by Declan Burke
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
I: winter
II: spring
III: summer
IV: Fall
Acknowledgements
Absolute Zero Cool
Declan Burke
~~~~
First published in 2011 by
Liberties Press
Guinness Enterprise Centre | Taylor’s Lane | Dublin 8
Tel: +353 (1) 415 1224
www.libertiespress.com | [email protected]
Copyright © Declan Burke, 2011
The author has asserted his moral rights.
ISBN: 978-1-907593-31-4
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.
Cover design by Graham Thew
Internal design by Liberties Press
Digitized by Green Lamp Media
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or storage in any information or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher in writing.
The publishers gratefully acknowledge financial assistance from the Arts Council.
Prologue
Graphomania (a mania for writing books) inevitably takes on epidemic proportions when a society develops to the point of creating three basic conditions:
(1) an elevated level of general well-being, which allows people to devote themselves to useless activities;
(2) a high degree of social atomization and, as a consequence, a general isolation of individuals;
(3) the absence of dramatic social changes in the nation’s internal life. [. . .]
But by a backlash, the effect affects the cause. General isolation breeds graphomania, and generalized graphomania in turn intensifies and worsens isolation. The invention of printing formerly enabled people to understand one another. In the era of universal graphomania, the writing of books has an opposite meaning: everyone surrounded by his own words as by a wall of mirrors, which allows no voice to filter through from outside.
Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents and everyone is writing a book.
Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE)
The man at the foot of my bed is too sharply dressed to be anything but a lawyer or a pimp. He is reading, intently, which leads me to believe he is a pimp, as these days lawyers are more usually to be found writing novels than reading them.
Above his head, close to the ceiling, a gecko in Irish racing green is the only splash of colour in a room that is otherwise entirely white. White walls, white tiles on the floor. The window blinds, bedside locker, sheets, wainscoting, the door – all white.
As it is a manuscript of a novel the man is reading, the page facing me is white.
His eyes meet mine.
‘You’re some man for one man,’ he says. He lays down the manuscript, comes up with a newspaper. ‘They’re a day behind here,’ he says, ‘but you get the drift.’
The newspaper’s front page is dominated by a charred hospital that appears to be teetering at an angle.
I reach for the pen and pad on the bedside locker, scrawl one word.
Rosie?
He gets up and comes around the bed, takes the pad.
‘The wee girl’s okay,’ he says. ‘Some smoke on her lungs, apparently, but nothing serious. She’ll be fine.’
He unfolds the newspaper, leafs through. ‘Reading between the lines,’ he says, ‘they reckon the best you can hope for is criminal damage. And that’s claiming insanity. Start out full-blown, work your way down to temporary, you could be out in five years. But that’s the best case scenario.’
A man cannot live tilted away from the world. The world will not permit it. Gravity will have its way.
He must live straight, upright, or not at all.
‘Worst case,’ he says, ‘they’ll be pulling out the big guns, offences against the State, terrorism, the works. I mean, there’s no specific law against blowing up hospitals, but let’s just say they’ve plenty of wiggle room to play with.’
He waits. The A/C hums. From beyond the shuttered window, faintly, comes the burr-thrip of cicadas.
‘So that’s the good news. The bad news,’ he says, holding up the op-ed pages, tapping the editorial, ‘is they’re saying you couldn’t have been working alone. They’re saying you must have had help, maybe a whole cell.’
There is nothing to add to this. It would appear that all effort has come to naught.
He folds the newspaper and tucks it under my pillow. Retrieves the manuscript, which he places on the pristine sheet beside my hand. He lays a red pen on top so that it underlines the title, ‘The Baby Killers’.
‘Seeing as you won’t be going anywhere for a couple of days,’ he says, ‘I thought you might like one last skim through. See if we can’t kill a few more babies.’
My line for today comes courtesy of Samuel Beckett: Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
•
He just appears, as if wished for.
I’m out on the decking beside the goldfish pond, a fine hazy morning, one of those mid-spring bloomers, the sun on the rise and the day coming warm. Bees humming, the fountain burbling away like a baby dry and fed. Good coffee to hand. I’m just thinking that this is the life when a shadow falls across the pages. When I glance up, shading my eyes against the glare, he’s standing there with a shy and slightly goofy grin.
‘You don’t remember me,’ he says.
He’s confusing me with someone else. We’ve nodded to one another in passing over the last couple of days, in the refectory up at the Big House or strolling around the grounds, and each time I had the impression he was waiting for me to recognise him, for a friendly smile to allow him jump in and start a conversation.
Not my scene. The whole point of being here is to cut myself off, shut down, focus on the work. Exile and silence, then hope for cunning.
