Everything Is So Political

by Sandra McIntyre

  “The other way.”

  There is no please. The blindfold they tied around my face lies on the floor. It is dry.

  “Hold the sign beneath your chin.”

  My number is 701 127. I do not have a name anymore. I have been rendered in black and white and gray. I am a photo in a book on a shelf. A walk through the snow dressed in flannel. A body in a grave ninety-one centimetres deep.

  “Stand up straight against the wall.”

  When I breathe out, you can trace the white steam through the air. Trace it with my broken fingers. The flash of the bulb stuns my eyes. I smile during the brief burst of light.

  The warden will not be pleased.

  It’s a real smile.

  The Brothers Wolffe

  Susi Lovell

  I shouldn’t have minded that George sat down beside me at Carla’s party. I shouldn’t have cared that he’s different. If my mother had been here, she would have disapproved of my irritation. It doesn’t matter, she would have insisted, skin, fur, fish scales, feathers, who cares?

  But it did matter. Everyone stopped dancing and stared, and I hate it when people stare. I gazed out of the window with a preoccupied air as though ruminating some complex philosophical conundrum, hoping George would take the hint and go away. Carla scowled at me, deep vertical lines pinched between tented eyebrows, red lips sucked in tight. Did she think I’d invited George? I shook my head—discreetly—to tell her: no, no way, not me, are you crazy?

  And then there stood George’s brother Mike, a vision in white fur, framed in the doorway, nose twitching, eyes flickering around the room. Poor Carla. She looked ready to burst into tears. I sympathized, I wouldn’t want it known that the Wolffe brothers had come to my party either.

  Without greeting anyone (what would be the point, who would have responded?), Mike stalked, stiff legged, through the throbbing music and placed his haunches on the arm of the sofa beside my shoulder, on the other side from George. Jen, Barb and Ellis snickered, relieved they hadn’t been the ones who’d had to sit down because their shoes pinched so badly. I transferred my gaze to the carpet, counting the holes that had been left in it by generations of smoking pre-Carla tenants, trying to breathe through my mouth.

  Hi, said George. I couldn’t look into his face. It wasn’t that he was ugly, but he didn’t, well, he didn’t look right. If my mother were here she’d have hissed to me that I had the sensitivity of a stoat, didn’t I see how uncomfortable I was making him? It’s not about what someone looks like, my mother likes to say, it’s about what’s inside—that’s what counts. I shouldn’t have minded. But I did. I was sorry of course that everyone stared at the brothers and made jokes at their expense. About the size of their noses, the hairiness of their legs, and above all, about the way they smelled. As long as I wasn’t personally involved I had no problem with them carrying on their lives however they liked. But if “however they liked” involved me, then…

  I jumped to my feet. Hey, Jen, I called. Jen pointed to her empty glass and slipped out of the room.

  Wanna dance? George’s low growl—or perhaps it was Mike’s—was not threatening but it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  No, I don’t dance, thank you.

  Silky white fur slipped over my skin as George draped an arm around my shoulders. Beneath the fur, bone, and sinew. He moved in a most peculiar way, knees jerking high, elbows wide, snout lifting and mouth pulling forward into a little round “o”. His movements had nothing to do with the rhythm of the music on Carla’s sound system. Mike crouched, belly low to the carpet, then leaped, twisting in the air as he kicked up his legs high behind him. George swept me up, tossed me to

  Mike. Face buried in fur, I breathed in the manky smell of the Wolffe brothers. Then I was crouching too.

  My friends stared and shrank back against the walls as the three of us hurtled around the room, yapping and howling, tumbling on the holey carpet, springing up onto the back of the sofa, onto the window sill, the coffee table, the bookcase. Now I’d caught the rhythm that the brothers were dancing to: Of bright sun-glanced glaciers, of darting fish and green pebbled stream-beds, of pines and, beneath their bark, slow-seeping resin.

