Ithaca

by Alan McMonagle

One glance at the drunks was enough for Lily the Nose, at long last completing the end of her daily nose-about.

  Life has finished with that lot, she said. They know it too, know that there’s no point waiting.

  Waiting for what? I asked her.

  For things that will never come. And do you know where that puts them? One step ahead of the rest of us.

  C’mere, tough guy, one of them growled at me when I was on the move. Come back here and let us buy you a drink or two.

  Come back here, tough guy, we’ve got a spot here for you, I heard another one shout after me as I made my way up the lane. I half-paused at the words, but kept going.

  Further up the lane I could still hear them. Singing their clapped-out hearts out. Heckling each other and anything else that got their attention. Howling at the distant moon.

  Near the back fence of our house I saw Old Tom Redihan gently turn Annie round and point her towards her own house.

  We’re sinking, she rasped.

  I know, dear, he replied. I know.

  LETTER TO DA

  Well Da,

  whoever you are, and wherever you are, and whatever you’re up to, I have two words of advice for you: stay there and keep doing it. That’s five words, but who’s counting? I’m not. Ma has been saying that whoever you are, the bottom of the Swamp isn’t good enough for you, but now I know she doesn’t fully mean it. Like me, she hasn’t a clue who you are or what you are up to or where you’re doing it. So, I suppose putting you at the bottom of a pond of scummy water is her way of saying stop asking questions I don’t have answers to. And so I’m going to leave it at that – for now, anyway. I just hope that for your sake you are not a wealthy man. Otherwise we may be hot on your heels next time the whistling postman appears with his letters. And who knows? Maybe a valuable clue will show up when I least expect it. I might put this note in a bottle and sail it down the dirty drain of a river, let it travel where it wants to. And if it finds you on that yacht you’re living on, stick your own note in the bottle and sail it right back.

  Until then, partner, keep your eye on the Bigger Picture and watch out for the leaping fish.

  Your son

  Jason

  THE MOON IN MY POCKET

  I was coming down the lane, had already passed Harry and Fergal on their way down town to fix the country in McMorrow’s, had passed Patrick Fox and Rommel and Himmler, had marched quickly by Lily the Nose before she had a chance to start.

  I was thinking about the girl, picturing the freckles either side of her nose, reaching out with my hand to touch the bruise on her neck, when I saw them. Stepping my way. No-brains flexing his arms and cracking his finger joints and looking very happy to see me.

  Well, well, he said as he blocked my path.

  When you least expect it, said the brother.

  We hear you’ve been making a name for yourself.

  What name would that be? I said, and waited to be tumbled to the ground.

  For a moment, they just stood there. No-brains with the fists clenched, the little toy pistols and knives dangling out of his I am a killer hat. Brains beside him, the sneer all over his face, the kick-hard boots ready for action.

  Come on then, I said. Get it over with.

  And still they didn’t stir. They just stood there, glaring at me. Watching me closely. Their idea of allowing a condemned man his last wish.

  Lads, I haven’t got all day. Enough of this shilly-shallying about. Come on. Get stuck in. I pointed to my head, mimicked taking a box at myself, but there was still no reaction.

  This isn’t good enough, lads, I said. Look, I’ll make it easy for you. I planted my feet, spread my arms, and with a nod of my head invited them on to me. Still nothing.

  Watch this, I said, and tore the hoodie off myself. Look at me, I said. I’m all yours. Now! Do your worst. Still nothing. They just stood there. They even looked at each other and started shaking their heads. This was a let-down like no other. Then, and without saying another word, they turned round and started to walk away.

  I watched them. They’ll be back, I said to myself. They’re going to turn round, walk back and shove me headfirst into the ditchwater. They’re going to produce a knife and go to work on me like never before. They’re going to open my head once and for all. But they didn’t do any of that. They kept walking down the lane away from me. No-brains didn’t even turn round like he usually did with one of his next-time-I’m-going-to-slit-your-throat gestures. And I kept watching them, stayed rooted to the ground until after they had faded into little versions of themselves and then vanished altogether.

  I ran my hand over my head. The hair was starting to grow back. I held out my arms in front of me and looked at the network of marks. The forming scabs. Then I ran a finger down the side of my face. Not a lot I could do about that. Still. It was a good reminder. A good place to stop.

  I reached down for my hoodie, flapped dirt off it, slipped it back on and started down the lane.

  *

  I looked to the Swamp, to the rock near the hidden pools. She wasn’t there. I took a walk as far as Mel Campbell’s shop. She wasn’t on the wall either. I walked the downtown streets and couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in the Hungry Worm or Dante’s chipper. Anybody I asked looked at me as though I was talking about a ghost. What girl? they said. The girl from the Swamp, I said. The girl with the bruise on her neck and the freckles either side of her nose. What’s her name? Shirley asked me when I went into McMorrow’s, and all I could do was raise my arms and shrug.

  Fock me! I didn’t even know her name.

  I dragged myself up Rich Hill, as far as Fat Grehan’s place. Stood looking at the unfinished wall. The graffiti was gone. Washed away. Made my way as far as Mario’s place. His buzzer gate was open and I looked to the bottom of his wall, to that hard-to-spot place where the girl had told me to scratch my signature alongside her own. I could see that mine was still there. But what had happened to hers?

  I went back to Fat Grehan’s driveway. By now I was tired, and plonked myself on the glittery rocks and stared down at the town below.

