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Fisherman’s Blues -
Chapter One -
Shtop, cuntish, the dole cut me off. Like that, went to the bank, insufficient funds. There was the money: Gone. Figured it was a glitch. Went to the Social Welfare. They kinda cringed when they saw me coming. Guy behind the counter opened with: ‘Howya, Jack.’ ‘Not great, my money didn’t go through.’ ‘You’re on it a while now.’ ‘That’s right. A valued customer.’ ‘I don’t know about that. Way things are….what’s your P.P.S. number there…?’ Gave it to him. He frowned. Adjusted the monitor. Tapped the pencil on the table, said: ‘No sign of work at all?’ ‘No.’ ‘New rules in you see…’ ‘What are they?’ ‘You’ll have to get a job.’ ‘Have to?’ ‘You’ve been on it ten years.’ ‘But there’s no work.’ ‘Have ya tried FÁS?’
Later at the FÁS office. What are my qualifications? I didn’t have any. What kinda work am I prepared to do? Nothing. Things got awkward. How did I feel about Galway? Not great. There was a telesales job going. Starting Monday. Sure try it and we might put you back on the dole again if it doesn’t work out.
The bus cost €11.80. The office was on Merchant Road. The red painted entrance contrasted with the grey buildings around it. Written across the top was: Fortune Travel, and below: Where dreams come true. A poster on the door, looking for information about a missing person. Guy my age, hasn’t been seen for weeks. Something appeals to me, the idea of disappearance, to vanish without a trace.
Inside, it smells like the warm paper from a photocopier. The lights are bright and the walls are a dark shade of ocean blue. The supervisor is a blonde guy called Chris. About my age. We shook hands. He showed me the ropes. There was a list of names and numbers, photocopied from the phonebook. Chris called them ‘Leads.’ Go down through them. Do your best. But what am I selling?
‘…Nothing. You’re making appointments. We want people to come to our seminar in a hotel by the docks. There’s a crew down there that’ll take care of the selling. You just make sure the leads turn up….’
Our branch has about twenty employees. Some young. Some old. The cubicles are lined in rows, like a classroom. We all get a computer and a headset. Our targets are ten appointments a night or not less than forty-six a week. You go below, and you’re fired. It’s that simple. Each hit brings €20 commission and anything after ten counts as a fifty percent bonus.
My user I.D. is 8235. Around me, people talk frantically. All racing toward ‘The Close.’ Some of them are standing up, talking at high speed. They use their hands to make a point, as if the person on the other end of the phone can see them. I feel shaky, up against it. Pressure. We get a script with all the right things to say. It’s supposed to be what they want to hear.
I go LIVE and my first call comes through immediately. A small beep, like when radar intercepts something, tells me they’ve picked up. My screen says it’s Martin Cleary, Bog Road, Ballyhaunis.
‘Hello, Mr. Cleary?’ Gruff. ‘Wha?’ ‘Jack here, from Fortune Travel, in Galway. It’s just a…’ ‘What the fuck do you want?’ ‘We’re offering…’ ‘I don’t want it.’ ‘Well…’ ‘Fuck off. Get a real job.’ He hangs up.
Beep. The next lead is Mary-Anne Rochford from Bellmullet. ‘Hello, this is Jack here from Fortune Travel in Galway. How are you this evening?’ ‘I’m very well thank you. How can I help you, Jack?’ ‘Well, we see that you filled out a questionnaire for us recently?’ ‘Is this a sales call?’ ‘No, not at all.’ ‘It is, isn’t it?’ ‘No, if you’d just let me explain…’ ‘You’re one of those…time-share…pyramid scheme people aren’t you?’ ‘No, Mrs. Rochford. We’re just offering…’ ‘I knew it. Let me put you on to my husband.’ ‘Hang on..’ A thick voice says: ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, sir. This is Jack from…’ ‘I don’t care.’ ‘We’re giving away free weekends in a Galway hotel.’ ‘Shove it up your hole.’ Click.
Great start. I waited for Chris to turn his back and I slipped away out the door. I had another two hours before the bus left and decided to go for a cheeky pint. First time in Galway since Christmas. Serious spot. Kicked stones up Shop Street. A busker outside Corbett Court singing Piano Man by Billy Joel.
Inside McSwiggans. There were a couple of yuppies at the counter, talking about contract phones and low rate credit cards. A girl sat to the right, on her own, sending a text message. U2 played Pride (in the name of love). The back bar was empty. I pulled up a stool and ordered a Guinness from a waitress called Stella. She was the best looking woman I’d seen in a long time. Long brown hair and a hundred watt smile. How am I doing this evening? ‘Better now. Just waiting for the bus.’ She smiled. I fell in love. She said: ‘Nice shirt.’ ‘Bought it in Penny’s this morning. €7 in a sale.’ She didn’t answer. Just left the pint on the counter. Went out back. Watched her ass go round the corner. Bono was singing: ‘With or without you..’ Fuck Bono. Sank the black fast, two minute murder. Missed Stella. Tapped the counter to make her come back so I could order another. She was confused with the empty glass but got it anyway. Took my time with this one, let the stomach settle. After, I hit the Brandy&Baileys. It tasted like your favourite ice cream. Drank four and lost count. Stella was getting worried, like we were trapped in an elevator and I was jumping up and down. My phone rang. It was the FÁS office. ‘Hello, Jack?’ ‘How’s things?’’ ‘Is that Jack?’ ‘Are ye well?’ ‘Jack…is that you? There’s been a terrible mistake…’ ‘Who are ya lookin for?’ ‘We’re looking for Jack…’ ‘Jack’s gone.. He was here a while ago and then he left.’ Stutter, then: ‘….ah…any idea…where…?’ ‘Mexico.’ Hung up. Stella was watching me with bright blue wary eyes. They were like chandeliers stuck inside her head. She said: ‘You must be the new guy….’ It was too cryptic so I didn’t answer. Woulda most likely only blubbered shite at her anyway, that’s how I was feeling: Blubbery.
Took a belt of the Fluffy Duck. Crushed ice, cold on the tongue. Oesaphagal massage. Money dwindling fast. The windows were black and the rain belted against them like it was coming from a power washer. I looked at my watch and realised the bus was long gone and I’d nowhere to stay and probably no job. Spent my last tenner on a vodka&redbull. When she got it, she left to talk to someone. The world looked like it was being shot through an unsteady camcorder. I reached for the glass, missed, and knocked it over the counter. It fell with a smash and the ice scattered all the way to the front. The drink followed, like a stream of runaway piss. I stood up, in an attempt to plead my case with no one at all. The chair fell behind me and its clatter coincided with the arrival of Stella and a stern male counter-part. He was all arms folded and tight-lipped. I tried to ignore the clamour of the stool doing The Riverdance behind me. It sounded like an artic lorry had crashed into a furniture shop. We stood looking at each other for a while, I don’t know how long. He eventually said: ‘That’s your last drink.’ I pointed to Stella. ‘Thanks be to fuck for that. I thought she was gonna let me go on all night.’ She mustered confidence. ‘I think you should leave.’ Knew it was inevitable but still felt hurt. I searched for an answer, found one and said: ‘Ok, but when the revolution comes…’
And the bouncers caught me. Under the arms, polite aggression. Suddenly I’m outside, issuing all sorts of threats from terrorist associations to vigilantism and arson. Spat on their shoes and everything. Then I’m walking around Woodquay, half lost, mostly demented. It’s raining worse than ever. I took out my phone. There were only five numbers. My mother and my father. The Chinese and the taximan in Ballinrobe. And Fortune Travel.. FÁS had given me Chris’ number to get in touch about the job.
I was out of options. A car breezed by and splashed a load of water against my legs. It was cold and I was miserable and I puked all sorts of colours over the Salmon Weir bridge. Then I wiped my mouth and hit dial. Pure cuntish entirely.
Chapter Two.
Woke up on a couch, feelin kicked and mugged. A smell of dog and coffee. Blanket over me. Stomach queasy. Aftertaste of puke. Head like the atom bomb of migraines. Counter to the right. Sensed someone there. The page of a newspaper turning. Left it a few seconds. Let the flashbacks kick in, then thought: Fuck that.
Stuck my head up. It was Chris, looking like he’d won ten grand on a horse, but someone had thrown the betting slip in the fire. He opened: ‘Well?’ ‘Howya now?.’ ‘You’re some fuckin eejit.’ ‘I’ve heard that before.’ ‘Two phone calls is all ya lasted.’ ‘Any chance of a tenner for the bus?’ He grunted. I lay back on the couch.
He left it a few seconds, then ‘…we’re on again in an hour.’ ‘On where?’ ‘Work.’ ‘Oh no….’ ‘You’ve no choice.’ ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Cos I said so.’ ‘Sure just gimme the price of the bus and I’ll be out of your way.’ ‘No can do.’ It went on like that. Him saying there was no choice. Me protesting. We were back in the office again that afternoon. The air con was cool. The tables were clean and smelled like lemon. My name was on the bottom of the leaderboard. I sparked a bottle of lucozade and used my monitor to hide from view.