  We stood on the carpet, panting. Well, that was fun, said George, leading me back to the sofa. We sat down, George on one side, Mike on the other. I stared at George, then at Mike, into those black-rimmed blue eyes. A flash of light. Carla rushed for a dustpan and brush. The bulb in the lamp beside the TV had exploded. That could only mean one thing: I was in love. The tip of George’s white tail entwined itself around my calf, Mike’s nestled in my elbow. Oh no, the tails. I’d forgotten the tails. They shouldn’t have mattered, I know, but they did.

  The Problem of Being

  Really Good at Names

  Michael Donoghue

  Belfast, mid-1990s

  You meet her at the DayToday’s car park on Falls Road like you have every month for the past two years. It’s easier that way, for both of you. Your Open University degree in Soc at Belfast Uni has group work once a month, and the corner shop is convenient on your route home.

  Getting out of your battered Vauxhall and into the grey rain you see she’s brought her kid in a pram. Not that she had much choice, can’t be more than three now, but still. She watches you. In her bright white rain slicker she looks like a blown-up balloon. Sinead should cut back on the fry-ups, you think, but this is unfair and you know it. She’s always been a big lass, her whole life. With her lips pressed tight together, her chin tucked slightly down, you can see the tension. She’s staring with hatred across the road. Something’s not right. You’re exhausted beyond words, but know you’ve got to take control. That’s your role and the job you play at.

  Walking up to her you look at the reflection in the glass door beside her and frown. What you see is yourself, mid-twenties something, scruffy, thin from too much exercise, too few regular meals, and far too much stress. People often mistake you for a junior doctor – you encapsulate that smart and haggard look. But your frown is for two British Army Land Rovers mirrored in the glass door. They’re tucked away far enough down the alley behind you to not be visible to the cars pulling in to the DayToday. What are they doing there? Is it a trap? Not by her, she’s one of the true believers. The kind that are so keen they’re more dangerous than helpful.

  “Inside,” you say, opening the door.

  The motion allows you a glimpse of the green armoured ‘Piglets.’ It reveals two soldiers poking out of each Rover roof. One in each has a rifle aimed towards you. The other two Brits face down Lower Cairn Street. Another day in Belfast, you think, but why are they parked there vulnerable in a tight passageway? They’re trapped. You know because that end of the street has metal bollards preventing access to Falls Road. To get out they’ll have to turn around and double back through narrow Nationalist streets. They must be on some operation, RUC police support maybe? That or they’re fekin’ eejits and you never assume that.

  “Aye,” Sinead nods towards the Rovers unnecessarily. She pivots her pram and enters.

  “Everything alright then?” you ask.

  “Aye,” she turns at you and says, “well then?”

  “Hold your hour,” you reply as a short, older man passes by on the way out. Leather work boots so worn you can see the steel caps.

  “Sean,” he says to you.

  You’re really good at names; Christ—what’s his? Short, one syllable, Irish. Dave, no. Dill, that’s right.

  “Alright, Dill,” you reply, picking up a cheap red plastic basket from the stack by the door. Sinead looks at you. “Want one?” you ask her.

  “No,” she says, pointing to the extra space at the bottom of the pram where you can see has loose nappies, wipes and small-multicolored plastic tupperware.

  Your man Conlon at the till, same as he is every month, looks bored. Good.

  “Se
an,” he shouts you a greeting, “picking up already? Bit early mate.”

  “No,” you call back. “Dropping off actually.”

  He looks at Sinead, nods, and says, “Well, keep up the good work.”

  You walk straight to the back of the shop, Sinead trailing behind you. You head toward the last aisle and the back exit, just in case. You’re clocking who’s in the store.

  There’s Janie’s daughter in the middle of the third aisle. You’ve seen her at the youth centre before, but only a handful of times. Not a regular. Flower, not rose. “Lilly,” you call out walking by, “boutcha?”

  “Grand,” she replies in a monotone, not looking at you and reaches for Special K, the cereal kind.