  And I was gazing down at the cathedral, and at the school I wouldn’t have to rush to, at the Tower and that still-standing bridge. What girl? Ma had asked me when I was laid up, recovering from all those pills. Who are you talking about? she’d said, the pleading tone in her voice as she gripped me and held me close. And then I was remembering all that time with the girl and all our conversations and all the places we’d talked about and, Jesus, what was I supposed to do if they didn’t know who I was talking about? What did they think?

  That I was making the whole thing up?

  Think big. See further down the road. Dream only in bright colours. That’s what it’s all about. Larger life. The Bigger Picture.

  And I knew that some day I would get out of this town. That I would get to all the places she had mentioned during our time together. I would go to Egypt in the time of the pharaohs and Ancient Greece and the Colosseum in Rome, and hell, I could even tramp through the Russian Steppes. And after all of that I would get hold of a boat and sail around those Mediterranean islands she’d always been talking about, could stop off at that place she’d been on the lookout for.

  Ithaca.

  And suddenly I was stepping out of myself and walking down the hill and the faster I walked the clearer my thoughts became. And I was skipping through the streets, and there was a beat in my heart. And I was already way ahead of myself, putting myself on the train, kicking back in my seat, chatting with the other passengers, making friends with the conductor. I could see my destination, the new faces, the proper streets I would soon be walking. Hanging out in bright bars, eating a decent meal in restaurants, sandwiches of my own choosing. I was taking in the sights of my new stomping ground, crossing bridges, making conversation with the clear waters below. I was admiring buildings, asking questions about the architecture. I was eyeing up the new pad I would live in, a high-up place with big-view windo
ws, views of everything that was going on. I might have a little balcony and I could sit out in the warm evenings. I would have the world to look at.

  I might even look for a job. Be good to have some cash in my pocket, be good to have some money to spend, no doubt I’d be needing it where I was headed. I’d buy a bicycle or two, start saving for a car. Wait. I could get one of those little motorbikes and race through the narrow streets.

  And there I was, revving up for a spin, making room for my passenger. Let’s go, I yelled, without fully stopping, and she jumped on behind me and clasped her arms around my waist so she wouldn’t fall off. Where are we off to this time? I could hear her ask in her uppity voice, her breath in my ear as we sped away, weaving our way through the streets, looking for the fast way out of there, looking for the open road. I could feel the breeze streaming through us, see people in the street waving at us. We waved back, blew kisses off the palms of our hands and we were on the open road and the sun had disappeared and, look, I called out, pointing to the dark sky ahead of us. Look! And the moon had appeared and look, Ma, look what’s in my pocket and I revved for all I was worth and we were hurtling for that shining light as though our lives depended on it . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Aoife Casby, Paul Lynch, Charlotte Greig, Donal Ryan, Kevin Barry, Belinda McKeon. Thanks for taking the time to read and your generous engagement.

  All at Mulcahy Associates, especially Ivan Mulcahy for your faith, energy, and all-round good advice.

  Paul Baggaley, Ansa Khan Khattak, and everyone at Picador. For your enthusiasm and inspired involvement.

  My early publishers, Tony O’Dwyer and Gerardine Burke at Wordsonthestreet; Alan Hayes at Arlen House. Thanks for putting me on the road.

  My keepers past and present, Gerry Hanberry, James Martyn Joyce, Geraldine Mills, Hedy Gibbons Lynott, Siobhan Shine, Hugo Kelly, Fionnuala Hanlon.

  A very early teacher, Patrick McCabe, for kindling a flame.

  James Ryan, Pat McMahon, Michael Gorman, James Harrold, Vinny Browne, Des Kenny, Mike McCormack, Adrian Frazier, Conor Montague, Lisa Frank, John Walsh, Tom ‘Villanelle’ Lavelle, Fergus Kennedy, Lisa Taylor, Chris Bremble, Cvetka Bevc, Edward Madrid Gómez, Sinéad Gleeson, Dave Lordan. Writing friends everywhere from Banff to Ballinasloe. Thank you all for friendship, support and encouragement.

  The Arts Council of Ireland. The Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. The artists’ community in Yaddo. La Fundación Valparaíso in Spain. The Heinrich Böll Cottage on Achill Island. The Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig. For their part in my writing adventure.

  My sisters, Ruth, Louise and Aisling, for all the ‘starter-for-ten’ moments. Martha Joyce, for the pharmacy clarifications.

  And that literary charm, Eleanor Hooker, for inviting me to Dromineer in October, 2013.

  Alan McMonagle has written for radio, published two collections of short stories – both of which were nominated for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award – and contributed stories to many journals in Ireland and North America. He lives in Galway.

  Ithaca is his first novel.

  Also by Alan McMonagle

  Psychotic Episodes (short stories)

  First published 2017 by Picador

  This electronic edition published 2017 by Picador

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-2986-6

  Copyright © Alan McMonagle 2017

  Cover design and illustration by Jo Thomson

  Photography by Stuart Wilson

  Picador Art Department.

  Author photograph © John Minihan

  The right of Alan McMonagle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ‘Time’ Words & Music by Tom Waits © Copyright 1985 Jalma Music Incorporated, USA.

  Universal Music Publishing MGB Limited. All Rights Reserved.

  International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission of Music Sales Limited.

  ‘Tracks of My Tears’ Words and Music by Tarplin, Moore, Robinson J, © 1965, Reproduced by permission of Jobete Music Ltd/ EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London W1F 9LD.

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