Tried passin the time. Scribbled on the back of the Leads. Checked out a young one at the end of the row. I was bored after an hour. My mobile rang. It was FÁS. I rejected it. Thought about pulling another Houdini but I’d no cash. Contemplated robbing a busker. Decided to make a few phone calls. Worst that could happen is I’d make money.
They were all the same old types. Fuck off. Get a job. Don’t call again. That kinda thing. A while later, two suits arrived from the hotel. Briefcases, looking like undertakers. Chris got to attention and tried to make small talk. They looked around, listening to us on the phone, keeping an eye on the time. They watched me for a while, said something and left. After, Chris came over, said: ‘Drinks with the management later.’ Shrugged and said whatever.
My next call was a woman, sweet voice, seductive.
I started my pitch and she cut me dead with: ‘Let me guess, you’re pushing credit cards?’ ‘Villas in Bulgaria.’ She laughed, sincerely. I could tell she had a great smile. ‘Why not try selling me a piece of the moon?’ ‘It’s not as profitable.’ I heard her take a drag from a cigarette. ‘My boyfriend isn’t home. Maybe you should be talking to him.’ ‘When’s he back?' ‘Later.’ ‘After six?’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘Is he rich?’ ‘He’s got money.’ ‘He like to part with it?’ ‘No.’ ‘Treats you well?’ ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ ‘I’m curious.’ ‘He makes me feel safe.’ ‘You don’t sound insecure.’ ‘We’ve only been talking thirty seconds.’ ‘And I still haven’t made an appointment.’ ‘Try harder.’ She dragged again, I said: ‘I’ll send you an invite to our seminars.’ ‘Are they a waste of time?’ ‘Probably.’ ‘Then why would I want to go?’ ‘To meet me.’ ‘And what then?’ ‘We fall in love. You ditch your man. We live happily ever after.’ I looked at the screen. It was Mr. Graham Reynolds. ‘All I have is a Graham Reynolds here.’ ‘That’s all you need to know.’ ‘How will I recognise you?’ ‘I never said I was coming.’ ‘But if you do.’ ‘I’ll be the most beautiful.’ Pause. ‘I can’t think of anythin else to say.’ ‘I thought it was your job to talk.’ ‘I only started yesterday. This could be the start of something…’ ‘I doubt it.’ ‘But…’ ‘See ya.’ She hung up. There was a tremor in my hand as I put through the invite.
Later, Chris shouted: Phones down! I was delighted and thirsty. Wondering what the management wanted. Didn’t give a fuck as long as they bought the pints. The young one at the end of the row was packing up. I made the approach. Sublte, like I just happened to arrive beside her, went for: ‘How’s things? ‘I have a boyfriend.’ ‘Who asked ya?’ She rolled her eyes and walked out. Chris said: ‘Never mind that one, she’s after getting written out.’ ‘How d’ya mean?’ ‘She had a fairly big part and your man decided she was pointless.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Shtop. Are ya right?’ ‘Yeah.’ We pulled down the shutters. The night was vibrant. Flame throwers on Quay Street. Smell of Paraffin. We had a fast one in Taafes and made our way to The Living Room. The drink swirled in my stomach. I belched and a hippy chick gave me a dirty look. Chris lit a smoke and gave me the box. I sparked, inhaled hard, and we sifted through the crowd like a large boat going through debris on the water. Same busker sang Pink Floyd, Wish you were here. Chris threw him his change.
There was a light drizzle as we reached The Living Room. Two bouncers, earphones and jackets, gave us the nod. One of them pulled back the door and we both threw our cigarettes into the drain outside. A guy coming behind us was turned away for wearing the wrong shoes.
The place was dim. A smell of fried food and a distant odour of ketchup. A couple ate club sandwiches at a table to the left and a sexy waitress walked passed with a basket of chips. Spotted a pair of legs at the bar, belonged to an Asian chick, talking to a punter in a chequered shirt
We searched around for the undertakers. They were in an open area at the back, looking like they were in casualty. Both about the same age, maybe early forties. One guy had brown hair, the other black, with a tache, looked like Charlie Chaplin.
At the table, there was a smell like dry ice and spilled beer. Some D.J. gear had been abandoned in the corner. Chaplin said: ‘Thanks for coming.’
We pressed the flesh. They were both drinking Ginger Ale. ‘No problem.’ Silence, I said: ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’ They exchanged looks. Chaplin continued. ‘Hasn’t Chris told you anything?’ ‘No.’ Chris shrugged, said: ‘I thought he knew.’ The other guy spoke. ‘You have the most successful call record in your division. We think your talents could be maximised if you were promoted.’
His pale face and light blue eyes, looked like Chris Tarrant. He opened the briefcase, took out some papers and continued. ‘We have a contract here. If you sign today, your wages will double, as will your commission, and we’ll pay your expenses. At the moment, we’re recruiting all the best employees in a bid to increase our margins by the end of the year.’
There was something awful wrong here, but I didn’t want to fuck it up before they bought a round, asked: ‘Mind if I order a pint?’ ‘Yes of course, John. On us.’ The picture was coming together. They thought I was someone else. I’ll have a Carlsberg, please. Fast. Hit them with: ‘You still haven’t told me what the job is.’ Chaplin answered. ‘You’ll be doing the same thing as you are on the phone. As you know, our customers are awarded a free weekend at our hotel. Our company also has a number of developments abroad and we’re currently looking for investors. When the leads come to stay, we’d like someone competent there to show them their options.’ ‘And get them to invest?’ ‘Essentially, yes. We’re generous, but we’re not a charity. Your number one job will be closing them down, making the sale before they leave. It’s a tough market, and we need the best.’ ‘The best is looking right at ya. And it’s all done at weekends?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What if I say no?’ ‘Most of our branches are being downsized, and in some parts closed. There’s no guarantee you’ll still be employed at the office one month from now.’ ‘Sounds too good to be true.’ ‘It’s called success.’ I looked at Chris, he said: ‘Up to you.’ The waitress arrived with the Carlsberg. I looked up, said thanks, then: ‘Can I have two more actually, I’m very thirsty.’ There was an awkward silence. Chaplin shifted his arse in the seat. She smiled and went to get it. I pretended to think for a minute, said ‘Ok. I’ll do your job, whatever it is.’ ‘Good.’ Said Chaplin. He produced a pen and slid over the contract. ‘Just need your John Hancock here.’
Figured it was a good name as any, wrote: John Hancock, on the dotted line. They didn’t even look, just threw the whole lot in the briefcase and Tarrant said: ‘We’ll be in touch soon. Be ready.’ They made a relieved exit. The waitress arrived with the beer. Chris asked: ‘What do ya reckon? ‘On the waitress?’ ‘No! The fuckin job.’ ‘Oh yeah, can’t wait.’ ‘Why do they call you Jack when your name’s John?.’ ‘Cos my name’s not John, Chris, and I haven’t a clue what’s going on.’ ‘Why? What exactly did they tell you in FÁS?’ I told him exactly what they told me in FÁS. He said: ‘Oh sweet fuckin Jesus.’
Chapter three.
I always thought FÁS stood for something in Irish. Somewhere you go when you’ve no job. And it does, most of the time, but other times it doesn’t. This is what Chris told me in The Living Room the night before. Apparently there were two offices in Ballinrobe. One for people that were cut off the dole and the other for people that were fictitious characters but, for some reason their story wasn’t finished and they needed some work to keep them going until the writer sorted it out. It stood for Fictitious Aid Social (Benefit). There was something about the ‘B’ that didn’t look right on posters so they just left it out. Hence the confusion.
Odder still, there was actually a guy called John Hancock and he was supposed to be in my place right now, doing this job, but his file’s been lost and now I’m here and he’s probably getting my dole. We’re back in the office the next day and I’m fairly confused. Confused like a character in a novel that’s not supposed to be there, or in the wrong plot, or something like that. Not sure what I’d think if I was reading this myself. Sounds like coffee house shite. I didn’t mind as long as I was getting paid. And Chris said I could stay with him for a while, so that was sound. As they say in Ballinrobe – Keep going til ya hear the bang.
Still had to play the part and do the job. I was hungover as fuck and didn’t care if the leads all died, but I’d nothing else for doing. The cute one in the top row was gone. Written out apparently. I thought that was fairly sad and I told Chris. He told me to be careful. I was just about hanging in there myself.
The upside was it was like being in a dream. I could kinda do what I wanted. So I decided to ring your one from the day before. Got her name from the directory on the computer. Reynolds’s residence. I was kinda shaking, like I shouldn’t be doing this but had no choice. She answered after two. I said: ‘How’s things?’ ‘Hello?’ ‘How’re ya gettin on?’ ‘Good thanks, and this is…?’ ‘Jack here. Fortune travel. I rang yesterday.’
