When I couldn’t find Flukey and wanted to steer well clear of Ma and give the rest of the place a miss, be by myself, I made my way up the hill. Past Mel Campbell’s shop at the high end of our road. Over the railway bridge. Already the road was steep, getting steeper all the time. Soon the high walls appeared and the fancy gates. The leafy trees and reliable cars. The air tasted different up here. It tasted of safety and comfort. Of cut lawns and wind chimes and proper perfume and soap and barbecued ribs. Of clean clothes and new flowers and fresh fruit. It tasted of good luck.
I made my way to the house with the unfinished wall. It’s where Fat Grehan lived, he’d moved up the hill a few years ago when he became an overnight millionaire. He hadn’t been around since the start of summer. Word was he did a bunk to London. Packed up in the middle of the night and, just like that, high-tailed it out of town. I didn’t care where he was. What I liked was that Fat Grehan’s place didn’t have a gate that came with a top-secret code. It didn’t have a high wall either. Not yet. It was about halfway done and he’d all the rocks in the world piled up in his driveway, as though he fully intended to get someone to finish it for him. It was some collection of rocks, sand-like and glittery, each piece cut in a slightly different shape and size to the next piece, not the sort of stuff they used for the grey walls that separated the places on our road and on more or less every other road I knew about.
The house was an impossible maze of a place. All split levels and jutting-out ends. Big-view windows, floor-to-ceiling efforts just begging for thrown stones. A couple of sheds out back. And more of the place just as you thought it was going to end, the builders must have been very confused when they were putting it together. It must’ve taken an entire week to walk through, Grehan must’ve found himself lost in there all the time. Maybe that was the idea.
Getting in was easy. There was a loose window round the back. This is it, I thought. By the time I’ve gone through the place I’m going to be a millionaire, ready to take my place on the rich list given out free with the Sunday papers. I’m going to buy Ma a new car, a home with a tree in the garden, maybe we can go on a sunny holiday for the next five or ten years.
Except for a snow globe containing a miniature ship and a drawer full of steak knives, I couldn’t find a thing. Hours I spent going through the place. No wallets or purses left lying around. No easy cash piled high in tidy bundles with a note that said it’s all yours, Jason, take it away with you. I saw no sign of a secret chamber or hidden jewellery box. Not one priceless painting hanging on any of the four or five hundred walls I must have passed. I checked the mattresses in the bedrooms – Flukey had once told me mattresses were a great place for stuffing cash. I ripped them open with one of the steak knives. Reached in and pulled out feathers, foam and whatever useless tat had been used to stuff the things. Not a bean, not a penny, not the glint of a red cent. I tried tearing up a couple more, then gave up. There wasn’t even anything in the kitchen to eat. Just that drawer full of useless knives. The entire search was a huge let down.
And they called Fat Grehan the rich man in our town. Where did that leave the rest of us?
I went back outside, stood in front of one of the big-view windows. Could more or less make out my reflection, the flimsy shoulders on me, the next-to-nothing size of me. Then I spotted some tins of paint. Every one of them marked Marrakech. With another one of the steak knives I prised open the lid of the first tin, poked my finger into the reddish goop. Then I noticed the brush. And I thought, why not do some painting? Leave a message for Fat Grehan and everyone else up here to wonder at. Tell them they can’t be setting themselves up in swish palaces without having the decency to leave some valuables lying around for budding burglars. Grabbed the brush and opened the tin and walked back out to the road. Dipped the brush and took it, dripping, to the half-built wall. What to say? What to say? Something that will hold their attention. Something they will remember me by. I stood there for a minute, dripping brush in hand, pondering. Was about to give up. Then I remembered Flukey’s theory from that time in the pub. There is no escape. That got me thinking about some of those things Ma had said when we were off spinning around in Mattie’s car. Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Remember, kid, you’re as good as dead. Then I thought of what she’d said when cop Lawless had come knocking on the window of Mattie’s car.
I’VE GOT THE MOON IN MY POCKET
I stepped back as soon as the last letter went up. Took a minute to appreciate my work. The deep red went well with the sand-coloured wall. The message was clear and large enough for all to see. Looked around to see if anyone was out and wanted to join me in my admiration. But there wasn’t. The road was quiet. The high gates were closed. I had the hill all to myself.