  Over by the back door, looking at the birthday cards on the black wire display carousel, is a stranger. Young, maybe seventeen. Tall, curly blonde hair, cliff face for a nose, his clothing fits—appropriately branded athletic wear and Primark specials—but his face doesn’t. Who the feck are you? The kid rotates the card display around the central metal pole without seeming to be looking at them. Odd. You scan the ceiling, can’t see any new cameras. That doesn’t mean much.

  “Well then,” she says.

  You turn to Sinead, position your body to block anyone’s view. Not that anyone’s looking but a lifetime of paranoia is hard to break. You stuff one hand into your jacket pocket, feel the cool but slightly crumpled white envelope filled with dirty bills. “Here you go then,” you say, handing it over. “This should help.”

  “Thank you,” she says. You can tell she means it. “I’ll see him this weekend.”

  “Well then, tell yer man you’re being looked after.”

  “Ay, he knows. They say there’s talk of a release if the cease-fire continues. But I’d soon have the Brits out.” She goes to spit and then stops herself. “Then my Liam.”

  “Ay, well, the Council is working on both.” You shrug. “Who knows.” Who really does. You look at the milk, you need milk. In fact, you need a lot of things, but you can’t always get what you want. “Well then, I’ll get my shopping in, see you next month, stay safe.” You smile and wave to the little one, not because you really want to, but it’s the role you play.

  You get milk. And bread. And bacon and olive oil.

  You don’t get eggs or praties, though. You do go to select up a pack of ground meat, but the polystyrene bottom has a break in it. The blood runs down your hand and along your arm. You stare at this, uncertain what to do. You finally put the meat down and hold your arm over the chest fridge. You watch the blood drip off your fingers. For some reason you don’t understand, you take the bacon out of your basket and add it back to the meat section. This unsettles you further.

  Because you don’t have a list, because you’ve strolled up and down every row and thought, “Do I need this? Do I normally buy paper towel, and if I do, do I need more?” Sinead finishes her shopping before you, even though she buys three times as much. You know you’ll see her next month and the month after. The cycle of violence ensures the cycle of payments to those family members left behind. Nobody ever moves either. The only way out is through death. You can remember those names too.

  You join the checkout queue behind the stranger who’s holding only a cheap birthday card with a pink rabbit on it. Lilly with her cereal is long gone and Sinead is at the checkout faffin’ about with Conlon. From where you’re standing, you’re in direct line of the door and the Rovers if they’re still out there. You can’t tell if they are because of the dwindling light. You take a step back, then two more. You pretend to be interested in the specials on soda bread at the end of the aisle. Though unnecessary, you shield your body from the door. You can’t help it.

  You watch Sinead finish reloading her pram and you know she’s going to look for you, seeking one final interaction. But you don’t have the energy to show any more artificial interest and take a further step back. As long as you’re both alive, your lives will be intertwined. And right now you’re, just so tired.

  How long has it been since you’ve slept more than six hours in a row? A month? Two? You hear the door closing and the shouting snaps you back. You’ve heard desperation so many times before. This is it, pure and loud.

  “Empty the fecking till!”

  Great. You do a snap peek around the bread display. There’s the kid—who is he—pushing a handgun into Conlon’s face, birthday card on the floor. “I want yer dosh! All of it!” Conlon’s eyes are wide. They look in your direction, catching your movement. Ah, feck.

  The kid pivots, gun in hand. You step out, in automatic mode now.

  “Hi, there.” You’re holding your palms up, the red plastic basket still hooked around your right thumb. “Alright if I put this down?” You move your eyes to the basket and slowly lower the hand holding it until it rests on the floor. You tilt your head slightly to one side and say, “So, what’s the matter?”

  “What?” he asks you. You can see his confusion. Experience has taught you confusion is a good starting point for talking someone down, far better than anger or focused calm. Focused calm is always hopeless.

  “Well, clearly something’s the matter. Why else would you be doing this?” He stares at you, you can see he’s sweating, scared. Ah, why does adrenalin always make you think clearer. His nose. You don’t know him, but you know that nose. “You related to the Byrnes?”