She got kinda happy, excited, ready to flirt. ‘I knew you’d call again. You people never take no for an answer.’ ‘No doesn’t exist in this game.’ ‘Well, this is a bad time. I’m having dinner.’ ‘Why not have dinner on us? We’re offering the finest food and views in the West of Ireland.’ ‘You really think I’m coming to your seminar?’ ‘Yeah. If you ain’t, in you can’t win.’ She laughed real loud, said: ‘That’s brilliant.’ ‘You ain’t seen nothin yet.’ ‘I don’t think you really want to sell me anything.’ ‘Then why would I call?’ ‘Because I intrigue you.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a professional.’ Chris looked up, frowned and went back to his call. She said: ‘And I’m attached.’ ‘What can I say? You sound bored.’ ‘It’s better than miserable.’ ‘Come for a drink with me, it might be exciting.’ ‘No.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I’m a faithful girlfriend.’ ‘Or playin hard to get.’ ‘Why you so interested?’ ‘Because you intrigue me.’ ‘I intrigue a lot of men. You could be a psycho.’ ‘We’ll go somewhere public. Say The King’s Head tomorrow night, bout 9?’ ‘I gotta go now.’ ‘I’ll be at the bar, by the entrance.’ Click. Chris asked: ‘What the hell was that?’ ‘Lead I had yesterday..’ ‘You close her?’ ‘Think so. How you doin?’ ‘Nearly finished. Let’s get this shit wrapped up.’ The rest went home. After, we packed everything away, set the alarm and pulled down the steel shutter. Turned around and a guy stood waiting. Long trench coat and serious face. Chris looked him up and down, said: ‘Hello.’ He flashed an I.D.,said: ‘My name is Kurt Jennings. I’m a private detective.’ Chris shrugged, said: ‘Glad to hear it. What’s that got to do with us?’ ‘Just want to ask you some questions.’ ‘Well, the boss isn’t here.’ Silence. He had silver stubble and watery eyes. His face was cracked and I couldn’t see his teeth in the dark, but I guessed they were the colour of cheese. He said: ‘A lotta people want their money back.’ ‘Nothin to do with me. I’m just lockin up for the night.’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘None of your business.’ I rattled some coins and grinded my teeth. Jennings hadn’t looked at me. ‘Mind if I go inside?’ ‘Only staff are allowed into the building.’ ‘Got somethin to hide?’ ‘I have responsibilities. Keepin unauthorised people out is one of them.’ ‘How long have you worked here?’ ‘Long enough.’ ‘What do you know about the operation in Bulgaria?’ ‘You’ll have to talk to the someone else.’
He took out a pack of smokes, Sweet Afton, no tips. He tapped it on the box and sparked, said: ‘You know a guy called Frank Rowland?’ ‘What if I do?’ He took a drag, some tobacco stuck on his lip. Cars breezed passed behind him. I felt like I should say something, nothing came. Jennings looked at me, asked: ‘Who are you?’ Chris answered. ‘Employee. Doin overtime.’ Jennings turned back. ‘He a fuckin mute or somethin? Let him answer.’ I said: ‘What’s it to ya?’ ‘Nothin to me, kid. I’m just doin my job for the people ye screwed outta money. You got your cert from FÁS?’ Chris said: ‘We have to go.’ Jennings pulled on his smoke. ‘See ya round, gentlemen.’
Could feel his eyes on us as we walked. Out of earshot, I said: ‘I didn’t know guys like him existed.’ ‘He looks like a wino.’ ‘Who’s Frank Rowland?’ ‘The guy behind the company. Never met him, but heard he’s a bit wild.’ ‘Wild?’’ ‘But that’s not what he’s after.’ ‘How d’ya mean?’ ‘He probably knows you’re not part of the plot and he wants to see what the story is now.’ ‘How would he know that?’ ‘There’s cunts everywhere watchin.’ ‘What happens if he finds out?’ ‘I dunno. FÁS probably sent him. We’ll figure somethin out.’ ‘And who got fucked outta money?’ ‘Oh yeah.’ Oh yeah, what?’ ‘Originally this was a novel about a rogue telesales company, til all this online shite started.’ ‘And?’ ‘Your man above had big ideas. Coke dealers, flights to Bulgaria, love shtory, big shoot out at the end.’ ‘And what happened?’ ‘He moved to Canada and it all went to fuck. We’re doin our best to keep it goin ourselves. I just don’t know where you come into it, unless he’s shlobberin around again and trying to make somethin out of it.’ ‘I don’t mind. Suits me grand.’ ‘Yeah, ya fucker. You’ve one appointment made and you’re getting promoted.’ ‘When do we get paid anyway?’ ‘Don’t worry about that.’ ‘What’ll we do now?’ ‘Hang out till the next chapter starts.’ ‘Pint?’ ‘Yeah, I wonder how many words we’re on.’ ‘Must be a good few by now.’ ‘Hang on.’ He took out his phone, pressed something, said: ‘4,224.’ ‘Nice.’ ‘In or around.’
Next night in The King’s Head. I was early. Ordered a Carlsberg and watched a match on the big screen. Liverpool and Arsenal - the gunners were down a goal. I was feeling bulletproof. Wondered why I didn’t sign up with FÁS a lot sooner. Ten years in Ballinrobe on the piss. Doin nothing. On the dole, a working class hero with no work and no heroics. There was movement beside me. I turned, expecting Miss Reynolds. It was Jennings. I stayed composed. He smelled like a wet hairy dog. Still had the grey stubble. His hair was matted and greasy. I was surprised he made it past the bouncers.
‘Something I can do for you, chief?’ Phil Collins came on in the background Another Day in Paradise. He said: ‘What do you think of Phil?’ ‘He’s ok, but that doesn’t answer my question.’ He ordered a Blackbush and water, took a drink, asked: ‘You been sellin paradise today?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin about.’ ‘I think you’re lying.’ ‘What I do is none of your business.’ ‘How long do you think you can get away with this?’ ‘With what? Are you even a real detective?’ ‘I haven’t got time to waste, so I’ll say what I came to say.’ He went quiet. I said: ‘Go on.’ ‘I’m waiting.’ ‘For what?’ ‘My next line.’ ‘Just say somethin.’ ‘Fuck it!’ ‘What?’ He stood up all frustrated. Brought the drink to his mouth with a shaking hand. It dribbled down his chin when he drank. ‘This is awful shite.’ ‘The drink?’ ‘No, this job, I’m supposed to say somethin sinister.’ ‘Well go on.’ ‘It didn’t come through. Bet he couldn’t fuckin think of anythin.’ ‘Well, I’m kinda waitin for someone and…’ ‘Oh yeah, here it is…’ ‘Hurry up.’ ‘You’re in over your head, Jack.’ ‘That’s it?’ ‘There’s more, hang on.’ I looked at my watch. He said: ‘John Hancock wants his part back.’ ‘Fuck John Hancock.’ ‘Well if he makes a good case with FÁS they’ll give it to him. And I have to make a report that’s going to affect that judgment.’ ‘You?’ ‘Yeah, don’t sound so surprised ya little runt.’ He took another shaky drink. The smell got worse, it was like sour milk emanating from a bag of turf. He finished with: ‘You’re on a slippery slope, kid.’ ‘Story of my life.’ ‘Another few chapters and you’ll be kicked outta this plot.’
I turned to the television and waited for him to go. Someone had switched to the news and the headlines were all about the economy and Afghanistan. When I swung round, he was gone. She was in his place. Emerald eyes and pale face. All black attire, looked good. Short skirt and high black boots. Dark hair and a face the shape of a heart. Smooth legs. Somehow, I knew she’d look like this. I played calm, said: ‘You must be Miss Reynolds?’ Her voice was soft, like warm strawberry milk. ‘Dyane, actually.’ ‘Drink?’ ‘What do you think?’ She had a Martini, I said: ‘Fancy juice?’ ‘It’s an image thing. I’d love a pint of cider.’ ‘Have one.’ She rolled her eyes, said: ‘Whatever.’ We got talking. I asked: ‘So, is this your first date with adultery?’ ‘Nothing’s happened. We’re just talking. But I’m not in the business of meeting strange men in bars.’ ‘How’s it feel?’ ‘Like I’m at the airport, waiting for a plane to a far away place.’ She sipped the drink with delicate, polished hands. Silver rings and a bracelet. ‘Where’s Graham tonight?’ ‘Playing poker.’ ‘You convince him to come to the seminar?’ ‘Your lack of conscience is terrifying. Do those villas even exist?’ ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that information.’ ‘I knew you were a chancer the second I picked up the phone.’ An hour flew by. Most important point was, her life lacked passion. In her job, in her mind, in the bedroom. She asked: ‘You got something planned for the night, or you just winging it?’ ‘Wingin it. Wanna come back to mine?’ ‘Don’t be so pushy.’ ‘I could be passionate.’ ‘But you’ve got nothing else to offer. You’re just a hustler.’ ‘And that’s why you’re attracted to me.’ ‘I want a cigarette.’ She walked out with slow, confident curves. I tapped the counter and looked around. Quiet buzz, pints going down well. Thought about Jennings. Fuck him. Ten minutes later, she came back, whiff of tobacco, said: ‘This is a nice place.’ ‘You’ve never been here before?’ ‘I do all my drinking at golf clubs.’ ‘Perks for being a trophy girlfriend?’ ‘You’re very condescending.
