Torn Water

by John Lynch

  ‘I know you couldn't, Mr Hogben,’ Shannon says.

  ‘I'll leave you to it, then, Mr Shannon.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hogben.’

  And, with a final dipped shunt of his head, Hogben leaves. Shannon watches him go. ‘What age are you, Lavery?’

  ‘Just gone seventeen, sir.’

  ‘Well, you have more than enough time to avoid a fate like that. How much did you have to drink the other night?’

  Although he has been expecting some kind of postmortem on the events of the other night, the question still brings a sting of surprise to James's face. ‘I don't know, sir.’

  ‘Do you remember me asking you to stop?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, I did.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Be careful, Lavery. Is that why you skipped rehearsals?’

  ‘Kind of …’

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Fine, sir … Why?’

  ‘No reason, Lavery. Drink is a baleful enemy. Be careful.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Send your mother my best… And be vigilant, Lavery … And be at the next rehearsal … come hell or high water. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good man. Pow-wow over, Lavery.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When he leaves the staff room his head is bowed in thought. He feels that Shannon was saying something about his mother, and about him, as if what she has is contagious and that James has caught it. It unsettles him. It makes him feel dirty, infected. He decides he will be at the next rehearsal come what may, Kerry or no Kerry. He is glad that Shannon hadn't mentioned her, and he feels sure he has got away with it. All that remains is to outface her, the manly woman, and her wide, hungry arms.

  ‘What's Your Poison?’

  She is holding out the chalice towards me. Her lips are still moist from where she has drunk. I look at her: I know she is dying and that she wants to see me drink from the chalice before she goes. She can see that I am not sure. What am I to do? I love her but I don't want to go the same way as her, with bitter poison as my last taste of this world. Reluctantly I take the chalice and look at the blood-red liquid, at how it gleams and glistens against the inside of its walls.

  ‘Drink,’ she says, her voice failing, her eyes filming as Death comes to call. ‘Drink … for me …’

  ‘I can't,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, you can. We're going to join your father the king in Heaven tonight. Drink. Your queen commands you to drink.’

  I look at her lying on her gilt-edged cushion, her lips slightly parted, her jewelled throat winking, and think that Egypt is about to lose the finest queen it has ever seen. Her faithful eunuch, Mephet Lucius Sullivano, stands to one side, fanning her with large ostrich feathers, his shaved head quivering with grief.

  ‘Stop whingeing, Lucius!’ she scolds. Then she turns her attention back to me, once more offering me the chalice. ‘Your dead father, the immortal Pharaoh, commands it …’

  This time her voice is angry and harsh. Reluctantly I raise the chalice to my lips and feel the bitter mixture rush into my mouth. I swallow and see a smile begin at the corners of her lips, and her arms reach out to enfold me. I lay my head on her breast and wait for death to fall, smiling to myself because what is killing her is killing me too.

  17. Logs

  The next day after school he sees Sully's white van parked in their yard, its bald front tyres exposed in a wheel lock. He can hear Sully at the back of it, alternating between grunts and whistles. He's moving the logs. At last he's moving the logs. After weeks of complaints and snorts of impatience from the neighbours, Sully is moving the logs. What does he want? What is he after? Nothing comes free with someone like Sully. Suddenly Sully's face appears over one of the van doors, his face bordered by a fuzz of beard.

  ‘Sully.’

  ‘Well, don't just stand there being fucking enigmatic, give us a hand with these logs.’

  James doesn't move. He stays where he is. Sully looks at him for a moment and says, ‘Suit yourself.’

  He watches as Sully's head disappears once more behind the van doors. He hears the thump of the logs hitting the back of the wood box and the squelch of Sully's Wellingtons as he roots around in the shed. After three or four trips, Sully stops and marches over to James. ‘Listen, kid.’

  Here it comes. Here comes the ‘cowboy talk’, James thinks. He watches as Sully squints into the distance. For a moment he has to try to stop himself bursting into laughter.