I walked back up the driveway to see if there were any other colours. There weren’t, but not to worry. Prised open another tin, and brush in hand, looked around to see where else I could decorate. All I could see were those big-view windows. Stepped over to one of them. Whipped the hoodie off me. My, my, I said to my reflection. Look who it is. The boy with the puny arms and pipsqueak head. You look just like your Ma. Has anyone ever said that to you?
Flicked the dripping brush at my reflection. Saw specks of red appear on my curly hair and sorry face. Hey! What are you doing up here? I asked the paint-spattered reflection. Let the brush drop out of my hand and picked up the full tin of paint. Well? What’s the matter, pipsqueak? Cat got your tongue? And I flung the contents at the glass. SPLAT! As quickly again I grabbed another tin, and was all set to let rip at the next window when the glinting rocks caught my eye. I ditched the paint, picked up the sturdiest rock I could handle, stood staring at another version of myself. And tell me something, Jason, what age are you now? Nearly twelve, is it? Nearly twelve and you want to know who your da is. Ha! Ha! Ha! Don’t make me laugh. OK, Ma. Whatever you say, Ma, I hollered, letting rip and watching the rock all the way. CRASH! it went, and I saw myself shatter into a million pieces. Stepped up to the next window, couldn’t wait to see what damage I could do to the next me. But by now all I could see was the crazy look on Ma when I’d mentioned Flukey, could feel her laughter spinning around and around inside my head, as though it had no place else to be. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And what was so funny about having Flukey for a da? So what if he’d been a layabout and general good-for-nothing for the last couple of years. It was better than nothing, better than having to be around a raving nutjob from one end of the day to the next. Telling yarns about my goolies. Calling me pipsqueak in front of everyone. Anyway. It was her who had gotten together with Flukey on and off for the last God-knows-how-long. If she was laughing at me, she was laughing at herself.
Could feel the blood surging through me, helter-skelter and faster than Ma had ever driven that car she liked so much. Pulled up the sleeve of my hoodie, gripped the steak knife, and without taking my eyes off the reflection in front of me, drew the knife across my arm. The skin tore easily, blood oozed, then spurted brighter than the paint, ran in dripping lines, drops landed on the ground. What age are you now, she wanted to know. Black, tarry urine is coming out of me, she reckoned. Rotting goolies and lopsided with it. THIS IS WHAT’S COMING OUT OF ME, YOU CRAZYWOMAN! I roared, and cut again, and again, wider and deeper, and man, it felt good.
*
I could see the entire town, the cathedral, the school I went to, the drain of a river, the cracked bridge. I could see the Tower jutting out of the unfinished shopping centre, looking over the town like some sort of sentry keeping an eye out for trouble makers. I could see the two cemeteries, one on either side of the town, why we needed two of the things was anybody’s guess. I could see the half-built houses on the edge of town, the mill that made pig feed and bull nuts, the railway station and the tracks stretching out of sight. I could see the by-pass, cars on it, on their way to God-knows-where. I wondered where Ma and me had turned off and where exactly was it we had ended up. You could see for miles. No matter which direction you chose. I squinted m
y eyes, picked a far-off place and plotted my course.
Now it was almost dark, the town lights were coming on, and I remembered what it was I liked most about up here. I gazed down at the glittering spectacle, all of it frazzled and distorted, a mirage of some unrecognisable place, and it was easy to forget it was the boghole place I lived in.
At some point the moon came up full and high, and I almost wished the ESB would switch off the lights like they had that other time so that the moon could show the twinkling stars and the dark streets what it could do. I’ve got the moon in my pocket, kid. That I’d like to see.
I held up the snow globe, shook it and watched the snow flitter about the tiny ship. That was the place for her, alright. Inside a glass ball.
This isn’t so bad, I told myself. Should do this more often. Spend time up on Rich Hill with the high moon and silent stars. The air was calm and warm and, hey, I had a great idea, I should stay up here all night.