Now I lean back in the chair, still shading my eyes, and admit that I don’t remember him. I hear myself apologise, saying that I’ve always had a terrible memory for faces; names yes, I’ve never had any trouble recalling people’s names, but faces just don’t work for me. None of which is true, in fact it’s the reverse, but even if it were true I think I’d have remembered this guy.
‘It’s probably the eye-patch,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t blond then, either.’ He has a platinum-blond crew-cut, one Newman-blue eye and a square jaw. I guess him to be mid-thirties. ‘And I was about three inches shorter.’
He shuffles his feet. ‘A man needs some stature,’ he says.
I’d put him down for a poet if it weren’t for the motorcycle boots. For some reason the poets here prefer comfortable shoes.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any coffee going,’ he says.
Just to be polite, and because I need a fresh coffee, I cross the lawn and go inside my chalet and draw two cups of coffee. Waiting for the kettle to boil, watching through the window as he filches a smoke, I make a bet with myself as to how long it’ll be before he starts whining about how no one understands how hard it is to be him.
I’m thinking, Christ, maybe if you spent more time at your desk clarifying a few things, instead of roaming the grounds in search of fellow enab
lers and stealing other people’s smokes . . .
The bet: if he bitches about the Arts Council inside ten minutes, I’m taking the afternoon off to go fishing on the lake.
Back out on the decking, he’s staring down into the pond.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘this is kind of embarrassing, but . . .’
He turns to face me, a defiant jut to his chin. ‘Karlsson,’ he says.
‘And we’ve definitely met,’ I say, blowing on my coffee.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘I don’t follow.’ Except then I realise he knows me through the web, the blog I write that keeps tabs on the latest in Irish crime fiction. Karlsson doesn’t ring any bells, but maybe I know him by another name, an avatar.
‘I’d have remembered someone called Karlsson,’ I say. ‘Are you a writer?’
‘Right now I’m an evil genius.’
‘I get that, yeah, the eye-patch and all. But what were you when I knew you?’
‘A porter.’
‘A porter?’
‘A hospital porter.’
I reach for the makings and roll a smoke. Sip some coffee and wait for a tic or flinch to give him away. He only stares.
‘You’re that Karlsson?’ I say.
‘Him, yeah.’
‘Okay, I’ll play along. You’re Karlsson. So what can I do for you?’
‘You can start by telling me what happened.’
‘With Karlsson? Nothing.’ I explain that first drafts get written and printed out and then go on the shelf for at least six months. No exceptions.
‘Fair go,’ he says. ‘But it’s been nearly five years now. I mean, I was twenty-eight when you wrote that draft. And I know you didn’t stop writing. I saw your latest one, The Big O, it arrived on the shelf a couple of years back.’
‘Things just went in a different direction, man. No offence.’
‘I never thought you did it deliberately,’ he says. ‘But you should know, I’m in limbo here.’
He slips a forefinger under the eye-patch, scratches something away.
‘Publish or I’m damned,’ he says.
Karlsson was a hospital porter who assisted old people who wanted to die. His girlfriend, Cassie, found out. Then the cops got involved because Cassie contacted them anonymously before confronting Karlsson, except the cops wound up more concerned about where Cassie had gone.
‘How’s Jonathan?’ I say.
‘Jonathan?’
‘Jonathan Williams. My agent, or agent as was. As far as I know, he’s the only person who ever saw the manuscript. Unless he farmed it out for a reader’s report.’
I’m presuming the guy is working on some kind of funky theatre piece that involves taking on Karlsson’s persona, an unpublished character adrift in time and space. Not that I mind, it might even be fun to see it on stage, but I’d have preferred if Jonathan had asked permission before he handed over the manuscript.
‘I’ve never met any Jonathan Williams,’ he says. ‘How could I? I’m in limbo here.’
‘Right. And this limbo, does it preclude you from paying rights if you use the original story?’
A flash of something dark in the Newman-blue eye. ‘You think this is a joke?’
‘Actually, I think it’s a bit comi-tragic. Not full-blown tragedy, mind, but poignant, yeah.’
‘See, that’s the problem right there,’ he says. ‘It’s not full-blown anything.’
I’m liking the cut of his jib. Not only is he taking on Karlsson, he’s critiquing the piece as he goes.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘If you want the truth of it, I’m not really sure I ever intended that one to see the light of day. It was just a bunch of stuff I needed to write at the time, get down on the page. These days I write comedy. It’s easier, for one. And more fun. Life is shitty enough for people without asking them to waste their precious reading time on morbid stuff.’
‘Hold up,’ he says. ‘Are you telling me you never even sent it away?’
