Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

Steal a parked car?

  Sorry, don’t have time.

  Break in to a few empty houses?

  How boring.

  Well then, you come up with something.

  Let’s spill some blood. Other than our own, I mean.

  Huh?

  Choose your weapon, she said, offering her empty hands to me and I looked from her outstretched hands to her face, reached out and made to take whatever she was holding in her left hand.

  The .44 Magnum. Good choice, she said. That leaves me with the Colt .45.

  Without another word she raised her gun, spun around and fired three shots into a lad with a beetroot-coloured face. She brought the gun to her mouth, blew smoke off the end of the barrel, spun round again, went down on one knee and quickly took out a circle of men containing Harry Brewster and Fergal Flood. Patrick Cox was next to go. Mr Saj, the Bangladeshi man who lived next door to us. Fock me! he said, clutching his chest as the bullets ripped through him. Then she started on the women. Lily the Nose. Bliss Flynn. Three or four friends of Ma. She reloaded, edged her way around the side of the house, sprang out and let rip at whoever was out the front. She crouched again, allowed herself fall into a roll, and when she settled, pumped countless bullets into a few more unlucky enough to be standing in her line of fire. Then she was on her feet again, standing still, one eye closed and taking aim at one or two passing cars. Then she made her way back to where I was standing, letting off one or two random shots for good measure.

  The rest are all yours, call me when you need back-up, she said. Then she blew some lingering smoke off the end of the barrel and drifted back towards the house. Oh, I almost forgot to ask, she said, just before she disappeared inside. Do you still think he’s your da?

  I moved off myself, drifted further away from the house, towards the shed at the end of Flukey’s garden. I saw a jacket hanging all by itself, the bulging pockets inviting my hands. I looked around, the coast was clear, and was all set to plunder when I heard voices inside the shed. I moved quietly around the side and through the window saw Mario Devine and Ma. They were having a sweet time of it, canoodling together and rubbing up close and twisting each other this way and that and Ma’s black dress was hitched up around her waist and her loverboy’s hands couldn’t get hold of enough of her. I took one step back from the window, raised my gun arm, trigger finger poised, and was about to let them have it when Ma decided it was high time she did up her buttons, fastened a few clips back together, tidied some strands of hair and, before I could say as much as bang, bang, you’re dead, before Flukey could sit up in his coffin and have a right good go at her for carrying on like that and he barely pronounced dead to the world, let alone cold in the ground surrounded by the worms, she was dressed and out of there, up the garden and back inside the house.

  By the time I had stepped back into the room and reclaimed my chair, Ma was standing beside the coffin. She even managed to fire off in my direction one of her special glares. That’s a good one, I thought, and turned to another low huddle of talking men. And suddenly Flukey was no longer a great fellow. For starters, his brains had evaporated. Nor was he sensitive like the trees. He didn’t know the first thing about anything, let alone fish. Was about as unique as a soggy field. And as for his soul. Well, poet or not, there was only one place that was going.

  Where is that then? I was all set to shout out, and out of nowhere, it seemed, Ma’s voice was reaching me. Get the hell over here and say goodbye to Flukey, she was screeching, you’d swear I’d left my ears at home. She looked good, though, in her short, black dress and spikey heels, bet she’d love to hear me say that, and the whiskey huddles couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Like I said. You would never have suspected a thing.

  PICTURE THIS

  It was much later in my room, long after they had screwed down the lid on Flukey’s coffin and everyone had gnashed down all the sandwiches and drank all the whiskey and wobbled off to McMorrow’s to stare longingly at Flukey’s empty barstool, and Ma and her friends had parked themselves downstairs in the kitchen and started swapping Flukey stories long into the night, when it hit me that Ma was right: I was a fair size numpty thinking it might be Flukey.

  Da. I knew he was still out there. Somewhere.

