Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

  When I looked again the girl was in the water. It didn’t look like she could swim, didn’t look like she was trying too hard to stop herself from sinking. Hey! I yelled, breaking into a mad dash, and then tripping over some bindweed as I lurched for and then lunged over the edge of the Swamp. Stretching over the water’s edge, I reached out both my arms and the daft loon tried to bat them out of her way. She had all but disappeared when I dipped my arms into the dirty water and managed to get a grip on her shoulders. I yanked her up, and dragged her kicking and spluttering onto the reedy grass. She was sopping wet, breathless, and red in the face. I could see her chest rising up and down, the dirty water dripping off her.

  I looked around to see if anyone was knocking about. It was just the two of us. She was sitting up now, facing the Swamp, and had wrapped her arms around her bunched knees. I took off my hoodie and threw it round her.

  At once she whipped it off. I picked it up and tried again, but she raised her arms along with a glare that warned me off. For a minute or two she sat staring into the water without saying a word. Then she looked me up and down and started laughing.

  You’re the second person who’s laughed at me today.

  Only the second?

  Hey! I saved you from drowning.

  What do you want from me? A medal? Eternal gratitude?

  A simple thanks might be enough.

  Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now go away and leave me alone.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  Then do sit down, will you? You’re blocking my view.

  By now she had slid onto my rock. She was still staring out across the Swamp and not looking too bothered about being soaking wet.

  Just so we’re clear, I told the girl, standing fully in front of her. That’s my rock you’re on.

  What are you going to do? Beat me up?

  It won’t come to that. Now scram.

  Scram! Oh, you’re funny.

  Keep it up. You won’t be laughing when your mouth is full of swamp again.

  Ha! One minute you’re pulling me out. The next you’re kicking me back in. Now stop acting like a child. There’s room for the two of us.

  She slid over a little bit. She was about my age and I didn’t want her thinking she was getting the upper hand on me. I could’ve pushed her off the rock, back into the Swamp. I could’ve walked away like a sap.

  You can sit there for another twenty minutes. Then I’ll be expecting an empty rock.

  You’re a tough fellow too, aren’t you?

  That’s right, pigtails. I’m husky and tough and there will be blood if you don’t get off my rock.

  Oh, good! I like blood.

  How long are you going to sit there for?

  I don’t know. Until doomsday. Maybe I’ll wait for the train.

  She looked out across the Swamp, towards the railway tracks. She had a blotchy bruise on the side of her neck. Freckles either side of her nose. The sun was out today and long, shadowy tree branches stretched out in front of us, mingling with the scum and mist over the Swamp.

  Did you jump into the Swamp on purpose?

  I think I’ll let you figure that one out, genius boy.

  What happened your neck?

  Questions, questions. Everybody is always asking questions. Do they never tire, I ask myself? Now please. Do sit down. You’re making me nervous.

  For some reason I did as I was told. She was right, as it turned out. There was room on the rock for both of us. She seemed happy enough with the arrangement and I decided I’d let her stay for a little while, not kick her out of there. She kept gazing at the tracks, as though the arrival of this train she was expecting was going to be a momentous occasion. It made me think of the way Ma liked to perch for hours on end on the step outside our front door, smoking her roll-ups and sipping from her glass. What she was expecting was anybody’s guess.

  The train is late, I said.

  Doesn’t matter. Where I’m going I may not need the train.

  Where’s that, then?

  I was thinking Egypt in the time of the pharaohs.

  Never been there.

  Oh, you should go. They know so much, the Egyptians. Invented paper, you know. And writing.

  The Egyptians?

  Last week I was at the Colosseum in Rome. You would not believe the crowds. Lots of blood too, once the gladiators arrived, you’d have liked it. Before that I trekked across the Russian Steppes. Don’t go there. It’s freezing. That’s why I’m off to Egypt. I could do with some sun and sand. Where are you off to?

  Nowhere.

  That’s no good. You’ll need to find yourself somewhere to go. A destination.