She paused. Assessed what she was about to say. ‘You’re a good-looking guy, Jack.. How come you don’t have a girlfriend?’ ‘Maybe I do.’ ‘Really?’ ‘No, not really lookin either.’ ‘So, you just wanna fuck me and disappear?’ ‘It sounds weird when you curse. You’re so polished besides.’ ‘Don’t change the subject.’ ‘You do more than intrigue me. I don’t know why, but I like you.’ ‘That supposed to be flattering?’ ‘I’m just being honest.’ ‘You hardly know me.’ ‘I hardly know any of the girls I meet, but I like you better than most.’ ‘You’re really on a roll now.’ ‘Seriously, are you happy?’ ‘I hate when people ask me that.’
Night going well. I wished it was over before I had time to fuck it up. She held some kinda power over me. Like she was a new species of female, something higher up on the evolutionary ladder. A pause came and she asked: ‘Do you want to walk me home?’ Walking, her arm in mine. We came around by Dominic Street and went towards Father Griffin road. Light rain, stars. Cobbled streets and a smell of grease from extractor fans. Busker singing: Losing my Religion.
She said: ‘I like you too, Jack’ ‘I’m glad.’ ‘But you’re kind of different.’ ‘I think it excites you.’ ‘It does. But I’m not used to it.’ ‘All the better.’ ‘I don’t think this would work. I just feel like there’s too much at stake.’ ‘I disagree, so I’m gonna ask you to reconsider.’ ‘I love Graham.’ ‘You don’t sound convinced.’ ‘In a weird way, I do.’ Gave her my number, said: ‘Call me if you wanna do this again.’ She stood on her toes, kissed me on the cheek and said: ‘Thank you.’ I watched her til she turned the corner.
Chapter Four -
A week passed. The plot continued as normal. Chris got the call to close down the office. He and I were to start at the hotel immediately. He was told to “Fire everyone else.” Some of them protested and he promised to do all he could. Soon’s they were out the door, he said: ‘Fuck them.’
Chaplin met us at the hotel door the next day, said:’ Welcome to the firm.’ Thanked him and asked: ‘So, what now?’ ‘The customers aren’t here yet, but we’re gonna get you introduced to everyone.’
We walked into the lobby and took a right into the conference room. The Cruxshadows, Marilyn, My Bitterness, rode with me. Is this my taste in music, or the authors? Good tune either way.
Bright place with chandeliers and tall red curtains. Some jugs of lemon water on a counter by the wall. Our team sat near the top, by the stage, chatting loudly. They were all suits and confidence.
Chaplin got all our attention with: ‘Ok folks, everyone’s here, enough of the bullshit. You’re here to sell. You don’t want to sell, you get the fuck out. You don’t like pressure, you get the fuck out. You don’t wanna be rich, then stop wasting my time and get the fuck out. You’re all here because you’re the best at what you do. It’s why you’re getting the best money in the game. Today, we have over a hundred people coming through those doors. Each of them has €10,000 they’re willing to invest. They don’t know it yet, but they do, and you’re going to convince them. I don’t wanna hear shit about people standing up and walking out. If I do, then you’re gonna fuckin go with them. Everyone has to be closed today, and that means everyone. If they’re here, they’re gonna bite.’
No women on the team, all guys with arms folded and ready to ‘close the deal.’ We listened to the speech with deliberation. He explained how we take the money - debit and credit cards, cheques, or a combination of both, then brought us around in a circle, showed us the contract and where the customers were supposed to sign. Each of us got a desk, a phone and a card reader.
After, some went outside for air, others to the bar for a coffee. The place was plush, leather suites and a phoney fire. There were lotsa flowers and chicks in red suits that looked like airhostesses. I went for a stroll around. Cream walls with bad paintings. Everything smelled like crayon. Found a swimming pool. The stink of Chlorine. Came back and met Chris walking down the corridor, carrying a small table. ‘For the office. Go get yours.’
Walked up and Chaplin was waiting. He pointed at a desk with a briefcase on top. ‘Take these and come back for the rest.’
Picked it up and followed Chris. The room was spacious and warm. Light green carpet and blue walls. There was a box of magazines in the corner. I picked one up and it smelled of fresh ink, like the first day at school. There was a picture of a couple on the front. They both looked like models. There was a quote beside them saying “Fortune travel changed my life!”
Chris said: ‘Right, fuck this. Story is, we invite them down here and give them a seat. Take out all the brochures and shit and make them sweat. We need to put them under serious pressure. Force them into a position of choice. Act like all the apartments are nearly bought up and this is last chance café. If they don’t buy now, they miss the boat and they don’t get rich. If you want to give them a minute to think, pretend you have to go outside and speak to other clients. We never leave the room at the same time because they’ll have a chance to talk to the other couples. Keep it focused on them; make them think it’s all about makin the right decision. Then make your close.’ ‘Just you and me in here?’ ‘Yeah. Two in each room.’ ‘And when do they get to see the apartments?’ ‘They don’t.’ ‘They don’t?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Cos the fuckin things don’t exist.’ ‘Really.’ ‘Yeah, it’s all a scam. Figure that.’ ‘Fuck.’
I went to get my phone. The leads were starting to arrive, all starry-eyed and lost-looking. Spotted a few dubious husbands. Cold handshakes and cynical comments.
Soon, the lobby was crowded. They all stood around, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. There were conversations about babysitters, the need for a holiday, being lucky.
After a while, Chaplin invited them into the function room. I gave it an hour and went in for a look. I was curious to see him in action. There was a smell like hot air. All the customers were seated. He was at the front, fiddling with a laptop. On the wall behind him was a projected picture of the Bulgarian coastline. It was like a propaganda movie. Waiters walked around offering wine. There was a banner across the top of the stage. It said: Fortune Travel. Sharing the Wealth.
Chaplain was like a mesmerist or a religious preacher, had them all hooked. You could see the daydream behind their eyes. He showed pictures of investors from the past. Guys that lost their jobs and took a gamble with the redundancy. Now they’re millionaires, sitting on yachts in the Caribbean. Massive apartment blocks that had jumped in price by a thousand per cent. More snaps of Chaplin pressing the flesh with Bulgarian politicians. Photoshop at it’s best. He went on for another half an hour. By the time he’d finished, the room was like a pressure cooker. ‘Ok, that’s the end of the presentation. I’d like you to go outside and digest what you’ve heard. But please remember, demand is high. We try to accommodate everyone, but be decisive. Today, you can decide to take control of your financial future and be as rich as you deserve. All you need is one word: YES. Thank you.’
They all clapped and he left through an exit door. I went out to the lobby, prepared to intercept, almost convinced to buy one myself.
When they came out, all us salesmen were pacing back and over on the phone, conversing with ghosts about false appointments. The victims were all chatter, excited talk and comparisons. I scoped for a sucker couple. Found one and zoned in. They were young, late twenties. I opened with: ‘Hello folks, my name is Jack. I’m an agent with the company here today.’
They both checked out the suit, then looked at each other. The guy said: ‘Jack, howya doin? I’m Robert and this is Auburn.’ He was in a plaid shirt and fancy jacket, jeans and brown shoes. Bright blue eyes and hair slightly greying at the sides. Took his hand. It was warm and strong, like he wanted to do business. ‘Robert, nice to meet you.’ Pause. ‘Did you both like the presentation?’ Auburn was in first: ‘I thought it was wonderful, wasn’t it Rob?’ It went on like that. Sure why don’t ye come for a chat?
Chris was down there working on an old couple. They musta been nearly deaf cos he was practically shouting. We floated to my desk. I sat down, my heart going like a hardcore dance tune. I opened the briefcase, looked for something that appeared official. Found some brochures. ‘Now…let me see. It was Bulgaria today, wasn’t it?’
Rob and Auburn bought the apartment because someone had to be a sucker. They were a nice people. Just married. Back from Honeymoon. Everyone was being so nice to them, and now this. Did I feel bad? Not really. I walked them to the door and said goodbye with a smile. They were just part of a plot. Extras. I had no idea where all this was going. I mostly thought about Dyane.
Then the phone rang. It was her.
I nearly dropped it trying to answer. She said: ‘Hello.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘What you up to?’ ‘Just finished work. You?’ ‘Hanging out at home.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Where’s Graham?’ ‘Business trip.’ ‘For the night?’ ‘Yeah, I’m lonely.’ ‘What you want me to do about it?’ ‘Meet me.’ ‘There?’ ‘I’ll slip into something comfortable.’ Click.
Outside, I said good luck to everyone and faced for her house. The night greeted me with a strong wind. I walked past the Spanish arch and on towards Father Griffin Road. Had Moby in the head, Slipping Away. Heart going like fuck. Wild Atlantic to the left, the smell of seaweed wafting over the prom. It was a late summer evening and I felt good, like I just got paid. I got to her house and knocked, formal, like I was delivering milk. She answered. No small talk, made my move. She was naked except for a silk robe. Pulled it off and found soft, luscious breasts. Her skin was oiled and slippy and she was small, in the sexiest way possible.
