Alan McMonagle
ITHACA
PICADOR
for my parents
And they all pretend they’re orphans
And their memory’s like a train
You can see it getting smaller as it pulls away
And the things you can’t remember
Tell the things you can’t forget that
History puts a saint in every dream
Well she said she’d stick around
Until the bandages came off
But these mamas’ boys just don’t know when to quit
And Matilda asks the sailors are those dreams
Or are those prayers
So just close your eyes, son
And this won’t hurt a bit . . .
TOM WAITS, Time
CONTENTS
JOYRIDERS
FLUKEY
THE GIRL AT THE SWAMP
MCMORROW’S DIMLY LIT PUB
RICH HILL
EARLY MORNING
CRAZYWOMAN
DEATH
PICTURE THIS
THAT TIME OF THE MONTH
SUPER MARIO
IF BRAINS WERE CHOCOLATE . . .
SWEET TALKING
GAB GAB GAB GAB GAB
GRAFFITI ARTISTS
HAPPY HOUR
PEOPLE LIKE CLOUDS
MORE COCKROACH THAN WITCH
FLOATING KIDNEYS, RENAL MALFUNCTION, GALLSTONES IN MY PANCREAS AND DANGLING RUGBY BALLS
THE NEXT HAPPY DAY
A PLATE OF SPUDS SKINS AND ALL
DEATH BY ICE CREAM
BRANDO
WINDOW SHOPPING
FLAWS
COUNTRIES ON MY SHOULDERS
THE BIGGER PICTURE
LISTEN TO ME, DA.
WE COULD HAVE PARIS
BATH TIME
YOU’RE AN AWFUL WOMAN
ANGELFACE
WHAT PART OF NO DO YOU NO LONGER UNDERSTAND?
HAPPY PILLS
SUICIDE
TO THE TOWER
FOUR MINUTES PAST FOUR IN THE MORNING
MORNING PILLS
IT COULD BE WORSE
SWEET TALKING
DODO THE CLOWN AND A HORSE CALLED TORMENTOR
SHOPPING LIST
DINNER FOR TWO
NIGHTSOUNDS
HAS ANYONE GOT A PHONE I COULD BORROW?
IN DEMAND
BIRTH CERT
THE LOVED AND LOST
ANSWER ME THIS, ANNIE
CHICKEN AND THYME
CHAMPAGNE TIME
SCARFACE
PARIS IS A BLONDE AND DOGS ARE CITIZENS
LIFESAVER
THINGS COULD BE EVEN WORSE
BURY ME ON TOP OF MARILYN MONROE
LETTER TO DA
THE MOON IN MY POCKET
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
JOYRIDERS
I am the cancer-ridden only son of a dangerous driver who has thoughts about turning herself into a man. The cancer is in my testicle. The left one. Every day it’s getting worse. Black, tarry urine is coming out of me. My goolie is the size of a tennis ball. I won’t even begin to describe the smell. A couple of weeks ago – just before school finished up for the summer – I was merely hobbling my whiffy way to an early grave. Now I am a swollen, leaky infestation liable to cark it at any moment. This was the story she had for them after Mattie Conlon put cop Lawless onto us.
Ma had borrowed Mattie’s car without asking him. I think it was the fourth time in less than three weeks she’d borrowed it. Maybe the fifth. Let’s go, she yelled out through the rolled-down passenger window when she spotted me on Station Hill, and without fully stopping she reached over and opened the passenger door.
Where are we off to this time? I asked her, as soon as I had jumped in and buckled up.
Don’t ask unnecessary questions, she said, and sped away again.
She took the fast road out of town and joined the by-pass and we were soon at top-speed, giving chase to the hi-velocity jeeps and super-cars zipping their effortless way. Are we off to the big city? I asked, straining for a glance at the large road signs flashing by, but received no answer. She didn’t say a word as she drove, just kept her hands on the steering wheel, her eyes peeled on the way ahead, as though at any moment along the open road was suddenly going to materialize whatever it was she was searching for on these helter-skelter spins.