  You should talk to my ma. She’s always looking to go someplace. Except she prefers to take Mattie Conlon’s car rather than the train. I’m not going anywhere until I find Flukey Nolan.

  Flukey Nolan?

  That’s right. He’s my da.

  Never heard of him.

  I might ask the scryer.

  The scryer?

  Yep. She knows things. She’s a good person to ask.

  Never heard of her either. Do you think I am growing knockers?

  Huh?

  I’m going to be a celebrity when I’m big. I need to grow knockers as soon as possible. And not just your average size. You know, they need to stand out in a crowd. So?

  So, what?

  Do you think they’re growing?

  No.

  Have you got any cigarettes?

  No.

  Booze?

  No.

  What have you got? Not much if your feet are anything to go by.

  I shrugged my shoulders. Took a look towards the back lane trees. Saw Old Tom Redihan standing beside them, nodding away. The girl was talking again.

  My father has been crying for a year. He does it resting his elbows on the kitchen table and holding his face in clenched fists. After a while he slams his fists onto the table and yells at the top of his voice.

  Does your ma not say anything? You know, when he is slamming and shouting?

  Mother’s gone.

  To the Russian Steppes?

  Ha! You are funny. If only you didn’t ask so many useless questions.

  If you’re going to be a celebrity when you’re big, what are you doing jumping into the Swamp?

  This time it was her turn to shrug. Shrug and stare off into the distance as though I was no longer present. I tried thinking of something else to say, something that wasn’t a question.

  I’m going down town to look for my da. Do you want to come?

  Not really.

  I might go up the hill later. You can see for miles. Do you want to come up there?

  No thanks.

  It’s really good when it gets dark and the lights come on.

  I’ll stay here.

  But . . .

  But what?

  If I leave, you might . . . you know . . . take another running jump.

  Well, if I do, I’ll be sure to holler for my new hero.

  If I leave, promise me you won’t jump in.

  Maybe.

  Promise.

  OK, OK. I promise. I promise with all my beating blood not to jump. There. Satisfied?

  I decided not to say anything else. Just wait for the girl to start talking about the sand in Egypt or the Steppes in Russia or some other faraway place I’d never heard of. But she didn’t say another word. And when I looked at her again I could tell she was far, far away. Gazing off into the distances of the voyage she was on. Chin in hands. Elbows on knees. I slid off the rock, looked at her one more time and picked my way out of there. I’d nearly made it back to the ditch trees when I heard her calling out.

  Hey, you! Boy!

  Listen to her! Boy, she was calling me. Who did she think she was calling me boy? All three feet nothing of her. With her uppity voice. Like a numpty, I turned round.

  Are you sure I’m not growing knockers?

  I shook my head vaguely, scratched
my way quickly through the trees, crossed the ditch and already I was thinking: I need to put a lot of distance between myself and this loon. Like about three weeks’ worth of Ma’s driving.

  MCMORROW’S DIMLY LIT PUB

  Once upon a time, long before I knew I would be out and about on a useless search for him, I had a drink with Flukey in McMorrow’s dimly lit pub. Step this way, Flukey had said to me after spotting me on the down-town street. He’d even held the door open for me.

  It was my first time in the pub, a dark dungeon of a room with a beery smell and no windows. Flukey quickly made himself comfortable at one end of the counter, stared into the glass put in front of him. The black abyss, he called it. Harry Brewster and Fergal Flood were at the other end, busy running the country. Shirley Halligan was behind the counter pulling drink. Meantime, Barry the bank clerk was sitting at the low table by the wall, in his stripey suit and pink shirt and long shoes, the kind that went on long after feet end, and the wondering head on him because his mobile phone wasn’t working.

  I sat into a stool beside Flukey, tried to catch his misty eyes, and when I did he put a bottle of Fanta in front of me. We sat side by side for the next few minutes without saying a word to each other. Beside us, the steady mumble out of Harry and Fergal. Behind the bar, Shirley looking silently up at the portable television. And all the time from the low table by the wall, a procession of tutting and swearing coming out of Barry the bank clerk.