The bedroom was a dark shade of pink. Her legs came around my hips and I entered her against the wall. Up close, her eyelashes were long and her hair smelled like cinnamon. After, we lay back panting. ‘Thought you said you couldn’t have an affair?’ ‘I changed my mind.’ ‘Was it worth it?’ ‘I’m not telling.’ She smiled, and rubbed my chest. ‘You’re really sensual.’ ‘I haven’t even started.’ ‘Graham’s not back til tomorrow.’ ‘You told me. That mean I’m stayin?’ ‘Only if you want to.’ She sighed. ‘I’m searching for guilt, but can’t find any.’ ‘That’s cos you don’t love him.’ ‘But I should.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Cos we’ve been goin out so long.’ ‘You think that should make you love him?’ ‘Yeah…I mean, I thought over time…’ ‘That he’d grow on you?’ She stared at me. It caused a stir in my stomach. ‘No, that he’d change.’ ‘You gonna leave him?’ ‘And do what?’ ‘Live.’ ‘I am living.’ ‘You think you’re livin. But you’re really dreamin about what it’s like to live.’ ‘I don’t get it.’ ‘Me neither. It just sorta came out.’ She laughed, thought and said: ‘There’s a sadness in your eyes. It was the first thing I noticed about you.’ ‘Right now, I’m pretty fuckin happy.’ ‘But not always. I can tell.’ She leaned in and kissed me. Her lips were cold and tasted like chapstick. My mind was empty, like it just got flushed. The night outside was silent. She buried her head in my shoulder, kissed my neck and threw her hand across my chest. Her breathing got heavy. We were cooling down. I pulled the duvet over us. It all felt like calm.
Chapter Four -
A week passed. The plot continued as normal. Chris got the call to close down the office. He and I were to start at the hotel immediately. He was told to “Fire everyone else.” Some of them protested and he promised to do all he could. Soon’s they were out the door, he said: ‘Fuck them.’
Chaplin met us at the hotel door the next day, said:’ Welcome to the firm.’ Thanked him and asked: ‘So, what now?’ ‘The customers aren’t here yet, but we’re gonna get you introduced to everyone.’
We walked into the lobby and took a right into the conference room. The Cruxshadows, Marilyn, My Bitterness, rode with me. Is this my taste in music, or the authors? Good tune either way.
Bright place with chandeliers and tall red curtains. Some jugs of lemon water on a counter by the wall. Our team sat near the top, by the stage, chatting loudly. They were all suits and confidence.
Chaplin got all our attention with: ‘Ok folks, everyone’s here, enough of the bullshit. You’re here to sell. You don’t want to sell, you get the fuck out. You don’t like pressure, you get the fuck out. You don’t wanna be rich, then stop wasting my time and get the fuck out. You’re all here because you’re the best at what you do. It’s why you’re getting the best money in the game. Today, we have over a hundred people coming through those doors. Each of them has €10,000 they’re willing to invest. They don’t know it yet, but they do, and you’re going to convince them. I don’t wanna hear shit about people standing up and walking out. If I do, then you’re gonna fuckin go with them. Everyone has to be closed today, and that means everyone. If they’re here, they’re gonna bite.’
No women on the team, all guys with arms folded and ready to ‘close the deal.’ We listened to the speech with deliberation. He explained how we take the money - debit and credit cards, cheques, or a combination of both, then brought us around in a circle, showed us the contract and where the customers were supposed to sign. Each of us got a desk, a phone and a card reader.
After, some went outside for air, others to the bar for a coffee. The place was plush, leather suites and a phoney fire. There were lotsa flowers and chicks in red suits that looked like airhostesses. I went for a stroll around. Cream walls with bad paintings. Everything smelled like crayon. Found a swimming pool. The stink of Chlorine. Came back and met Chris walking down the corridor, carrying a small table. ‘For the office. Go get yours.’
Walked up and Chaplin was waiting. He pointed at a desk with a briefcase on top. ‘Take these and come back for the rest.’
Picked it up and followed Chris. The room was spacious and warm. Light green carpet and blue walls. There was a box of magazines in the corner. I picked one up and it smelled of fresh ink, like the first day at school. There was a picture of a couple on the front. They both looked like models. There was a quote beside them saying “Fortune travel changed my life!”
Chris said: ‘Right, fuck this. Story is, we invite them down here and give them a seat. Take out all the brochures and shit and make them sweat. We need to put them under serious pressure. Force them into a position of choice. Act like all the apartments are nearly bought up and this is last chance café. If they don’t buy now, they miss the boat and they don’t get rich. If you want to give them a minute to think, pretend you have to go outside and speak to other clients. We never leave the room at the same time because they’ll have a chance to talk to the other couples. Keep it focused on them; make them think it’s all about makin the right decision. Then make your close.’ ‘Just you and me in here?’ ‘Yeah. Two in each room.’ ‘And when do they get to see the apartments?’ ‘They don’t.’ ‘They don’t?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Cos the fuckin things don’t exist.’ ‘Really.’ ‘Yeah, it’s all a scam. Figure that.’ ‘Fuck.’
I went to get my phone. The leads were starting to arrive, all starry-eyed and lost-looking. Spotted a few dubious husbands. Cold handshakes and cynical comments.
Soon, the lobby was crowded. They all stood around, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. There were conversations about babysitters, the need for a holiday, being lucky.
After a while, Chaplin invited them into the function room. I gave it an hour and went in for a look. I was curious to see him in action. There was a smell like hot air. All the customers were seated. He was at the front, fiddling with a laptop. On the wall behind him was a projected picture of the Bulgarian coastline. It was like a propaganda movie. Waiters walked around offering wine. There was a banner across the top of the stage. It said: Fortune Travel. Sharing the Wealth.
Chaplain was like a mesmerist or a religious preacher, had them all hooked. You could see the daydream behind their eyes. He showed pictures of investors from the past. Guys that lost their jobs and took a gamble with the redundancy. Now they’re millionaires, sitting on yachts in the Caribbean. Massive apartment blocks that had jumped in price by a thousand per cent. More snaps of Chaplin pressing the flesh with Bulgarian politicians. Photoshop at it’s best. He went on for another half an hour. By the time he’d finished, the room was like a pressure cooker. ‘Ok, that’s the end of the presentation. I’d like you to go outside and digest what you’ve heard. But please remember, demand is high. We try to accommodate everyone, but be decisive. Today, you can decide to take control of your financial future and be as rich as you deserve. All you need is one word: YES. Thank you.’
They all clapped and he left through an exit door. I went out to the lobby, prepared to intercept, almost convinced to buy one myself.
When they came out, all us salesmen were pacing back and over on the phone, conversing with ghosts about false appointments. The victims were all chatter, excited talk and comparisons. I scoped for a sucker couple. Found one and zoned in. They were young, late twenties. I opened with: ‘Hello folks, my name is Jack. I’m an agent with the company here today.’
They both checked out the suit, then looked at each other. The guy said: ‘Jack, howya doin? I’m Robert and this is Auburn.’ He was in a plaid shirt and fancy jacket, jeans and brown shoes. Bright blue eyes and hair slightly greying at the sides. Took his hand. It was warm and strong, like he wanted to do business. ‘Robert, nice to meet you.’ Pause. ‘Did you both like the presentation?’ Auburn was in first: ‘I thought it was wonderful, wasn’t it Rob?’ It went on like that. Sure why don’t ye come for a chat?
Chris was down there working on an old couple. They musta been nearly deaf cos he was practically shouting. We floated to my desk. I sat down, my heart going like a hardcore dance tune. I opened the briefcase, looked for something that appeared official. Found some brochures. ‘Now…let me see. It was Bulgaria today, wasn’t it?’
Rob and Auburn bought the apartment because someone had to be a sucker. They were a nice people. Just married. Back from Honeymoon. Everyone was being so nice to them, and now this. Did I feel bad? Not really. I walked them to the door and said goodbye with a smile. They were just part of a plot. Extras. I had no idea where all this was going. I mostly thought about Dyane.
Then the phone rang. It was her.
I nearly dropped it trying to answer. She said: ‘Hello.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘What you up to?’ ‘Just finished work. You?’ ‘Hanging out at home.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Where’s Graham?’ ‘Business trip.’ ‘For the night?’ ‘Yeah, I’m lonely.’ ‘What you want me to do about it?’ ‘Meet me.’ ‘There?’ ‘I’ll slip into something comfortable.’ Click.
Outside, I said good luck to everyone and faced for her house. The night greeted me with a strong wind. I walked past the Spanish arch and on towards Father Griffin Road. Had Moby in the head, Slipping Away. Heart going like fuck. Wild Atlantic to the left, the smell of seaweed wafting over the prom. It was a late summer evening and I felt good, like I just got paid. I got to her house and knocked, formal, like I was delivering milk. She answered. No small talk, made my move. She was naked except for a silk robe. Pulled it off and found soft, luscious breasts. Her skin was oiled and slippy and she was small, in the sexiest way possible.