Mattie’s car suited her driving style. And so did the two-lane road. She weaved her way in between slower-moving cars, took the shortest route around bends, a determined-to-leave-everything-behind look never leaving her face. She sped by suited men driving smooth cars. Some of them were talking into phones and during her overtaking manoeuvre Ma slowed a little and made a telephone out of her hand, caught the driver’s attention by waving it as though she was having a fit while mouthing an enthusiastic Call Me. She sped by happy families tucked safely away inside cars large as buses, opened wide her mouth and inserted her make-me-puke finger. She sped by large lorries and waved out at the burly men driving them. One or two beeped back at her as though they were the best of friends. She sped by boy-racers, pouted her lips at them and blew kisses off the palm of her hand.
For a while we drove pretty much alongside the railway tracks. She slowed down some more and I thought she was waiting for the train to appear so that she could have something new to race against. Then she speeded up again and I thought we had missed the train and that she had decided to try and catch it. Soon the road swerved away from the tracks and I wondered what her next target might be. At some point she reached over and turned on the radio, fiddled with the knob. Through the static came a song I’d never heard and I clamped my hands over my ears when she started to sing along. After a few minutes she turned the thing off and she had both hands on the steering wheel again, was peering intently.
Like the times before, we drove until the petrol light came on. This time she swung off the main road and found another road and from there she turned onto another road, one that narrowed and narrowed, and the further we drove the narrower it became and either side of us tree branches reached out and bushes rubbed and scratched against Mattie’s car. Soon one long tuft of grass appeared in the middle of the road and more and more tree branches reached and out-of-control bushes crowded the way until it seemed that nature had decided that this road was an unnecessary road and that it and any vehicles on it, and any passengers in those vehicles, ought to be squeezed out of existence.
You’re going to get us lost, I said, when it seemed we could go no further.
Would I let something like that happen?
I’d say so, I replied.
Do you want to drive? she said to that, and there wasn’t much talking for the remainder of this particular trip.
Somehow we found the way out of there, but not before all the petrol ran out. We had to temporarily abandon the car and walk two or three miles until we came upon a little shop in front of which stood the loneliest-looking petrol pump I had ever seen. Remember, you’re as good as dead, Ma told me as she disappeared inside the shop. A few minutes later she was back to me with an eyebrow, a nod, and a plastic container that she filled from the pump.
It was near dark by the time we got back. For some reason the town lights had not come on – maybe there was a power cut or the ESB men were not happy and had decided to pull the plug – either way it didn’t matter because a big moon was hovering, like a saviour lighting up the place, and I couldn’t stop looking at it. Ma drove to our part of town and when we pulled up outside our house Lawless was parked along our road, patiently waiting. Straightaway he recognized Mattie’s car and he stepped out of his squad car and made his way purposefully towards us.
Uh-oh, I said, we’re in for it this time.
The words we
re hardly out of my mouth and Lawless was knuckling the driver-side window. Hey, kid, she said, looking my way. I’ve got the moon in my pocket. Don’t ever forget that. Then she winked at me, rolled down her window, and switching on her famous smile, turned to face the newest trouble in her life.
FLUKEY
This was the summer after all the money disappeared. One minute it was here. The next it had vanished. All of it. Without trace. Annie the scryer had predicted it happening ages ago but nobody had listened to her. Now they were all interested in what she had to say. Couldn’t wait to hear about the next disaster in store for us. A hurricane. Flood waters. Famine. It didn’t matter. Now that all the money had vanished, everyone had their eyes and ears ready for all manner of doom.
Don’t ask me why. Take a walk through the streets of our town and you would have seen all the disaster you wanted. Boarded-up windows, women crying into empty handbags, the Slug Doyle’s protesting fist. There was a huge crack in the road going across Violin Bridge. Any minute now the unfinished shopping centre looked as though it was going to topple over. March into the bank and say, stick ’em up, this is a robbery, and you wouldn’t be long finding out where things stood. Go ahead, help yourself, they’d tell you, handing over the keys to the vaults. You won’t find a bean in here. I didn’t care about any of that. After the latest high drama with Ma, I reckoned it was about time I took a good look for my da.