  ‘OK. Listen, kid,’ he says, biting softly on his lower lip. ‘Your mammy asked me to speak to you. We've … I've something to tell you, kid.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Goddammit! I tell you, you don't make it easy on a guy, kid.’

  How pathetic he seems, James thinks, with his ‘goddam’ gunfighter language. He turns to go into the house.

  ‘Your mammy and me,’ Sully says.

  ‘What?’ He turns back, the swivel of his body hard and fast, bringing a burp of surprise to Sully's lips.

  ‘Er … we've decided to give it a real go, a proper lash of the whip.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I'm moving in … you know, properly.’

  For a moment James feels his body continuing, one foot in front of the other until he has turned away, his face pointing towards the house.

  ‘We've talked hard about it, kid, and we both think it makes a lot of sense. You know? All this coming and going, it's no good for man nor beast.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He says it quietly to himself, and to the listening light that he knows hovers out there in the black anchor of space.

  ‘Listen, James, we never got off on the right foot so maybe this is a chance … You know … We can get to know each other. I think the world of your mammy … and you. And, listen, I know I'm not your father … but …’

  James swivels back to face Sully. How dare you? his eyes say. How dare you speak the word?

  Sully slowly walks closer to him. ‘James, come on, kid. This is really stupid – I'm your friend.’ Sully puts his hands gently on his shoulders. ‘Come on, let's make a go of it, eh?’

  He is almost afraid to lift his head and look at Sully directly, afraid of the softness he knows will lie in the man's eyes.

  ‘You know all that stuff weeks back about the man you thought you saw, the light and all that stuff, it set your mammy back. It really upset her. It's time to move on … We all have to move on … Somewhere … Some time … We all have to move on …’

  Slowly James lifts his head until his eyes are level with Sully's. His body feels as if it is on fire, at war with the air around it. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘No, you don't. You don't hate me. Come on, now, them's strong words. Strong fucking words, James. Hate's destroyed this place.’

  ‘I do – I fucking hate you.’

  He pulls himself free and runs for the front door. He tugs his satchel round to his front, opens its flap, his hands diving in to rummage for his house keys. As they clear the lip of the bag he loses his grip on them so that they arc over his head and land with a jangle somewhere on the road. He begins to kick the front door, aiming hard, brutal blows at it, feeling shivers of pain run up his shins.

  ‘Hey! Hey! Jimmy, stop that! Come on, now, that's enough.’

  Sully has reached him, and for a moment he flounders. The door heaves, bouncing back and forward on the Chubb lock as James's feet pound it. The rhythm is slower now, as his legs tire, his toes pulsing with daggers of pain. He feels as if he is kicking through water. Eventually he stops, head bowed, breath charging.

  ‘Feel better?’

  James doesn't reply but stands where he is. Sully retrieves the keys and unlocks the door, shoving it open, then pulls the keys out of the lock and fumbles to replace them in James's satchel, as if nothing has happened. They both stand for a moment in front of the open door: small splinters of wood lie on t
he threshold. The hall is dark and dense with silence; it seems to come out to meet them. Sully goes inside first and turns back, almost as if to nod that it is safe for James to follow. James watches as Sully turns at the end of the short hallway and hears the scuttle of his fingers on the wallpaper in the living room as they search for the light switch. When Sully reappears in the doorway he looks awkward and sheepish, and waits for a moment, then half-heartedly waves a hand. ‘Come on.’

  They stand by the fireplace, hearing the wind in the chimney breast. James picks at the strap of his satchel; Sully seems half poised to leave, one shoulder lifted as he tries to decide.

  ‘Your mum should be home soon. Maybe I'll hang on for her.’

  It sounded as if he was asking permission, but James ignores him.

  ‘I'll go and finish stacking those logs.’