The bedroom was a dark shade of pink. Her legs came around my hips and I entered her against the wall. Up close, her eyelashes were long and her hair smelled like cinnamon. After, we lay back panting. ‘Thought you said you couldn’t have an affair?’ ‘I changed my mind.’ ‘Was it worth it?’ ‘I’m not telling.’ She smiled, and rubbed my chest. ‘You’re really sensual.’ ‘I haven’t even started.’ ‘Graham’s not back til tomorrow.’ ‘You told me. That mean I’m stayin?’ ‘Only if you want to.’ She sighed. ‘I’m searching for guilt, but can’t find any.’ ‘That’s cos you don’t love him.’ ‘But I should.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Cos we’ve been goin out so long.’ ‘You think that should make you love him?’ ‘Yeah…I mean, I thought over time…’ ‘That he’d grow on you?’ She stared at me. It caused a stir in my stomach. ‘No, that he’d change.’ ‘You gonna leave him?’ ‘And do what?’ ‘Live.’ ‘I am living.’ ‘You think you’re livin. But you’re really dreamin about what it’s like to live.’ ‘I don’t get it.’ ‘Me neither. It just sorta came out.’ She laughed, thought and said: ‘There’s a sadness in your eyes. It was the first thing I noticed about you.’ ‘Right now, I’m pretty fuckin happy.’ ‘But not always. I can tell.’ She leaned in and kissed me. Her lips were cold and tasted like chapstick. My mind was empty, like it just got flushed. The night outside was silent. She buried her head in my shoulder, kissed my neck and threw her hand across my chest. Her breathing got heavy. We were cooling down. I pulled the duvet over us. It all felt like calm.
Chapter 5-
Monday came round. I was feeling new born and truly laid. Dyane and Graham had been goin out about five years. He started getting violent after the first two. They hadn’t slept together in about eighteen months. She was looking for a way out. Biding her time. I don’t know. She said she’d call me. Sound. Chris rang, asked: ‘Do you want to go for a pint?’ ‘It’s only two o’clock.’ ‘When did that ever stop ya?’ Got to O’Connells. Dark brown and Damien Rice. We sat at the bar and slugged hard. It tasted good, like cold pleasure. He paid, I asked ‘So how’s this plot workin out?’ ‘Not too bad. Hotel stuff is a bit borin I think.’ ‘I was thinkin that. What’ll we do?’ ‘Dunno. Wait for somethin to happen. Wouldn’t mind a woman myself. How’d ya get on with your one the other night?’ ‘Dyane? Savage.’ ‘I was talkin to this one in New Look the other day. Went in for a pair of jeans’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Yeah, got her number. Might text her.’ ‘Do. What’s her name?’ ‘Eva. Why?’ ‘People reading might want to know.’ ‘Oh yeah.’ Went on a crawl. Did Tig Colí, Neachtains, The Skeff, Garvey’s, Fox’s. Met a guy called Spike; played in a band called Agiven. Guitar on his back, stubble, wild hair. He was getting ready for a gig in Richardsons.
Got a round going. Good craic, but he had to go, asked: ‘What ye at later? I might meet ye for one. Or come up to Richardsons.’ Told him we would and said good luck.
Eva arrived around nine. Tall. Beautiful. Blue jeans, heels and bracelets. From somewhere around Tuam. Magnetic smile, wavy red hair. Style like she’d traipsed off a catwalk. Chris was on to something. They clicked. He held doors for her. She laughed at all his jokes. She wanted to club in Halo. So we went to Halo.
It was a two-storey place. Pillars. Lots of chequered shirts and aftershave. Light a match and the whole place could blow. Probably the main reason for the smoking ban. There was a liquorice smell, like Redbull. Eva’s friends arrived like a lighting storm. One minute it was dark, then there was a shower of digital cameras raining from all angles. Lots of talk about Facebook and dominating the dancefloor. They all looked good, dressed like they were in a music video. Blokes hovered around, like sniffing dogs. The ultraviolet light, showing up dandruff and specks of coke. They were mostly breakfast roll types with too many chins. The women brushed them off with frustrated experience.
Felt unsteady, like I was on a rocky boat. Stomach queasy. Drank Smirnoff, mixed with red lemonade and ice. Good kick. Went to the bar for more. Chris was talking to Eva like they were catching up after a ten year absence.
Things were getting blurred. Decided to leave. Outside, I was hit with a breeze. I’d forgotten my jacket. Lit a smoke and went towards Supermacs and straight down Shop Street. Headed for Dyane’s. Had to see her. Didn’t care about Graham. Had trouble keeping steady, air going to my head, day’s drinking starting to peak. Used the wall for support, stomach doing somersaults. Bushted.
Puked outside Brown Thomas. After, I stood up and felt extra dizzy, like the same boat had hit some big waves. A girl caught me by the arm, asked: ‘Are you ok?’ Looked at her through watering eyes. She had a phone in her hand. ‘Wha?’ ‘Are you alright? You dropped your phone.’ Acid travelled at lighting speed, all the way up from my stomach, hit the top and went back down, leaving a scorched earth. I burped, retched and said: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Are you alright?’ Wanted to say: ‘Does it look like I’m fuckin alright? Instead muttered: ‘Bring me to Dyane’s.’ Noticed a man behind her, arms folded, looking pissed. Musta been the boyfriend.
She asked: ‘Can I call you a taxi somewhere?’
I focused. She had huge blue eyes and blonde hair, but not that pretty. Something happened and I fell over. Hit the ground with a bang that shoulda hurt. She tried to catch me on the way down, but we both fell into the vomit. When I looked up again, the boyfriend was in. ‘C’mon ta fuck will ya? He’s just drunk. He’ll be alright!’ She rubbed some puke off her top. ‘But we should help him, bring him somewhere.’ ‘Will ya c’mon! Fuck him.’ ‘Hang on.’ She came back into my vision, smelling like an old lady. Handed me the phone and a fistful of change. ‘Get a coffee for yourself.’
Exit chick and boyfriend. I tried to stand up. Put my hand in the vomit. Brushed it off my pants and achieved vertical, but shaky status. Had Aslan in the head The Gallery. Blank.
Urinating outside Powell’s Music shop. Folks walked passed behind me, whistling, shouting; giving a running fucking commentary. I zipped up and turned to face a pair of bright yellow Gardaí. One said: ‘Would ya do that in you own house?’ The worst kind, a woman. The other was the tall, silent type. I attempted an apology with: ‘Fuckin…’ They let it digest, looked at each other and said something I didn’t catch. Then the brute said: ‘I’m giving you a choice, lad — either you give me an address or you’re spending the night in a cell.’ Tried to give my address. It came out as: ‘Fuckin….Dyane’s…’
The woman moved in, swift with the moves but there was no need. I couldn’t’ve defended myself against a tin of beans. On the way to the car, hands twisted behind me, we were interrupted. I thought it was another cop, but recognised the voice. ‘I’m responsible for this man. What’s the problem?’ The tall one turned. ‘Are you his father?’ ‘Yes. Sorry guard. I’ll bring him home now. There’s no need to bring him in.’ The bitch turned. ‘He was abusive towards Gardaí and refused to co-operate when we offered to bring him home. I think there’s every need to bring him in, and issue him a summons.’ ‘I understand that, but he has a chronic alcohol problem and court is not the place for him. Please, let me take care of it. I’ll have him home within the hour.’ She pursed her lips, kept her stern tone. ‘If I see him again tonight, I’m bringing him straight in for public order offences.’
They let me go and left for a brawl down the street. My arms came alive with pins and needles. I was feeling cold and car-sick. Turned and saw Jennings waiting. Long coat and greasy hair shining. ‘What are you doin here?’ ‘You looked like you needed help.’ ‘Not yours, thanks.’ I tried to walk. Took one step and fell backwards. Nothing behind me. He ran to make the catch but I’d already hit the ground.
Woke up on a floor with a blanket over me. It felt like early morning. My mouth was dry, like I’d done a stint in the Sahara desert. Inside my head, there was intense pain, like my brain had teeth and someone was drilling them all. I sat up with bleary eyes. There was a smell of cigarettes, and something wet, like an old raincoat. Still in my clothes, stomach nauseous. Ache in my arms. Flashbacks: O’Connells, Halo, cop uniforms. Someone said: ‘The beast awakes.’ Looked up. It was Jennings. The picture came together. ‘What the fuck am I doin here?’ ‘Better than a cell.’ I looked around. ‘If you say so.’ ‘You were so drunk you couldn’t walk. I did you a favour.’ ‘Thanks, but now I have to go.’ I stood up, weathered a headrush. He said: ‘We should talk first.’ ‘You can start by tellin me where the door is.’ ‘It could save your life.’ Felt too unsteady to walk outside, decided to give it a couple of minutes, said: ‘I need coffee.’ ‘At your service.’ He got it, left it on the table. It was a dirty mug with a big red heart on the face. There were streaks of age old tea cemented to the side. He sat back opposite me, said: ‘I want to talk to you about Frank Rowland.’ ‘Who’s Frank Rowland?’ ‘Let’s talk straight, Jack.’ Took a sip. It tasted like water laced with copper. ‘I’m not sayin anythin, but I’ll give ya two minutes.’ ‘The hotel is a money-laundering operation, and Frank’s into a lot more than dream apartments. He used to be a very dangerous man. Now he’s a very paranoid, dangerous man. You’re in a lot deeper than you think.’ ‘You make shit coffee. What other stuff’s he into?’ ‘Extortion, pimpin and some drugs.’ ‘My hero.’ ‘I wouldn’t laugh if I were you.’ ‘What if I said the hotel’s legit?’ ‘I’d say – get an undertaker. First he’ll use you, then when he thinks you’ve seen too much….’ My head spun. I wanted to crawl back into the womb. Asked: ‘Is this part of the lost plot, then?’