I had a feeling it might be Flukey Nolan. We both had thin arms, shoulders not worth talking about, moles. Rosy cheeks and itty-bitty curls. Like me, Flukey had a habit of wandering about the place on his own. He was fond of the Swamp. And though I hadn’t seen him in a while, he used to be around the house all the time. He and Ma were not shy together. The more I thought about it the more certain I became. If I had money and Patsy Fagan was taking bets on who is my da, I would have walked into his betting shop and put it all on Flukey Nolan. I couldn’t wait to bump into him in the back lane and inform him of my discovery, let him know that from here on we would be living under the same roof, doing stuff together, thinking up schemes.
My first mistake was telling Ma. She had a good laugh for herself when I put it to her. If the sucked-in cheeks and rippling forehead lines were anything to go by, it was clear I couldn’t have come out with a more ridiculous proposition.
Tell me something, Jason, what age are you now? she asked me when she took some time out from her laughing.
Nearly twelve, I said.
Nearly twelve. That’s great, she said, now shaking her head as though she didn’t believe me. Twelve years old and he wants to know who his da is.
I know who it is, I said. It’s Flukey Nolan.
That set her off laughing again. Practically bent over in two she was. And the choking sounds out of her. Thought I might have to slap her hard on the back when she lost her breath.
Flukey is many things, she managed to say when at last she calmed down. But one thing he’s not, is your da.
Are you sure about that? I said, giving her my narrow eyes, by now thinking that all the laughing and face-making had to be a decoy, that if I kept at her she might let slip something, provide a clue she couldn’t take back. She didn’t though. She hadn’t another word to say on the matter. And when I did keep at her, the laughter wasn’t long running out and she threw her arms into the air, warned me a fair amount of distance out of her way.
Our town was slap-bang in the middle of the country, miles from anywhere, and built inside a hole made out of bog, weeds, mulch, and the soggiest soil you might ever see. If that wasn’t bad enough, we were surrounded by a dirty black drain that spent its time fooling everyone into thinking it was a river. There were two sides to our town. The rich side on the hill beyond the railway tracks and the side we lived on. The ghetto, Ma called it.
I went walking down the back lane. Of all the places in the ghetto, the back lane was the place to hang out. Anybody who was anybody on our road wanted to be seen out here, taking a stroll through the muck, hanging out by the ditch trees, making conversation about the Swamp in the wasteland beyond. It was a good place to find Flukey wandering.
Along came Harry Brewster and Fergal Flood. Harry’s ears didn’t work very well, and Fergal had only one good eye. So they went around together. Harry described what he saw. Ah would you look, Fergal, Bliss Flynn has gone and cut her hair. Fergal listened to all the gossip. Get a load of this, Harry, the Slug Doyle says if they come knocking on his door one more time he’s going for his axe. It wasn’t a bad system. On a good day, the pair of them were convinced they could run the entire country. But that usually kept until they were down town, perched on their stools, deep into their fifth or sixth stout inside McMorrow’s dimly lit pub.
Along came Patrick Fox, squeezing out through his broken-down back gate, along with Rommel and Himmler, his mongrel dogs.
Hello Jason Lowry, he said, as we passed each other. Have you yet met anybody better than yourself?
I have in my arse, I told him, without breaking stride.
Do you hear that Rommel and Himmler? Patrick said after me, shaking his head at his mongrels as though it was the saddest thing he had ever heard. Young Jason has yet to meet someone better than himself.
Along came Lily Brennan, arrived all the way from Threepenny Terrace. Lily fancied herself as the star nose around here. Reckoned she knew what was going on before the sun came up and shined a light. Old Tom Redihan has started talking to the trees. That Joyce girl’s mother ran away with her father’s best friend. Fat Grehan is after getting married to the nanny. There was no doubt in her voice, she had the fast track on everyone. Along she came, the barrel shape on her waddling down the lane, at long last nearing the end of her daily nose about, a task that involved getting up at the crack of dawn and asking lots of questions she already knew the answers to. Look at you, she said to me every time we bumped into each other. You look just like your mother. That old wheezebag, I’d hear the Slug Doyle say, reckons she can hear the things people are thinking about. Today I was tempted to ask her what was Da thinking about. Then I thought: don’t get into any of that with an old wheezebag.