  PS to a Firefly

  11 Erin Grove

  Carrickburren

  Date: A bad day

  Year: One of them

  Father,

  I'm lying here in my room. I'm holding the photograph of you from when you had human form. Everyone tells me that one day I will look exactly like you. Teezy especially believes it. She used to say it to me all the time, though not so much now. You know, of course, why I'm contacting you. I'm sure I could feel you the other day when that long streak of piss told me his news. I was sure I could feel you blink in disbelief, as if the light had gone out in you for a second. She didn't even have the nerve to tell me herself. She got him to do it with his John Wayne fucking language. (Excuse my words. Is that a mark against me?) he's not a patch on you – he couldn't lace your boots (that is, if you had any).

  I gave as good as I got, though. I let him know. I let them both know. I only wish the door had been his fat head. What am I going to do? His big, fat, greasy body is going to be squeezing into every corner of our house. I have to admit I've been crying. That's not very manly, is it? I hit myself around the side of the head to stop the tears, but after a while it hurt too much.

  My heart is hard and quiet, and I have to admit I'm angry with you, I'm sorry but I am. It's all right for you, high above everything, welcoming other fireflies, like some kind of shiny RUC man. I know it's an important job, but what about me? What about your son? You've just left me here, with them, with their cooey love and their horrible fights. Maybe I should just look after myself and forget about you. I'm sorry, but the world is cold and no amount of light can warm it.

  James

  18. Amends

  The next rehearsal is a muted affair. As usual Kerry arrives late. James dips his head when she enters, his hair falling helpfully across his eyes. He secretly peers at her as she thumps her body into its seat. He is relieved that she has sat far across the room from him and even more relieved that she seems intent on bending Chin Chin's ear.

  ‘Good do the other night.’

  James turns to see Jarlath McAllister's ruddy face peering into his. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fuck, there was some booze there. Not much talent, mind you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Er … late.’

  ‘A few of us went on to Dundalk and drank the piece out there.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I didn't see you leave.’

  ‘It was after – after you.’

  ‘She can throw a great shindig, your woman. Fine handsome lump of a one she is too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They both look over at Kerry.

  ‘I wouldn't mind rummaging around in there of a windy evening … would you?’

  He knows she has seen him – he can tell from the way her eyes periodically flicker in his direction. There is a stallion-like arrogance to the way she shakes her head, as if she is intent on sending him a message. In the harsh light of the rehearsal room, she looks older and more fragile, long worry lines skirting her full mouth like the fine, bloodless veins on a leaf. At one point Chin Chin reaches out and presses a large hand on to her knee. James thinks of the hard force of her touch in the pale morning light the week before, the needy tremor of her fingers on his belly and the loneliness in her eyes.

  ‘Are you with us, Master Lavery?’

  He looks up to see Shannon standing over him. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Arm yourself. We are five minutes from running the play.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sean. We're not at school now.’

  It is a messy business. Entrances are missed, lines and props are dropped. At one point Kerry, as Nurse Ratchet, drops a whole tray of medication, shouting, ‘Shit,’ at the top of her voice. The play shudders to a halt as everyone bursts into laughter. Shannon, as McMurphy, covers every inch of the playing space, his stocky legs propelling him to and fro like a man whose house is on fire, one eye on his character, the other on the ragged attempts of his cast to coax the play into life.

  Chin Chin, as Chief Bowden, moves as if every step has the ponderous weight of an oak tree behind it. James's heart isn't in it and the big black bird he had conjured on to his bedroom wall all those weeks before now seems indulgent and pointless. His head is numb, his thoughts jarred by the news Sully had given him the previous day, and his performance feels hard and angry.

  Jarlath, as the shy Billy Bibbit, stutters so much at one point that Chin Chin quietly suggests they phone a doctor. Cathal Murphy, as Mr Henderson, seems to be the only one who brings any dignity to the proceedings. He is word perfect and views the chaos around him with the cool regard of a practised poker player.