  “Ay, I mean no. It doesn’t matter who I am, I’m the man with the gun.” The boy waves it in the air as if to drive home his point. Eejit.

  “Well, I’m Sean. I can tell you’ve got some Byrne in you; it’s as plain as the nose on your face. You know my name, do you mind telling me yours? Doesn’t have to be yer real name, just something I can call ya.”

  “Rick,” he says. You can tell by his look that he wants to ‘share.’ Great. You’ve just got that face.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through a tough time, but you should be thinking, is this yer solution? Committing armed robbery in a local shop? Threatening poor old Conlon here with a gun? Do you know Conlon?”

  The kid shakes his head. Must be one of the Derry Byrnes then.

  You gently point with the tops of your fingers. “Well, how do you think that makes Conlon feel, threatening his life? He’s terrified. Conlon’s got three wee ones, another on the way. They need their da,” you sell it well, considering you know Conlon and his missus are childless.

  The Byrne kid takes a look and you move another step before he faces you again. He seems like a lost puppy, a mixed bag of emotions. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can go home. And if that doesn’t work out, it should be quick. But then you’re not sure the boy could even get that right, his hands are shaking the gun all over the place.

  “What’s going on, Ricky? You can tell me, I’m here to listen.” Another half-step closer to one fate or another. “No one threatens the life of another without a good reason. This isn’t over a handful of shrapnel. What’s going on?”

  You can see him tense up. “Did something happen? Yer not local, right? But yer not from that far away. Did something happen here? Recently? Something, maybe, to bring the RUC down on you? Maybe they’re looking for you? That would explain the Land Rovers outside. You need money to get away?” You know the Brits are gone, if they were still outside he’d be dead by now.

  His eyes go wide. “Shut up!” he yells.

  You’d feel smug, but you’ve got to bring this train into the station. “Yer ma know? Yer da? It’s not drugs is it? No, a girl perhaps?”

  “Shut up! Shut up! You wouldn’t understand!” The gun is waving all over the place now. It’s just a prop for him.

  “Women,” you say and shake your head.

  He looks at you, like you’re his only friend in the whole world and says, “I told her, I says to her, ‘Don’t go, I love you’ but, but…” He starts to suck air in short sharp breat
hs.

  Last time you cried was when you watched your uncle gunned down in front of you. You were twelve. Doesn’t matter how you cope, as long as you do, that’s what they say.

  “What happened then, Ricky? What happened after you told her not to go?” You’re close enough to grab the barrel and twist it out of his hands now. It will break the finger inside the trigger guard, might even amputate if you do it rough enough. Instead you move even closer.

  “I got the gun from one of the post boxes in Andersonstown estate and went to her house, across the road.” He waves a hand toward the front door.

  You feel yourself stiffen, force it not to show. You want to yell at this eejit, this foolish, foolish boy who has no idea of the trouble he’s in. Of all the guns to steal…you force yourself to be focused and calm.

  “I told her, I said, If you leave me I’ll shoot myself.” He starts to sob now. You reach over and put your arm around him. “I put the gun to my head and everything, but I just couldn’t do it. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t.”

  “But she was scared, wasn’t she, and she called the RUC?”

  “Her ma did.” He’s bawling now, gun at his side. “I came here to get money to go away. Liverpool, London, somewhere far away.” You relieve him of the weight he’s carrying, slipping the 9mm Browning into the same jacket pocket which had held Sinead’s pension envelope.

  “Ricky, how did you know about the gun?”

  He’s crying on the inside and out, but you feel no compassion. You’ve got to build a wall for what’s coming next.

  “Steve told me.”

  “Steve Colmer? Steve Smith? Little Stevie Murphy?”

  “Steve Rex, he used to mail dive.”

  “What?”

  “Mail dive. You know, stick your arm through your post box.” Here he almost seems proud, and this seems to calm him a bit, “Grab the giro in the other boxes on check day. He said it was stupid to have a post box for flat 13, ‘cause there wasn’t one. It was him who told me about the gun in there.”