Stutter, then: ‘….Yeah.’ ‘What about Hancock?’
‘He’s not happy. I told them I haven’t found you yet.’
‘Why’d ya do that now?’
‘It’s personal. And I don’t like him anyway.’
‘Christ, maybe life was much simpler on the dole.’
‘Things are more complicated than you think.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘We need to talk about Fisherman’s Blues.’
‘What the fuck is Fisherman’s Blues?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. All I know’s I’ve to go.’
‘How can you not know what…’
Thought I was going to puke. Stood up, left the cup on a dirty coffee table and said: ‘I’ve to go.’
And I went.
Chapter Six -
The handle on the door looked like cheap dirty gold. It closed behind me with a light clap. Dingy stairwell and a smell of mould. He lived by the station. Exhaust and piss as I walked towards the square. My hands shook and there was a loud drumming in my chest. My breathing was fast. Angry morning traffic clogged the streets. A couple walked passed, arguing about missing a bus. The sun was out and my armpits were wet and sticky.There was no doubt about it, I was pure sick from drink.
Took a long route home. Kept looking back to see if I was being followed. Walked through Eglington Street and on towards Bowling Green. Pale enough sky, whispered rain. Punishing wind, cold enough to be white hot. Puke threatened. Passed Nora Barnacles house and into Dominic Street. The walk felt good, almost like exercise.
At the flat, the place was quiet, but unsettled. Nothing seemed familiar, like a cloned reality. I pulled the curtains closed and turned off the light. There was a smell like dried grease. I tried to chill, but everything seemed like an act to stave off an avalanche. Ten minutes later I lay back and closed my eyes, hoping for peace.
Woke up in a bad way. First cousin of the booze blues and a brother of fear. Felt thinner, like I’d lost two stone in my sleep. Nightmares followed me into consciousness. Talking mannequins, rabid dogs; and zombies. Sleep paralysis and and The Hag like a scorned incubi. My shirt stuck to my back in a film of sweat and everything was silent.
Went to the stereo, put on some Athlete, Chances. It moved me somehow, like a teardrop fell from my heart. I lit a smoke wih shaking hands, it tasted dry. Didn’t want tea, but I boiled the kettle anyway. Laid back on the couch again, one arm over my eyes like I was blocking out the sun. Checked my phone, missed calls and messages from Chris and Dyane. Rang her back, no answer. Paranoia set in. Somewhere a dark cloud gathered, brewing up a catastrophe.
Finished the smoke, rang her again. She answered after two, her voice making pure shite of the hangover. ‘Hey, sorry….’ ‘Hey, got your missed call. Everythin alright?’ ‘Yeah. No… I’m fighting with Graham.’ ‘Fuck him, get outta there. Let’s go somewhere.’ ‘Oh…I don’t know if I’m in the mood.’ ‘Better than gettin flaked. I know a good Indian place on Eglington Street.’ ‘I love Indian.’ ‘Let’s do it.’
Had a shower. Felt even better. Changed, took in some Aslan, gelled the hair and left.
I met her outside the courthouse. She had a bag in one hand and put the other under the crook of my arm. She was dressed in a short skirt, denim jacket, hair in a tiny ponytail. Green eyes sparkling in the streetlight. I wanted her there and then.
Her heels clicked us to a restaurant on Quay Street. It was dark red, smelled of curry and popadoms. Had statues with gold chains. Our table had a candle and a white tablecloth. A punter came down, looked like Ghandi, gave us the menus. I ordered the Lamb Tikka. She went for the vegetarian.
I poured some wine, asked: ‘You like this place?’ She sighed ‘Yeah, it’s nice.’ Pause. ‘but I hate dinner conversations about the quality of the food and the interior of the restaurant. I want dinner to be about something other than filling silence.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘You ever in love?’ ‘No.’ ‘Tell me about the first girl you were really with. You know what I mean.’ ‘It was nothing special. Graham your first?’ ‘Yeah, right.’ ‘You come across as sheltered.’ ‘Fuck you.’ ‘There’s that language again.’ ‘There’s a difference between privileged and sheltered.’ ‘So rich people sleep around all the time?’ ‘No. They’re normal, that’s all. What’re your parents like?’ ‘Great. What’s your worst fear?’ ‘Dying alone.’ ‘What makes you think you could die alone?’ ‘It’s so easy for a guy to say that. Women get traded in for younger models all the time.’ ‘Yeah, but not always.’ ‘Have you ever seen an ugly actress?’ ‘Who wants to see an ugly actress?’ Ghandi came with the food. I eyed the Tikka and he left it down, then the veggie.
Dyane pushed some food to the side of her mouth. When she spoke, it looked like her jaw was swollen. ‘Let’s change the subject.’ ‘Ok, what do you think about Iraq?’ ‘I hate politics. Name a fantasy.’ ‘Lord of the Rings.’ ‘A sexual one, stupid.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘You embarrassed?’ ‘I’m not sure what you’re askin me.’ ‘Ok, I’ll tell you mine.’ She swallowed. ‘I want to be fucked when I least expect it.’ The surrounding tables suddenly got interested. I said: ‘I think some people call that rape.’
She had some wine. Small mouth. Eye lashes. Painted nails. Impeccable manners. Spoke with: ‘Not necessarily. I’m talking about being in the house on my own, bored, not expecting anyone, and then suddenly I’m having sex.’ ‘Who you gonna have sex with if you’re in the house on your own?’ ‘He’s gonna break in.’ ‘Oh right, simple.’ ‘Yeah, I told Graham and he called me things I won’t repeat. I thought he was going to puke.’ ‘It’s not exactly normal.’ ‘It’s just role-play.’ I took a drink. ‘So, you’re on your own, like on a Wednesday night or somethin…’ ‘It’s winter.’ ‘It’s winter, and…’ ‘Ok, I’ll explain. It’s winter. I’m bored, alone, and there’s no prospect of meeting anyone for the rest of the night. It’s like I’m in the country or something. I’m sick of reading, and watching television, and sending messages and I start thinking about sex. It’s so unlikely that I want it more than ever. It’s not like I want to make love, I just want to be fucked, hard and long and forceful. I don’t wanna see the guy’s face so it’s better if he wears a balaclava. The bedroom would be too formal and ruin the excitement so we could just do it wherever I am at the time. Say, the kitchen table, or the stairs, no, the stairs would hurt my back. Say the living room floor or something. There’s no foreplay, or dialogue, and I even try to resist, but he gets the better of me and then I just relent and let him have his way. I want it to last, so the guy has to have stamina. As I start to cum, I want him to squeeze my throat, not choke me, but to have a good grip. Then I want him to fuck me harder until I climax at least twice and then he’s allowed ejaculate. My fantasy’s complete as I feel his erection break and his semen flood inside me.’
I’d forgotten about the food. ‘And he’s a stranger?’
‘No. You missed the words “role-play”. Who knows what I could pick up off a stranger, and besides that is rape. He’d most likely be a boyfriend, or at least someone I enjoy fucking. When we’re finished, he just gets up and walks out and I don’t want to hear from him until at least the next day.’
People listening at the next table. A middle-aged couple, looking uncomfortable. I asked: ‘And you don’t think that’s weird?’
‘Everybody’s weird, if that’s what you want to call it. Some people are just more open about it than others, but everyone’s got something kind of secret desire.’ Drink of wine. A look out the window, then right at me. Eyes again. ‘It’s more natural than strange, maybe not conventional, but I’m not ashamed.’ Smile, then: ‘Why should I be?’
Ended up at the Spanish Arch. It was a cool, quiet night. A group of hippy types played guitar in the corner and the smell of hash floated over, like burnt fur. The water was shallow but still had a strong current. We lay back on the grass. Her eyes told me she was merry. She said: ‘This is beautiful.’
I wanted a drag of that joint. Her hair tickled the side of my neck. A breeze came and she shivered and threw a bare leg over my knee.Her breast rubbed against my elbow, small and soft. She had the scent of an orchard in summer. I finished my smoke and threw it away, rushing water, said: ‘I want to spend more time with you.’ She blinked, looked at the ground and pulled up a stem of grass. ‘I just don’t know if I’m ready to just jump into another relationship so fast.’ ‘Don’t stay with him out of fear.’