  When they finish, Shannon orders them to arrange their chairs in a semi-circle around him. His face is bathed in sweat and his large belly rises and falls as he regains his breath. ‘We have ten days and ten nights before we open in Belfast for the amateur festival there, and time as we know waits for no man … or woman. What I have just witnessed would give “mediocre” a bad name.’

  Kerry says something quietly to Patricia that causes her to laugh. For a moment Shannon stares at both of them, a faint gleam of paranoia growing in his eye. ‘Kerry Boyd, know your props and your lines. Patricia Rooney, you are a staff nurse, not a psychopath.’

  He turns his attention to the men, taking a deep breath before he continues. ‘Chin Chin, he is not Boris Karloff, son of Frankenstein. He is a human being, which may be hard for you to grasp, but a feeling, caring human being none the less. La very, where were you? Well?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Not by my reckoning, son. Try to keep your accent this side of the Adriatic Sea, Lavery. And, Jarlath, try and lose the “Culchie” twang and please, please, try to complete a sentence this side of Christmas. Your character has a stutter, not a terminal illness.’

  ‘What about you?’ Kerry asks.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do we give you some criticism?’

  ‘No, that's the director's remit.’

  ‘But you're the director.’

  ‘Exactly. So I will have a private chat with myself later.’

  ‘That'll be a bit one-sided,’ Chin Chin says.

  As they leave the rehearsal room James catches Kerry's eye. She smiles at him, a tender, sorrowful smile. He smiles back and quickly looks away, embarrassed but grateful that some kind of amends have been made.

  On his way home he dreams of love. The love he has read of in books, chivalrous, generous love, King Arthur love, the love of warriors and knights, the love that has the ear of God. He knows that it doesn't sit in Kerry's wide, desperate arms, in her needy, hungry eyes.

  He passes a foot patrol on a deserted side-street – he can see the glow of their night torches as he approaches them, weaving red-eyed patterns in the dimly lit street. He bows his head as he passes them, his ears primed in case they order him to stop. They don't.

  He thinks of his row with Sully the day before, and wonders when he will be moving in, with his oily layabout hands, fussing and bossing his mother around. He wonders how she can betray him, with
out so much as an excuse-me or a by-your-leave. He doesn't want their kind of love. They can keep it. Their selfish, pay-me-back, you-owe-me love. He thinks of the anger they bring to each other, the disappointment they both seem so ready to lay at one another's feet. That's not love. He finds himself saying it softly at first and then more forcefully: ‘That's not love. No way!’ He shouts it, his voice ringing off the walls of the street.

  He throws a look behind him, and notes that the army patrol has stopped and are pointing their red-eyed torches his way. He freezes as the little red tracks flit across his body, like little devil's eyes, squirming across his frigid body.

  ‘Oi! Keep it down.’

  The soldiers waft their torches off him and resume their snail-paced patrol.

  When he loves it will be with the soft petals of longing, and he will lay them at his love's feet like a perfumed carpet. He will give his heart to the altar of her soul. Yes, he will know the true meaning of the word ‘love’.

  For Love

  We haven't met yet, but I know you are there somewhere, out there in the big world going about your life, and I am here in bed, my hands linked across my lower stomach. I often think of you and wonder if we will know each other when we meet. I am an only child and my mother's boyfriend is about to move in with us. She is all excited, and tonight when I came home from rehearsals I went into her room where she was sleeping. It smelt of old drink as usual and wet-cigarette breath. I stood by her bed, just like she had done with me so many times, I stood like a ghost who had nowhere to go and I watched the tiny tick of her pulse in her neck.

  I asked her why she hadn't told me, I asked her if she hated me that much, ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  A part of me wanted to put her big flowery pillow over her mouth, but I didn't, of course, and all I could think of was that soon Sully would be lying in that same bed and that it would be his, too, because he wouldn't be leaving when daybreak came.

  Then I told her …

  ‘That's not love,’ I said, ‘That's not love.’

  The second time I shouted it, and for a moment I thought I had woken her, but she was in too much of a stupor.