by John Lynch
‘Do you masturbate?’
‘Er … I … Not really, Father.’
After a few moments he glanced up towards the priest, angling his face so that he could grab a look at him. Father Leneghan's head was resting back on his large neck, and James found himself looking straight up the hairy cannons of the priest's nostrils. His eyes were closed, and one large mug-like ear seemed to be shivering with expectation. He had looked transported, possessed. Suddenly the priest's lips had parted: his long slimy tongue had slid out and come to rest on his bottom lip. Eventually Father Leneghan had moved back to his chair on the other side of the desk and dismissed him, his back to James, looking out of the window of his office. For a brief moment he had stood at the oak door of the priest's office, unsure whether to leave without saying something. Sensing this, the priest had growled that he should go. James can remember looking at the large, winged head, the balding spot at the back, and the large batlike ears that seemed to vibrate as the light had hit them.
Death at the Hands of the Inquisition
They have me on the rack. I can see the large flappy-eared head of Father Santiago Leneghan Lopez, the Grand Inquisitor, as it moves up and down my body, his nose sniffing and probing.
‘There's sex on this man,’ he says.
His large fleshy head stops for a moment above my genitals. I can hear his horse's breath snorting and sniffing.
‘Definitely slimy ungodly sex. Who have you been defiling, young man? Yourself? Others? Beasts?’
I can see his large, winged ears dipping and vibrating as he pushes his face along my naked body.
‘Sex … Sex … Filthy sex … Tighten the screws, Father Sullivano.’
I watch, my body contorting in torment, as Father Luke Sullivano turns the screws on the rack. The sinews of my body twang like the strings on a guitar. ‘Confess! Confess to the Lord! Sex … sex … I can smell it. It rises like filth.’ He lifts his head and sniffs. I can see up the two hairy barrels of his nostrils and nausea runs along my gut. ‘Bring me the sex tarantulas.’ I see an ugly smile wiggle across his fat, slug-like lips. ‘They'll tell a tale, my boy, they'll tell a tale …’
Father Sullivano returns with a small ebony box and hands it to the Grand Inquisitor, who caresses it as if it were a crystal ball. He places it across my belly button and opens a small hatch at the front of the box. He laughs, a thick taunting laugh. ‘Go, my lovelies. Seek out the sex juices.’
I strain my head upwards in terror and see two furry spiders creep through the hatch and on to the soft down of my belly.
‘If they bite you, my son, it is because they have picked up the scent of spilled seed. Death will be quick … and certain …’
I feel them hunt along my body, foraging like large black hands. I see the vengeful glee on Father Sullivano's face as he shoos and encourages the spiders to do their work. As they sink their fangs into me I see Father Leneghan Lopez's head rock back on his shoulders and his eyes film over with a sordid ecstasy. As I die I hear him tell God to reject me.
11. The Fury of His Other Face
Early one evening the Ulster Griddle, the café where his mother works, rings, and James, fresh in from school and breathless from sprinting the final yards, answers the phone. There is a pause at the other end of the line, and James can hear the clink and rattle of plates.
‘James?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Marion McCartan. Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sound got at, son.’
‘No, I was running.’
‘Oh, OK. Is your mammy there?’
‘Hold on.’
James places the receiver down and goes to the living room. He sees his mother curled up on the settee, a blanket twisted round her body, a half-empty bottle of Gordon's Dry Gin on the coffee-table beside her.
‘Marion?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mammy hasn't been too well. She's asleep.’
There is a pause. He shifts from one leg to the other.
‘Is she drinking, James?’
He doesn't reply.
‘Sully caused a scene at work today.’
‘What?’
‘He came in and started ranting. I think he had drink on him.’
‘Ranting?’
‘Yeah … about … Is she there, James?’
‘She's asleep.’
‘I told her she'd be better off without that lunatic’
‘What'd he do?’
‘Oh, some nonsense about the dead staying dead – I dunno. He was tanked. The boss, Loughran, had to kick him out. It was embarrassing for your poor mammy. Well, tell her that I'll be round this evening after work, OK?’
‘OK.’ He hears the abrupt click of Marion's phone as she hangs up. He returns to the living room.
His mother is now lying on her back: her eyes are open and still scented with sleep. She looks at him. ‘Was that Marion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she coming round?’
He shrugs. His mother averts her eyes, and for a moment they stay that way.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘That you hadn't been too well.’
‘She's not stupid. She's bloody nosy, but not stupid.’
She draws her knees up to her chest, her hands laced round her shins; her hair is gummed with sweat, her face smaller. She looks back at him.
‘Mum …’
‘What?’
‘She told me.’
‘Told you what, son?’
‘About Sully … About today.’
‘The stupid cow.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something happened. I'm not thick.’
‘James, I have a headache that would cut steel. Now drop it.’ She swings herself from the sofa, her feet landing in a misjudged thud on the carpet, her head flopping lazily over her knees. He goes to the kitchen and half fills the kettle, pulls a large mug down from the cupboard along with the jar of instant coffee and the damp bag of sugar. He can hear his mother shuffling into life next door. ‘Make it strong, do you hear?’