As best I could I stretched out on the rocks, held up the snow globe and stared at the tiny ship. Where are you off to, then? I asked the ship. Well, wherever it is, just remember: there is no escape. Felt myself relaxing a little more, let the snow globe drop out of my hand and next thing me and Flukey were hanging out together. I wasn’t sure exactly but it was a forest somewhere, full of autumn trees, and we were throwing sticks and trying to knock chestnuts out of the trees, and of course nothing was happening with my feeble throws and Flukey had me point out the chestnut I was after, and I did, and his very next throw took the chestnut clean out of the tree, and it landed right at my feet and I was thrilled to bits and reached down to pick it up and I held it high for Flukey to see. Look Da, I was saying, look at the size of it, but Flukey had disappeared, and before I knew what was happening, I was cruising the bluest river I had ever seen. The sun was making light dance off the gentle waves, making rainbows out of beams of air and, Jesus, I was saying, how did I get from the autumn forest to this light-filled place? Look, the Pyramids, a familiar voice called out. A girl’s voice. Next thing, I was standing tiny in front of enormous sand triangles. Look out, the same voice called to me. Wait! I knew who it was. Next thing the Pyramids were collapsing and the blocks were tumbling, hurtling right for me. Run! the girl urged. Run for your life! And I was moving now, moving and wondering where Flukey was, I wanted him to run for his life with me, especially as we had some unfinished business in the chestnut tree forest. I felt a hand clasp my own hand and pull me out of there. It’s OK, whispered the comforting voice, I’ve got you now. And I was glad someone was looking out for me.
I opened my eyes. The moon and all the stars had disappeared, early birds were twittering, the sky was taking on light.
I looked around and hauled myself to my feet. Rolled the sleeves down over my arms and headed out of Fat Grehan’s driveway. I paused at the unfinished wall and glanced at my handiwork. Then I saluted my deep red lettering, pulled my hoodie tight and sauntered down off Rich Hill. As a souvenir of my time up there I brought the knife with me. The snow globe, too.
EARLY MORNING
How do you know Jesus was an Irishman? the Slug Doyle asked me. He was hovering over the ditchwater, mooching about with his rod. Like he often was at this hour, fishing about for something. Perch. A pair of boots. The treasure of a long-since sunken boat.
I don’t know, Slug. How do you know?
He didn’t leave home until he was thirty-three. He used to hang around with twelve other guys. He thought his mother was a virgin, and she thought he was God.
I don’t think my mother is a virgin, Slug.
Well that’s OK then, because no way are you the son of God.
What are you fishing for, Slug?
Mary.
The Virgin?
No, the witch that stole my heart.
I had no idea who the Slug was talking about. He cast his line a couple of more times and on this occasion he landed one of the tackies Brains McManus had yanked off my feet and chucked into the ditch. He raised his rod, let the sodden tackie bend it, then flicked his wrist and the tackie dropped back into the ditchwater. He shrugged his shoulders, reeled in and shuffled off to find another spot. As soon as he had, I leaned in and fetched my tackies out of there.
I saw Barrabas Diffley, the whistling postman, just about the most unpopular lad in the whole world around here these days because all he ever did was bring bad news. That’s why he was out and about with his sack of letters at this hour. With pretty much everyone still in bed, he stood a better chance of getting through his day without receiving a sledgehammer fist down on top of his head or a steel-cap boot up his rear end. For the right price I had once offered to take the sack of letters off his hands, do his dirty work for him. But the right price hadn’t been offered, no price had been, now that I think of it, and my pockets stayed empty while Barrabas went about his rounds risking a good clobbering.
I looked into the Swamp to see if the girl was there, quickly scanned the hidden pools to make sure the crazy loon hadn’t gone chucking herself in again. Instead of the girl, I saw Annie the scryer. She was standing at the low end of the lane, staring into the ditchwater. The long silver streaks of her hair looked blue in the early sun. The skin on her face looked stretched. She’s like a stick in the mud, I’d heard Ma say about her. Others said she was ready for the knackers’ yard.
Annie wasn’t her only name. She had other names – witch woman, the black-and-midnight-hag, mother of doom, angel of death – but I couldn’t be bothered using any of those. I thought she might have some answers to my questions. Calling her angel of death was hardly going to encourage her. Let the others call her what they liked.