‘I didn’t just bury it.’ He has presence, I’ll give him that, an intensity that leaves me feeling faintly, ridiculously, defensive. ‘I mean, I gave it to Jonathan.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he’d never read anything like it before. He reckoned he had to stop taking notes about halfway in, just read it through. I think the pervy sex stuff had him a bit freaked.’
‘That’s good, right?’
‘Not in today’s market. Freaking your agent isn’t cool anymore.’
‘And he never read it again?’
‘He was about to but I stopped him. I was showing him The Big O that day.’
We sit in silence. The sun clears the hills to the south and the grounds come alive. Clematis buds starting to show, some pink apple blossom, snowdrops and daffodils nodding on the faint breeze off the lake. Now and again a quick flash of orange in the pond, the pair of golden carp, Jaws and Moby-Dick. The little fountain pootling away.
‘So how’d The Big O do?’ he says, gazing off up the hill at the hospital, its glass frontage ablaze as it mirrors the sunrise.
‘It did alright, yeah. Got picked up in the States, a two-book deal, some decent wedge.’
‘The States?’
‘Yeah. Harcourt. Of course, then they went and merged with Houghton Mifflin and my editor got the boot, so it didn’t get a lot of play over there. Still, the reviews were nice, enough to get them behind the second book.’
‘And this is what you’re working on now.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So what happens to me?’ he says. The cigarette, forgotten, burns down between his fingers.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You can’t just leave me stuck here.’
‘I hear you. But I’m already committed to this,’ I nod at the pages scattered across the table, ‘I’ve a deadline to meet. I can’t just bunk off and start writing something new.’
‘If it’s good enough,’ he says, ‘they’ll wait for it.’
‘I doubt that. The industry’s changed a lot in the last five years, you wouldn’t believe how tight things have got. And I have other responsibilities going on. I mean, I’m married now. And we have a baby, Rosie.’
He congratulates me, grudging it.
‘The point I’m making,’ I say, ‘is that I can’t afford to spend any time on anything that isn’t at least potentially commercial. Or to be perfectly frank, anything I don’t enjoy doing. That dark shit is hard work. And if I don’t like––’
‘If it’s dark,’ he says, ‘whose fault is that?’
‘Mine, sure. But––’
‘But schmut. If you made it dark you can make it funny. Just go back over it.’
‘Make euthanasia funny?’
‘Just listen to me a minute,’ he says. ‘Can you just listen? You owe me that much, at least.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘See,’ he says, ‘I’m just not that kind of guy. The Karlsson guy, I mean. I even changed my name when I dyed my hair. I’m called Billy now.’
‘Billy?’
‘I’m aiming to normalise things all round.’
‘Then the eye-patch is probably too much.’
‘That was just to get your attention.’ He peels off the patch. There’s an empty socket underneath, a puckered purple wound that puts me in mind of a sucked-out prune. He pats the pockets of his zip-up sweater and comes up with a pair of tinted shades, slips them on.
‘What happened to your eye?’ I say.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Anyway, this Karlsson guy – I’m not him. Not anymore. And I don’t think I ever was. I mean, I liked Cassie. Liked her a lot. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t just kill her to get off on a euthanasia rap. I’d have done a flit. The old folks, they were one thing, they wanted to die and I was helping them out. But Cassie, no way.’
‘I never actually said you killed her.’
‘No, but you left it hanging.’
‘Even I didn’t believe that,’ he says. ‘That ending was a mess.’
I allow that it was.
‘You can do better than that,’ he says.
‘Not with you I can’t.’
‘I’m not the problem, man. The story’s the problem.’
‘The story’s what it is,’ I say. ‘And it’s told now.’
‘I didn’t hear any fat ladies singing.’
I stub out my cigarette. ‘Listen, uh, Karlsson, I have to––’
‘Billy.’
‘Billy, yeah. Look, Billy, I have to go. Deborah’s coming to visit today, and I’ve some pages to get straight before lunch. So . . .’
‘The story was too freaky,’ he says. He’s holding up a hand to delay me. ‘Too out there but not big enough. Plus you had me down as a total dingbat. These are things that can be changed.’
‘I really don’t know if they can.’
‘Tell me this,’ he says. ‘How long have you spent thinking about me in the last five years?’
‘I’ve thought about you, sure. And I wish––’
‘I’ve got a way to make it bigger. Although you’d have to be more honest about me. If it was to work, I’d have to be more real. More me, y’know?’
‘Right now you’re sitting across the table smoking my cigarettes.’ As much as he’s a distraction, I’m intrigued by the guy’s chutzpah. ‘I don’t know if I could handle you getting any more real.’
‘That’s because I’m Billy now. Karlsson never showed up, did he?’
‘He never did, no.’
‘Just as well. He’d probably have kidnapped little Rosie and tortured her until you’d rewritten the story the way he wanted it.’
