I never meant for any of this…’
‘Not the poem.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Pierce hasn’t time to enjoy the relief he feels when he hears this. Sean’s speech is slurred and difficult to make out. He sounds drunk when he says, ‘Did you see her?’
‘Yes Sean. She looks beautiful.’
Pierce is not humouring a dying man when he says this. The image of Bernie in the refrigeration plant, noble, beautiful, everything she ever wanted to be, is very firmly imprinted on his mind, he thinks it always will be. As he sees the model of the statue on the mantelpiece, the one that Agnes threw at him the other night, he realises just how spot-on Sean has got it. Every detail, down to the folds of the statue’s gown, Sean has lovingly recreated with Bernie, for Bernie. Pierce thinks she should be in a museum. He’s going to talk to his contacts at the Arts Council about this as soon as he gets back to the city.
‘A lot of work.’
‘You’ve done a fantastic job, all the lads were saying so.’
Sean smiles.
‘Tickets.’
Pierce is not following and communicates this in his expression.
‘New York.’
‘Ah right, the holiday.’
Pierce says this a bit too loudly and Sean warns him with a look to keep his voice down.
‘You take them. You go.’
‘Sean, you can probably get the money back on those tickets.’
‘No. You go. Take a girl, a special girl.’
‘Sean, thanks a lot, that’s really kind of you, but…’
Suddenly Sean grabs Pierce’s arm with a strength that surprises them both.
‘Could be my deathbed. Hope it is. My dying wish. Promise.’
‘I promise, Sean.’
‘The ring. Here.’
Sean indicates that the ring is in his trouser pocket and once again, Pierce, eyeball to eyeball under the quilt, must make intimate contact, rifling Sean’s pockets, interfering in his groin area. Pierce finds the ring, opens the box, looks at it again and shakes his head. This is Bernie’s ring. He can’t take it and give it to some girl. But Sean is nodding yes.
‘Take it, you need a wife. An ordinary wife. Passable, adequate, humdrum.’
But this is not, as Pierce immediately fears, an admonishment. The sly smile on Sean’s face signals that it is a joke, a wind-up.
‘Did you see her?’
‘Yes Sean, she’s beautiful.’
Sean smiles beatifically and slides back into unconsciousness.
Chapter 23
‘Oh, definitely Marilyn Monroe,’ says Carol.
‘Yeah?’ says Pierce.
‘Definitely. Y’know, with the white dress? Like this,’ she says, as she jumps up to demonstrate, legs straddling an imaginary subway vent. She lifts her brown frilled skirt, up and wide, to show even more of her long slim legs. Pierce and Tam are evaluating her pose and nodding approval.
Carol phoned last night and asked for help marking Daphne’s student’s end-of-term exam papers. Daphne’s first impulse was to blow her out, she doesn’t want Carol in her house, but she feels bad deserting the students. If it’s left to Carol, she’ll fail most of them and they don’t deserve that. Since she’s arrived Carol hasn’t mentioned the absence of Donnie from Daphne’s flat or conversation, but then Carol’s too self-obsessed to notice anything that doesn’t directly affect her.
Pierce is back. He came back late last night and chapped up this afternoon for soup as though he had never been away. He has given them a long account of his disappearance, describing in poetic detail the death of his beloved Bernie, his heroic rescue of his uncle and the bizarre sight of his frozen auntie. All the islanders came to view her in the refrigeration plant, bringing the kids, making a day of it. Pierce thinks it’s a great business idea; he wants to set up a company styling dead bodies into famous poses. Daphne doesn’t believe it but it’s a good story. He is joking about it now but Daphne senses his laughter is brittle.
‘What about you, Daphne?’ says Tam.
Tam has also ‘popped round’. He has popped round, uninvited, several times since the night of his famous gig. He no longer even pretends to be looking for Pierce. He has apparently forgiven Pierce for not turning up at the gig. The band has found new management anyway.
‘A Teletubby,’ says Pierce while she’s still thinking about it. ‘Tinky Winky.’
Yes, thinks Daphne, and laughs, that’s exactly what I am, a Teletubby.
‘Oh you!’ Carol screams, with an ineffectual girly slap at Pierce’s thigh. ‘No. That photograph.’ Tam says, as if they know what he’s talking about. ‘The famous American one, with the woman sitting down: legs open, arms covering her modesty, classy.’
‘Oh yeah, Nude by Edward Weston, I can see you like that, Daphne, with your beard just peeking out between your legs.’
‘You are such an ignoramus, Pierce. It’s not pubic hair,’ says Da
phne, ‘it’s shadow: chiaroscuro.’
‘Excuse me, I’ve studied that photo in some detail and I can assure you that it’s definitely pubes.’
‘And anyway,’ she says, ‘I want to be Boadicea going into battle.’
Pierce looks up from rolling a spliff. His arm is in plaster and his hand is badly cut but still he insists that he is the best joint-roller. He considers the suggestion and tuts.
‘Full battle dress, a carriage and horses and everything,’ he says as he crumbles hash into the tobacco. ‘You’re talking big bucks, Daphne.’
‘Damn the expense, I’ve got a good insurance policy.’
‘Well I’m sorted. I’m going to be James Bond,’ Pierce says.
‘Aw man! I was going to pick James Bond!’ cries Tam.
‘Too late, I got in before you.’
‘That’s not fair, you’ve had more time to think about it.’
‘But you could be Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, Tam.’
‘Oh yes! Cheers Daphne, Good one.’
Tam immediately stands up and strikes a martial arts pose.
Later, after the joint has been smoked and they have exhausted the possibilities for their modelled cadavers, Daphne goes to the kitchen to heat up the soup. She is tiring of their company; if she feeds them maybe they’ll leave afterwards. Carol has hardly marked any of the exam papers; she’s expecting Daphne to do it all. She can hear her in the living room giggling at everything the lads say.