Hello Annie. Tell me, where am I going to be in ten years’ time? I said when I got as far as her, thinking it might be a good way of getting around to what I really wanted to ask.
I waited for a reply, but none came.
OK. We’ll leave it at five years. Where will I be in five years, Annie?
Still nothing.
OK so, Annie. Let’s bring it back a bit further. This time next week, where will I be?
Still nothing.
Answer this one for me, then, Annie. Flukey Nolan is my da. True or false?
She gripped herself and started swaying. Over and back she went. Like a timid wave. Or a change of heart. It wasn’t any kind of answer to my question. Still. It was better than no reaction, better than just standing there like a mute.
Tell you what, Annie, I said. Keep it to yourself for now. Tell me next time. OK?
And I made my way home.
CRAZYWOMAN
There was no doubt about it. I was living with a crazywoman. To look at her you wouldn’t have suspected a thing. She was slim and wore short-length skirts that made men whistle. She paraded about in fashion boots that went to her knees. She had bleached hair she kept in a tidy bob. I suppose she wasn’t a bad-looking woman, and she always had a good story for the lads that came knocking for the money she owed.
The lad she owed for fixing the hole that appeared in the sitting room ceiling had come knocking. It was about the tenth time he’d been around, and that after several polite phone calls and a handful of reasonably worded pay-up letters. Hello, Barty, she’d said to him, after accidentally letting herself get caught at the front door. Hello indeed, Barty said, all set to offer his harsh let-me-have-my-money words. But, of course, she was already a step or two ahead of Barty and she was swaying from side to side, fiddling with a button on her shirt, letting it open a little bit, and before Barty had a chance to pretend he hadn’t been distracted by the bits of flesh now visible, she was into her story about Mario Devine, our evil landlord, and how he had been bullying the last coppers out of her pocket to pay the rent while at the same time paying no attention to the broken radiator that was causing her suffering child to half-freeze to death every night. And next thing, not only was Barty letting her off the hook for the hole in the ceiling, but he was on hands and knees in the upstairs bedroom going a
t our broken radiator with his wriggly wrench. You are a hero of mine, Barty Brophy, she said to him three hours later and blew him a kiss as she was seeing him out the front door.
That wasn’t even the start of it. Before that, Gavin McGoldrick wouldn’t hand back the keys of the useless rust bucket that passed for our car after he’d patched it up for about the one hundred and fiftieth time. Oh, please, Gavin, she said, turning on her lips. Please, Gavin, it’s an emergency. It’s Jason. Jason? said Gavin. Yes, Jason, she said, nodding back in my direction. He’s not well. In fact, it’s serious. They found another lump. A lump, said Gavin. Yes, she said, a third one. You should see it. It’s like he’s growing another testicle. Already Gavin was nearly choking to death and you could tell he couldn’t let us out of his garage fast enough. Please, he said, giving the oily keys a wipe with his cloth, take your car. Whatever you need, take it, he said, gesturing to the array of banjaxed cars scattered about his workshop. I’d say he’d even have gone so far as to lend her the high-octane sports car he’d been working on when we showed up to begin with. But she was only getting started now and she was soon filling Gavin’s head with forceps and scalpels and punctured scrotums and the rivers of pus pouring out of me. My poor boy, she said, clutching herself. My one son. My only child. And all the time Gavin was shrinking further and further back inside his workshop, and for every backward step he took, she was swaggering forward, those hips doing their thing again, her big poor-me eyes working their irreversible magic.
Just imagine, she said to me on our way home again, as she drove straight through a red light. Just imagine if I was a man. I’d be dangerous, you know. I’d go places. Where would you go? I asked her, and she called me a numpty, said she didn’t mean it literally. Tell you one thing, though, she went on, if I was a man I would raise my arm and own up to some of the stunts that have been pulled around here. If I was a man I wouldn’t be long fixing the mess this dump of a place is in. What has being a man got to do with fixing it? I wanted to know, and she let go of the steering wheel, put her hands on her popular hips, looked my way and said, Don’t you know anything? Then we mounted the footpath and nearly ran over Old Tom Redihan out on his daily walk.
Ithaca Page 3