He hears the creak of the stairs as she goes up, the thump of her steps as she clears the landing, the squeak of the bathroom taps and the roar of the water as it fills the bath. He looks out of the kitchen window and sees his reflection, the outline of his face held suspended in the glass. For a moment he stands and looks at the ghost of himself, then looks away, a tremor working its way across his hands.
Dishes are piled in the sink, veined with long blue-green seams of washing-up liquid. A loaf of bread lies on the scullery table, its slices lying across its surface like a discarded pack of cards. His mother's shoes lie at the foot of the table. Crumbs dot it and the floor, and loops of bacon rind lie on the draining-board. The fluorescent lightbulb overhead blinks, then catches, holding everything for a moment in a strange frieze, then begins to wink once more.
The glass fogs with the steam from the boiling kettle, misting and obscuring his reflection. He empties a table-spoonful of coffee into the mug and heaps a few mounds of sugar on top, then pours in the hot water and adds a little cold from the tap. He stirs it briskly and places it on the kitchen table. Then he goes to the cupboard above the fridge and pulls out a small wooden tray. He finds a packet of Anadin, pulls a sheet of tablets from the box, pops three from the bubbled foil, then places them by the mug of coffee.
Wearing her maple-patterned bathrobe, her wet hair held by a whipped-ice-cream twist of towel, his mother enters the kitchen, her feet slapping briskly on the bare concrete floor. She reaches for the coffee and the tablets. ‘Did you put cold water in this?’ She holds out the mug to him. The boy nods. She brings the coffee to her mouth, closes her eyes and, after the first tentative sip, drains the mug, her eyes hobbling beneath the closed lids. ‘Don't look at me like that, James.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know full well.’
‘I don't want him here.�
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‘Excuse me?’
‘I said I don't want him here. I hate him.’
‘Whose house is this?’
‘Marion told me what happened.’
‘So?’
‘he's a pig.’
‘I've met worse.’
‘I hate him.’
‘James, I don't need this. Now, for the last time, drop it.’
James goes to the living room and throws back the curtains. They squeal on their runners almost as if the room is protesting at being woken from its slumber. He opens the windows, and feels the beginnings of the cold night air on his face.
The Bass beer ashtray is full of cigarette butts; some have rimmed crimson crescents from his mother's lipstick. The gin bottle is open: its cap lies on the carpet; its sharp scent permeates the room. A bottle of tonic stands beside it, and next to that a half-eaten bowl of cornflakes, with a dead fly floating in the milky soup.
He picks stray butts off the table and carpet and, balancing everything in his hands and in the crook of his elbows, takes the ashtray and bottles to the kitchen. A plastic bin-liner sits in the middle of the floor, and his mother is aggressively cleaning the sink and the draining-board. ‘Throw all that in the bin there and spray the living room.’
He takes the Glade air freshener and does as she has told him. He thinks of his other face beyond the kitchen window; he thinks of its two lonely eyes staring back at him, accusing him. He imagines its skinny body circling the house, looking for a way in, for a way to get at him. He shudders, and throws a quick look at the living-room window, expecting to see his other self. Quickly he rearranges the cushions on the settee and hurries to the kitchen, not daring to look back.
His mother stands hunched over the sink, her shoulders bowed and quivering. He can't see her face for her hair. Her body moves in long, convulsive spasms. Her hand snatches at the tap between retches, flushing cold water along the swirl of bile and half-digested food. She stops and rests her head on the sink's rim, gulping back the dry heaves, her hand still clasping the tap as much for support as anything else. James walks towards her. She turns her head away from him; small sounds come from her mouth, tiny noises of self-pleading.
He leads her upstairs, her hand in his. He remakes her bed, punching the pillows into shape, sweeping his hands across the sheets. She lies down, her knees coming up to her chest, her fists grabbing the bedclothes and pulling them over her head.
‘I fucking hate him.’ He whispers it, spits it at her curled and knotted shape.
He goes downstairs and runs the water in the kitchen sink, pouring capfuls of Domestos into it until the smell of vomit has gone, then locks the back door and turns off the kitchen light.
He closes the windows in the living room, hands tugging quickly at the latches, eyes scouring the garden; he pulls the curtains, and hurries away from them. He snaps the latch on the front door, checks that it's locked, and goes upstairs to his room. He undresses and reaches for his torch, then climbs into bed. He waits. After a while he drifts towards sleep, his grip on the the torch loosening.
Killing the Soft Boy in Me
I can see his house. I know he has turned off all the lights because I'm coming for him, and that he is pretending to he asleep, hut really what he's doing is shivering in the dark like a little girl. I look like him and in a way I am him, but harder, deadlier. My skin is leathery, my eyes are dark and angry, and it's time I took his place. It's time for the mealy-mouthed wimp to die and for me to take over the business of his life. I'm standing outside in the cold night air, watching the stars fizz and blink. I like the dark. You see, you can hide in the dark.