  You know why I love this place? Flukey eventually said to me, leaning over in a low-down voice. There is no coverage for mobile phones. Then he started chuckling away to himself and it did not look like he was going to stop. I have a theory, he said to me when he finally calmed down again. Do you want to hear what it is? I’m going to tell it to you whether you do or don’t. Of course I wanted to hear it, couldn’t wait to hear Flukey’s theory, but Flukey didn’t seem to be in any rush, had lifted up his black glass, was taking what must have been the slowest drink in the history of drinking. There is no escape, he said when he had at long last finished swallowing and set down his glass again, and left it at that. Then he climbed down off his stool and shuffled over to try and convince Barry the bank clerk he had an idea that would make the pair of them the richest men in the world.

  There was no sign of Barry the bank clerk today. He’d long given up on McMorrow’s after his unhappy mobile phone experience, not that he had much need for the thing these days. There was no sign of Flukey either, but as far as pub-time went it was still early, and I sat into the same stool I’d sat in that time before.

  Harry and Fergal were propping up the centre of the counter. Another lad, so old he must have owed the graveyard a few hundred years, was sitting at the far end, sipping from a glass with one ice cube in it. Times must have been tough for him. Another lad was wandering around the pub in short, staggered shuffles. His drink-arm shaking so much that beer was spilling out of his glass. His jittery eyes searching the dark, empty spaces of the barroom as though there was someone lurking. A woman sat by herself at one of the low tables by the wall. An unlit cigarette was dangling from her red lips as though she was at any minute expecting a prince charming to come along and light it for her. Then again, it was possible she wasn’t even aware that a cigarette was resting between her lips. Her skin was so white, paler than white, flesh the sun never shone on. The lad with the shaking drink-arm approached her. I thought he was going to say something to her, maybe point out the unlit cigarette, offer her a light, and then whisk her away from her troubles in the chariot he had waiting outside. Pumpkin bus, more like. But he didn’t say or do any of that. He just stood there, half-leaning into her, half-leaning away, the drink-arm on him shaking like it had workings of its own, the beer in the glass he was holding swishing to and fro like the early signs of a storm at sea.

  A card game was going on at the other table. I didn’t recognize any of the players, hadn’t seen their faces before, and if the way they were concentrating on the cards was anything to go by, now was not a good time to start finding out.

  I made myself comfortable in the high stool. Took out from my pocket an imaginary euro coin, set it spinning on the counter. Nobody paid any attention. I slapped the coin down in front of me. Shirley looked over.

  I suppose you want a double whiskey.

  No thanks, Shirley. Gave up the whiskey years ago. I’ll have a bottle of Fanta, please. And a packet of peanuts. Have one yourself while you’re at it. It’s on me.

  Shirley gave me the long and stern look she saved for her favourite customers. She reached for a bottle of Fanta, cracked it open, tossed a coaster in front of me, set down a glass and began to pour.

  Keep the change, I told her, pushing the invisible coin in front of me. She gave me the long look again. Pushed the coin back towards me.

  Fanta is on the house this afternoon, she said, and threw down a packet of nuts.

  Harry and Fergal were talking low. I had my ears with me, though, could hear them running the country, the shite-and-all mess left for them to tidy up. Today, Fat Grehan was to blame. Last week, it had been Martin Power and his sidekick, Leech McGrath. Before that, if I remember correctly, it had been a pair of emptyheads called Peadar Skelly and Frank Diamond. And before that again, it was a snake in the grass called Prunty and an auctioneer with a crooked smile went by the name of Freeman. Today, everything was down to Fat Grehan. Wrecked the place Fat Grehan had. The damage done was irreversible. Irreversible. That’s the word Harry and Fergal were using. So good a job had Fat Grehan made of things, they were talking about it all over Europe. England and France were talking about it. And the Germans were raging. And if there was one set of people you didn’t want to be raging, it was the Germans. Bad and all as those dirty, rotten English bastards had been for eight hundred million years or however long it was, it was going to seem like a wine and cheese-cracker picnic along the banks of sludge river by the time the Germans were through with us.