Just when I thought I could continue my search in peace and quiet, along came Brains and No-brains McManus. They were four or five years older than me. Maybe more. Martin McManus was Brains. He could speak properly and often did before using his black, kick-hard boots. Mark McManus was No-brains. He wore an army jacket and matching brim hat that had a selection of tiny pistols and knives and swords dangling from it, the kinds of things you might get inside good Christmas crackers. A white band circled his hat with thick, blue marker-writing that said I am a killer. For as long as I’d known him he’d been wearing the hat. So far as I knew he hadn’t killed anyone.
Look who it is, said No-brains after they had blocked my path and spent a ridiculous amount of time giving me their will-we-or-won’t-we-mash-his-head-in look.
It’s the boy from the hood, said Brains, flicking my pulled-up hoodie.
The most dangerous pipsqueak alive, said No-brains.
How is your ma? said Brains, the other one already starting to get excited.
The aliens have abducted her, I told him.
We’d like to see your ma, said No-brains, a stupid smirk lighting up his face.
Join the queue, I said to that.
I don’t see a queue, said No-brains, and his brother gave him a look before passing it on to me.
Like I said. She’s gone to the moon for the weekend.
It’s not the weekend, you pillock, said No-brains. It’s Tuesday morning.
Well, I’ll be sure to tell her that when she gets back.
No-brains leaned in to me, pushed me over. For a second it was odds-on he was going to crack me one, open my nose most likely, at the very least I’d have a purple eye. Meantime, his brother had grabbed my legs and was yanking my tackies away from my feet. As soon as he had, he tossed them into the ditchwater.
You give your ma a message from me, said
Brains, now jabbing my chest with his dirty finger. Tell her, I’ve got what she wants.
Tell her we’ve got plenty of what she wants, No-brains threw in for good measure, tapping the buckle of his belt, and Brains looked to his brother as if to say, I should have strangled you when you were little.
Their good work done, Brains gestured to his brother and the pair of them walked off. No-brains turned round to me and drew a slow finger across his neck. In case I thought I was getting off the hook, I supposed. He stumbled over a rock as he was doing it and his brim hat fell off. Brains kicked his backside when he bent down to pick it up. I picked myself up, wiped the dirt off and looked into the ditchwater. My tackies were already sinking more or less out of sight. I didn’t care. Wiped more dirt off myself and kept going.
THE GIRL AT THE SWAMP
Through the ditch trees I could make out the Swamp. Drifts of steam floated above the surface scum. Nettles bunched around the cracked edges. Giant dock-leaves spread out and fluttered. There were midges and clammy webs. Flies dizzy with excitement. Long, reedy grasses pointed to the never-ending sky. Ladybirds crawled all over the place.
The girl was there. Sitting on my rock near the hidden pools. A wisp of a thing in dungarees, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, looking out across the scumwater, towards the ridge banking up onto the railway tracks. Hey! I called in to her. That’s my rock you’re on. She didn’t even look at me.
The council men were at the far side of the Swamp. Leaning against the wonky KEEP OUT sign. In their hard hats and high-vis jackets. Looking important. They’d been obsessed with the Swamp since the start of summer. Someone noticed how it was rising even though it had hardly rained, and they wanted to find out why. One or two were wading around the edges of the Swamp, testing to see how deep it was. They waded around in wellingtons and dipped their rods and made notes in their little pads. They didn’t like anyone being in here on account of the hidden pools and rising water. Your KEEP OUT sign is drowning, I was about to shout over at them, but they were already fed up slopping about in scummy water. This is thirsty work, I heard one of them say, and the rest of them weren’t long agreeing. They packed up and left.
Ithaca Page 1