I've given him lots of opportunities to deal with the bastard Sully, and to stand up to his mother, but he's weak and frightened. I don't believe in anything, only myself, and I hate everything. He knows that, and he knows that I'm coming for him – he could sense me last night, as he was looking out of the window, as he was being a good little girl and clearing up.
You see, I am made from the stuff that that creep Sully is made from. I want to hurt everything, I want everything dead. I like the war that rages in this pathetic little country. I like the bloodshed, I like the pain. As long as there is murder, as long as there is hate, I am doing my job. I can't wait to step into little James's dreams and begin my work, to change him, to turn him into an engine of hate. I want everyone dead. I want the priests dead. I want my mother dead. I want my teachers dead, except maybe one. He can live. I want babies dead. I want love dead. I want beauty dead. But, most of all, I want that soft part of me dead, the part that lies sleeping in his bed, his little girly hands clasping his torch, his soft neck as white as a cloud. I'll begin there.
12. Marion and the Aftermath
The next morning he wakes to the faint sound of the radio coming from the kitchen. He sits up in his bed and swings his legs off the side. He gets up and pulls back the curtains. Big-limbed clouds cruise across the sky, and the grass is a damp dark green from rainfall during the night. He leans his elbows on the window-ledge, cupping his face in his hands, his nose almost touching the glass. His eyes follow the caterpillar tracks of rain that run down the pane. He dresses. In the bathroom he slaps himself awake with ice-cold water, stopping to close his eyes as the previous night's events return to him. When he opens them again his mother has joined him in the bathroom. Her hair is teased up, her face is scrubbed and her eyes are moist with remorse. As she puts her arms round him, he can feel a coldness steal through his bones. He feels her hand in the small of his back as it rubs little circles of comfort. She pulls back from him, her hand steering his chin up so that his eyes look into hers.
‘All we have is each other.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did Marion McCartan call round last night?’
‘I don't know. I think so – I fell asleep.’
‘Well, I'm going in today. I'll sort it all out with her.’
‘What happened yesterday, Mum?’
‘Don't worry yourself.’
‘Marion said he tore at you in front of everyone.’
‘Come on now – we've started the day well, let's not ruin it.’
After a moment, he sees her eyes soften, as if she has thought better of her abruptness.
‘What else did she have to say for herself?’
‘She asked me if you'd been drinking – remember I told you?’
‘Yes … No, I remember that, James, I'm not senile. Did she say anything else apart from that?’
‘No.’ He stares at her.
She wipes her palm slowly across his forehead, then pushes his hair back; he can feel his fringe spike up as it rises against her hand.
‘Things are going to be different from now on.’ She says the words as if she is rehearsing them for a speech she has to deliver somewhere far off in the future. She looks deep into her son's eyes. ‘Do you love your mammy?’
He nods.
‘Good boy.’
He eats his cereal, sucking the last dregs of milk from the bowl, raising it to his lips, feeling the cool slip of the milk as it hits the back of his throat. His mother drinks from a mug of coffee that she cradles beneath her chin, her gaze fixed on her son. He feels as if he should say something or that he should wrap her in his arms and hold her quietly, that anything less would be a betrayal.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Get your stuff – I'll run you to school.’
She drops him at the gates, holding him for a few moments before he leaves the car. He finds himself telling her not to worry, that everything will work out fine. He can feel the clutch of her fingertips as they dig into his shoulder-blades. He watches as she drives away, sees her peek up into the rear-view mirror and adjust her hair. He sits on the small wall by the gates, his satchel dangling between his knees, watching the traffic as it makes its way up the main Armagh road, throwing up smoke-signal exhaust fumes, the lorries whining angrily as they rack down the gears.
At first he had resented her. She had struck him as bloodless and cold. He would hide in his room, sometimes skulking down to the kitchen to get a cold drink or a biscuit, grimacing at their whispered gossip, hating their loud laughter. Then he began to peer into the living room, through the crack in the kitchen door, and watch as Marion's skirt rode up her thighs. He would squat there twisting his neck to peek at the dark cloister that lay between her legs. One or twice he would get a quick rabbit-tail flash of her knickers as she uncrossed her legs and his mouth would dry. Then he would go back to bed, carrying with him the image of that knicker triangle and offer it to his dreams.
He can't help feeling that Marion holds a grudge for the way the friendship with his mother ended. When Sully had arrived his mother had dived head first into the dreams he had offered her, leaving all those around her staring dumbfounded from the shoreline of their lives, wondering where she had gone. James can remember fielding countless calls, explaining that his mother had gone out for the evening, the day or sometimes the week. He can remember one night in particular Marion shouting down the line that unless she got her act together his mother would soon be jobless as she couldn't cover for her much longer.
Sully detests Marion. He calls her an ‘in-betweeny’, neither a Taig nor a Prod, and that she should never have tried to be something she is not. Marion doesn't care much for him either, and James can remember when his mother and Marion had stood toe to toe and said things to one another that had brought spit and hate to their lips.