  Mention of wine and cheese-cracker picnics quickly brought on talk of times past. Do you remember? Harry began, and that’s all it took. Do you remember? Around here the three holiest words a man could speak. As though he could not bear to be in the time he was now living through. As though the future was a place too awful to contemplate. Do you remember when you had a harking for something all you had to do was ask? If it was a new car you were after, you picked up the phone, called the bank and waiting for you at the end of the line was chirpy Barry asking for your details so that he could swiftly send on the price of the new car. If you wanted to stop working and take a year-long cruise around the world. If you wanted to hire a supersonic limousine for your little girl’s first communion day. If you wanted to build a second house in your back garden. Own a place in sunny Spain. Buy fields in Bulgaria. It didn’t matter what you wanted the dosh for. All you had to do was pick up the phone and talk to chirpy Barry. At the end of the day you didn’t even have to have a reason. If you just fancied having ten or twenty thousand weighing down your pocket, word was you could just walk into the bank and ask for it.

  And it wasn’t just people living in the country to begin with who’d known all this. They’d heard about it as far away as Russia and Bangladesh and parts of Africa. One lad came all the way from Peru to get a taste of what the country had to offer. But he went home again after drinking six pints of Guinness and receiving an incurable headache. Everybody else, though. They were all showing up at the bank, crowding into chirpy Barry’s office and then dashing around the place like let-loose maniacs to spend what they had asked for.

  Not any more.

  Thanks to Fat Grehan, the town, the country, the entire world was going under, fast. Every man, woman, boy and child will soon be on the happy pills, Harry said, staring into the glass in front of him. One half of the country on uppers, he said, letting out a heavy sigh. And the other half on downers, Fergal said, letting out a not-so-heavy sigh.

  Ha! I bet that lad from Peru was delighted he didn’t stick around. W
as going to say it to Harry and Fergal, but they had gripped their glasses in preparation for their daily toast and I didn’t like to interrupt their holy moment. Here’s to another sinking ship, they said, raising their near-empty glasses. To the sinking ship, they repeated as they clinked.

  It was nearly fun listening to them. Their doom talk. Their end-is-near wisdom. I was all set to tell them about the girl I saved from drowning and then ask them if they had seen Flukey, when the door swung open and Ma walked in, plonked herself on a barstool and without looking up raised a finger for a drink.

  What are you doing in here? she said when at last she spotted me.

  This time I knew better than mentioning Flukey. Didn’t want her laughing at me again, not in here in front of everyone.

  Shirley put a glass of vodka in front of her. Straightaway she took it and drank it down, ordered another. Looked my way again.

  What’s the matter, pipsqueak? Cat got your tongue?

  She raised her glass and took a look around the bar, as though she might find answers to her questions. Then, glass in hand, she slid down off her stool and moved towards me.

  Look at him, she said, standing behind me now, her spare hand poking me in the back. With his glass of Fanta. Is he looking for someone, I wonder?

  Without waiting for me or anyone else to say anything, she moved right up behind the stool I was on, wrapped both arms tightly around me and started swaying. Could feel her boozy breath on my neck, the stink of cheap perfume she liked to put on any time she was going out.

  Leave off, Ma, I said, after trying uselessly to shrug her away.

  My, my. Touchy, isn’t he? she said, releasing her grip and standing back from me. Again, she looked around the barroom, gestured to the place with a sweep of her drinking arm.

  Set up a round of drinks, Shirley. And don’t forget the pipsqueak’s Fanta.

  But I didn’t want any more orange. I pushed the unfinished glass away from me, jumped down from the stool and legged it out of there.

  RICH HILL