  Lay there on my bed, closed my eyes and pictured the man I wanted him to be. A dapper man. Dressed in a suit with stripes. A high hat on his head. Shiny shoes on his feet. Gold cuff links. Matching finger ring. Snazzy watch. Cigarette dangling from his mouth. A man who moves with a mysterious air, the kind that turns heads and raises eyebrows, the kind that takes years to learn. Owner of a fast car and money to burn. A good way with words. Likes a steak or two. Knows how to land a sturdy fish. Oh boy. I could practically see him come walking through the front door of our tin-pan house, watch Ma sashay into his arms and give him her killer smile. I could see him tip his finger off the edge of his high hat and fire a look in my direction. Well, kid, what are you waiting for? We’ve got places to be, things to do. Let’s hit the road.

  Yeah. That was a good picture. I could take that one and keep it in my album.

  THAT TIME OF THE MONTH

  A couple of weeks later, we were well into the joys of July, and Ma was having a great time cursing her way through the list of everyone she owed. The shite-and-all bin man. The fuck’s-sake oil company. The gob-prick of a mechanic. The plague of arse bandits that were the phone rental company, the television licence people and the ESB lads all rolled into one. There was Cunthook the fridge repair man. Bollox the boiler fixer. Shove-It-Up-Your-Cooch from the Credit Union, and the Bank of Wank-Me-With-A-Spoon. She owed our bull-nut selling landlord big time. Mel Campbell’s shop at the top of the road, a place from which we had both been barred. I even had her down for thirteen euros after she robbed the few coins I was keeping in my jam jar. Not even in your next life, she howled any time I reminded her to pay me back, not even when I turn myself into a man.

  I wouldn’t mind but, unlike me, she had a job. She was a waitress in the Hungry Worm café. Selling buns. Taking orders for death-by-chocolate cakes. Traipsing through the dusty storeroom in search of a misplaced apple tart. Icing messages onto birthday cakes. You name it, she did it. Don’t ask me why she bothered. It was only a part-time job, two or three days a week, and even then she only showed up if she felt like it. She’d even been fired from time to time. Still. It was better than nothing. Better than having to stay at home all the time. Better than having to board up your shop windows. Better than having to empty out your big house, and high-tail it under cover of darkness. It was better than feeling you’ve come to the end of despair and have to go jumping off Violin Bridge.

  On my last count she’d been fired eleven times. A couple of times for not showing up when she was supposed to. A couple of times for screaming at customers she had taken a dislike to. A couple of times for screaming at the other waitress. A couple of times for screaming at me when I called in to see if she’d throw a sticky bun my way, a jam tart, or a rocky road. Very often she screamed at Mattie Conlon, owner of the café and, by now, sorest set of ears in our town. Her idea of a waitress was someone who did a lot of screaming, and if Mattie Conlon didn’t want his customers taking off to another café he had no choice but to give Ma the occasional heave-ho.

  My favourite was the time she was fired over a message she iced onto Imelda Grehan’s birthday cake. Imelda was going to be ten and her mother was in, wanting the biggest, most colourful, spectacular cake this town had ever seen, and she was telling Ma exactly what the cake had to look like, and not to be skimping on the icing like had happened with another cake she had recently ordered. I think she even produced a picture cut out of a magazine and slapped it down in front of Ma, there, that’s what my little girl needs, and she was jotting down the you-are-the-best-daughter-in-the-whole-world-ever birthday message she wanted iced all over the cake. But somehow Ma misheard the precise wording, and when two days later the finished cake was delivered into the room full of screaming chi
ldren and set down on the table in front of the birthday girl, Imelda Grehan was opening the cake box to a message that now read Happy Birthday, daughter, I wish I’d given you away. Oh boy, did Ma get it from Mattie Conlon over that. GET OUT! GET OUT! he roared at her. Sling your hook and don’t come back. But back she did come, swinging her hips, fluttering her eyelashes, her voice softened to little more than a purr, and surprise, surprise, all was forgiven. Just like when Lawless persuaded Mattie no harm had been done after her latest spin in his car.

  You had to hand it to her. You really did.

  All I wanted to know was what it was about Mattie’s car that attracted her attention so much. Ma, I said to her when she was back at the house, free and innocent of the latest stunt she had pulled. Ma, why are you always taking Mattie’s car? She just looked at me, twisted into paper sticks the batch of pay-up letters Barrabas Diffley had just sent sailing through the letterbox and lobbed them into the fireplace.

  She was due in right now but surprise, surprise, she wasn’t stirring. Maybe she was still brooding over Flukey. Maybe she was contemplating another spin in Mattie’s car. Maybe she just thought to herself, to hell with it, I don’t feel like flogging buns today. Whatever her reasons, she was done with her I-owe list and was now out on the doorstep, dragging on her roll-up, sipping from her glass, that empty expression on her face that made it seem she was looking at nothing and everything at the same time. They need you, Ma, I said when the call came through. They want you to come in. But on this occasion she had nothing to say. She had no hiccups. She wasn’t dead and not coming back. I put down the phone and tried not to listen to Mattie’s voice babbling out through it. Then I heard a car pull up outside our house. Aha, I thought to myself. It’s that time of the month again.

  SUPER MARIO

  At about a quarter past nine in the morning on the middle Friday of the month, Mario Devine showed up at our door. Mario was the star salesman for the feed mill at the edge of town and owner of our house, and when he wasn’t collecting his rent he got to drive all over the county offering farmers bags of bull nuts at knockdown prices. Ma said he couldn’t flog bread in a famine, but as soon as he appeared she was all smiles and plates of food and cups and saucers. You would think we had royalty wiping its feet on our step.

  Howya, Jacinta, the lug said, pulling her to him and putting his boggy hands on as much of her backside as he could. Over her shoulder he winked at me. Then it was up the stairs with the pair of them and I sat on the bottom step and counted twenty or thirty ooohs, a few dozen aahs, and one almighty spasm. It wasn’t quite the show herself and Flukey put on, but it wasn’t a million miles away from it either.

  Next came Mario’s sweet talk. You’re a foxy woman, Jacinta Lowry, he told her. You’re a foxy woman and I wish I’d met you before I was married. If Ma had anything to say to that, I didn’t hear, and anyway, it didn’t matter because this was now the Mario show and he was pouring his thoughts down her throat like sugary medicine, his voice sounding like one of those lads on the six o’clock news ready to swear on their mother’s and daughter’s life that everything is going to be alright and they knowing full-well that nothing could be further from the truth.

  You know what you and me are going to do, Mario was telling her. We’re going to take a trip together. That’s right, just you and me. And you know where we are going to go? We’re going to go to . . . you know, I’m not going to say another word. I’m going to keep it a secret for now. You can guess if you want, and maybe I’ll give you a clue. And so Ma offered a few guesses and Mario laughed and gave her a couple of hints and they went over and back like that for a little while and I wasn’t long getting bored with all of it, was even starting to doze off where I was sitting and when I tuned in again all I could hear was Paris this and Paris that. No, there is nothing wrong with your ears, Mario was saying as though for my benefit. We are going to Paris. We’re going to book into a nice little hotel near the river and we’re going to have a Champagne time of it. There! What do you think of that? And know this, he said, getting all serious, and I could picture the sombre head on the lug and he putting his hand on his heart as though promising the best ever bag of bull nuts, it’s not every woman I invite on a trip to Paris. Now! What do you think of that?

  Boy, was he laying it on thick. And to go by the coos and aahs out of her, Ma was starting to get interested in what was coming out of Mario’s mouth. I was too. And I was getting to thinking: this is some show Mario is putting on, this lad is fast getting my attention. And so there was no budging me yet, because Mario was still in Paris – Gay Paree he was now calling it – and the river Seine, and the Louvre, and the Notre Dame Cathedral and the palace at Versailles, and the Bastille which was stormed, and the guillotine which lopped off everybody’s head when things went crazy over there years ago, Ma made sure to let out a suitable gasp at that. He was telling her all about the little cafés and bars and the markets and the flower stalls along the river and all the famous people who lived in Paris. He told her they would buy some French bread and cheese and a bottle of wine at a little market he had discovered on his last trip and they would stroll down to the river and sit along the banks and sip the wine and nibble the cheese, and while they were at it they might even nibble each other and, Jesus, she was giggling at that, eating up every word he said. Boy, was he good. And that wasn’t all. Hold on to your Champs-Elysées, he said next, whatever that meant, I’m only getting started, and the lug was talking moonlight and riverboats and strawberries and cream and more flowers and more French bread, the most delicious bread in the world, he was saying. And we can go to the Luxembourg Gardens and walk under the famous arch and get a lift to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Do that Mario, get a lift to the top of the tower and take a running jump for yourself. And after all of that there was still time for more French bread and wine. Jesus, the lug must have won a ticket for free bread all over France the way he was talking about the stuff. It’s a promise, he said. I’m going to put in for some time off and we are out of here. Then the lug must’ve started pretending he was a Frenchman and he was singing some crazy French-sounding song and she was loving every minute of it, was actually laughing now, something I hadn’t heard her do since I made that crack about Flukey being my da. It was pretty good listening to all that Paris talk. And before I knew it he had me convinced this trip was really going to happen, made me wish I was going with them.

  You had to hand it to him. He really knew how to lay it on. It was enough to get Ma more than cooing, and soon they were shaking up the place again, sending tremors through the bedsprings, and I was thinking, that riverside Paris hotel won’t know what’s hit it when this pair shows up.

  Couldn’t be listening to any more of it. Stepped into the bathroom, grabbed one of the razors Ma used on her legs. Sat down on the tiled floor and made fast work of breaking out the blade. Rolled up the sleeve of my hoodie, sucked in my breath, and sliced down my arm. It was an untidy slice, jagged and deeper than the cuts I’d made on the hill, and I gasped with delight as soon as the blood spurted out and ran in messy swirls, dripped in red blobs onto the bathroom floor. I stared at where I’d cut, saw the blood gather in little bubbles, held my arm to my mouth, tasted grit and rust. Closed my eyes and cut again, and then again and again, each cut rushing giddy waves through me, taking me further and further away, until at last I was floating beneath that clear sky and blue sea, my boat gently bobbing and caressing the friendly water, and the sounds of dripping oars and lapping tide, and the high sun lighting the way before me. And the girl’s voice was coming through again. Keep going. Don’t stop. And so I dipped my oar and pulled, and with every stroke could feel myself getting closer to that distant place of light.

  A high-pitched gasp from next door took me out of that happy scene, and for a few minutes I half-listened to them, next door, to their giggles and lovey-dove talk. Then I wiped the floor, cleared the runny streaks off my arm, reached for the box of plasters and rolled back down my sleeve.r />
  About twenty minutes later, when she temporarily reappeared to grab the plates of food she had prepared, Ma was in great form. Here’s a euro, she said, flipping a coin in my direction. Go get an ice cream.

  IF BRAINS WERE CHOCOLATE . . .

  Was only too happy to get out of there. No point hanging around, not with Ma clinging onto Mario like there was no tomorrow. He was too talkie-talkie for my liking and I had little desire to be around a bull-nut seller, let alone someone who couldn’t flog bread in a famine. Still, though. Here he was. Landed on our doorstep. Spring in his step. Sharing his Paris tales. Suppose I wouldn’t’ve minded having a talk about Paris with him, share some ideas of my own. Play my cards right and, hey, who knows, this time next month I could be floating along the river Seine, chewing on some of that bread he kept banging on about. Wouldn’t that be grand?

  Indeed it would, Jason. Indeed it would.

  Dropped the coin in my pocket, alongside the razorblade. Grabbed my bag and legged it out the back door. Cut through the scutch and bindweed that passed for our back garden. Not for us the daffodils and tulips that dominated Old Tom Redihan’s colourful plot next door. Or the tidy vegetable ridges belonging to Mr Fock Me from Bangladesh on the other side. No. Only the best scutch grass and bindweed would do us. Nettles so tall and billowy they could be used as umbrellas. Tropical mushrooms sprouting everywhere. Swampy sounds underfoot. Every few steps I checked my pockets to make sure the coin was still there. We’ll have to tighten our belts now that the country’s back to the shite-and-all mess it’s always been. That’s what I was hearing on the down-town streets these days. Every euro counted.

  They were all out today. Talking Harry Brewster and pointing Fergal Flood. Patrick Fox and barking Rommel and Himmler. At the low end the drunks were drinking early. Old Tom Redihan was standing in front of the ditch and I thought, Lily the Nose is right. He has started talking to the trees. And just as I brought her up, along she came, smiling sly and wagging her waxy finger.