Later, in her room, the moonlight shone through the open window. A fan whirred in the corner and our clothes lay scattered on the ground. The smell of incense lingered from a used stick on the dresser and I watched the reflected light, from the cars outside, float across the ceiling. Dyane’s hand lay across my chest and her breathing came in contented heaves. When she spoke, it came as a murmur. ‘This is intense, Jack.’ ‘I know.’ ‘What are we going to do when it ends?’ ‘Why’re you thinking like that?’ ‘Because it always ends.’ ‘Maybe we can beat it this time.’ ‘How?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I hope you’re still here in the morning.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘Good night.’ ‘You’re beautiful.’ ‘Thanks. You’re sweet.’ ‘Move in with me.’ She didn’t answer.
Chapter Six -
The handle on the door looked like cheap dirty gold. It closed behind me with a light clap. Dingy stairwell and a smell of mould. He lived by the station. Exhaust and piss as I walked towards the square. My hands shook and there was a loud drumming in my chest. My breathing was fast. Angry morning traffic clogged the streets. A couple walked passed, arguing about missing a bus. The sun was out and my armpits were wet and sticky. There was no doubt about it, I was pure sick from drink.
Took a long route home. Kept looking back to see if I was being followed. Walked though Eglington Street and on towards Bowling Green. Pale enough sky, whispered rain. Punishing wind, cold enough to be white hot. Puke threatened. Passed Nora Barnacles house and into Dominic Street. The walk felt good, almost like exercise.
At the flat, the place was quiet, but unsettled. Nothing seemed familiar, like a cloned reality. I pulled the curtains closed and turned off the light. There was a smell like dried grease. I tried to chill, but everything seemed like an act to stave off an avalanche. Ten minutes later I lay back and closed my eyes, hoping for peace.
Woke up in a bad way. First cousin of the booze blues and a brother of fear. Felt thinner, like I’d lost two stone in my sleep. Nightmares followed me into consciousness. Talking mannequins, rabid dogs; and zombies. Sleep paralysis and The Hag like a scorned incubi. My shirt stuck to my back in a film of sweat and everything was silent.
Went to the stereo, put on some Athlete, Chances. It moved me somehow, like a teardrop fell from my heart. I lit a smoke with shaking hands, it tasted dry. Didn’t want tea, but I boiled the kettle anyway. Laid back on the couch again, one arm over my eyes like I was blocking out the sun. Checked my phone, missed calls and messages from Chris and Dyane. Rang her back, no answer. Paranoia set in. Somewhere a dark cloud gathered, brewing up a catastrophe.
Finished the smoke, rang her again. She answered, her voice making pure shite of the hangover. ‘Hey, sorry….’ ‘Hey, got your missed call. Everythin alright?’ ‘Yeah. No… I’m fighting with Graham.’ ‘Fuck him, get outta there. Let’s go somewhere.’ ‘Oh…I don’t know if I’m in the mood.’ ‘Better than gettin flaked. I know a good Indian place on Eglington Street.’ ‘I love Indian.’ ‘Let’s do it.’ Had a shower. Felt even better. Changed, took in some Aslan, gelled the hair and left.
I met her outside the courthouse. She had a bag in one hand and put the other under the crook of my arm. She was dressed in a short skirt, denim jacket, hair in a tiny ponytail. Green eyes sparkling in the streetlight. I wanted her there and then.
Her heels clicked us to a restaurant on Quay Street. It was dark red, smelled of curry and popadoms. Had statues with gold chains. Our table had a candle and a white tablecloth. A punter came down, looked like Ghandi, gave us the menus. I ordered the Lamb Tikka. She went for the vegetarian.
I poured some wine, asked: ‘You like this place?’ She sighed ‘Yeah, it’s nice.’ Pause. ‘but I hate dinner conversations about the quality of the food and the interior of the restaurant. I want dinner to be about something other than filling silence.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘You ever in love?’ ‘No.’ ‘Tell me about the first girl you were really with. You know what I mean.’ ‘It was nothing special. Graham your first?’ ‘Yeah, right.’ ‘You come across as sheltered.’ ‘Fuck you.’ ‘There’s that language again.’ ‘There’s a difference between privileged and sheltered.’ ‘So rich people sleep around all the time?’ ‘No. They’re normal, that’s all. What’re your parents like?’ ‘Great. What’s your worst fear?’ ‘Dying alone.’ ‘What makes you think you could die alone?’ ‘It’s so easy for a guy to say that. Women get traded in for younger models all the time.’ ‘Yeah, but not always.’ ‘Have you ever seen an ugly actress?’ ‘Who wants to see an ugly actress?’ Ghandi came with the food. I eyed the Tikka and he left it down, then the veggie.
Dyane pushed some food to the side of her mouth. When she spoke, it looked like her jaw was swollen. ‘Let’s change the subject.’ ‘Ok, what do you think about Iraq?’ ‘I hate politics. Name a fantasy.’ ‘Lord of the Rings.’ ‘A sexual one, stupid.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘You embarrassed?’ ‘I’m not sure what you’re askin me.’ ‘Ok, I’ll tell you mine.’ She swallowed. ‘I want to be fucked when I least expect it.’ The surrounding tables suddenly got interested. I said: ‘I think some people call that rape.’
She had some wine. Small mouth. Eye lashes. Painted nails. Impeccable manners. Spoke with: ‘Not necessarily. I’m talking about being in the house on my own, bored, not expecting anyone, and then suddenly I’m having sex.’ ‘Who you gonna have sex with if you’re in the house on your own?’ ‘He’s gonna break in.’ ‘Oh right, simple.’ ‘Yeah, I told Graham and he called me things I won’t repeat. I thought he was going to puke.’ ‘It’s not exactly normal.’ ‘It’s just role-play.’ I took a drink. ‘So, you’re on your own, like on a Wednesday night or somethin…’ ‘It’s winter.’ ‘It’s winter, and…’ ‘Ok, I’ll explain. It’s winter. I’m bored, alone, and there’s no prospect of meeting anyone for the rest of the night. It’s like I’m in the country or something. I’m sick of reading, and watching television, and sending messages and I start thinking about sex. It’s so unlikely that I want it more than ever. It’s not like I want to make love, I just want to be fucked, hard and long and forceful. I don’t wanna see the guy’s face so it’s better if he wears a balaclava. The bedroom would be too formal and ruin the excitement so we could just do it wherever I am at the time. Say, the kitchen table, or the stairs, no, the stairs would hurt my back. Say the living room floor or something.
There’s no foreplay, or dialogue, and I even try to resist, but he gets the better of me and then I just relent and let him have his way. I want it to last, so the guy has to have stamina. As I start to cum, I want him to squeeze my throat, not choke me, but to have a good grip. Then I want him to fuck me harder until I climax at least twice and then he’s allowed ejaculate. My fantasy’s complete as I feel his erection break and his semen flood inside me.’
I’d forgotten about the food. ‘And he’s a stranger?’
‘No. You missed the words “role-play”. Who knows what I could pick up off a stranger, and besides that is rape. He’d most likely be a boyfriend, or at least someone I enjoy fucking. When we’re finished, he just gets up and walks out and I don’t want to hear from him until at least the next day.’
People listening at the next table. A middle-aged couple, looking uncomfortable. I asked: ‘And you don’t think that’s weird?’ ‘Everybody’s weird, if that’s what you want to call it. Some people are just more open about it than others, but everyone’s got something kind of secret desire.’ Drink of wine. A look out the window, then right at me. Eyes again. ‘It’s more natural than strange, maybe not conventional, but I’m not ashamed.’ Smile, then: ‘Why should I be?’
We ended up at the Spanish Arch. It was a cool, quiet night. A group of hippy types played guitar in the corner and the smell of hash floated over, like burnt fur. The water was shallow but still had a strong current.
We lay back on the grass. Her eyes told me she was merry. She said: ‘This is beautiful.’
I wanted a drag of that joint. Her hair tickled the side of my neck. A breeze came and she shivered and threw her bare leg over my knee.
Her breast rubbed against my elbow, small and soft. She had the scent of an orchard in summer. I finished my smoke and threw it away, rushing water, said: ‘I want to spend more time with you.’ She blinked, looked at the ground and pulled up a stem of grass. ‘I just don’t know if I’m ready to just jump into another relationship so fast.’ ‘Don’t stay with him out of fear.’
Later, in her room, the moonlight shone through the open window. A fan whirred in the corner and our clothes lay scattered on the ground. The smell of incense lingered from a used stick on the dresser and I watched the reflected light, from the cars outside, float across the ceiling. Dyane’s hand lay across my chest and her breathing came in contented heaves. When she spoke, it came as a murmur. ‘This is intense, Jack.’ ‘I know.’ ‘What are we going to do when it ends?’ ‘Why’re you thinking like that?’ ‘Because it always ends.’ ‘Maybe we can beat it this time.’ ‘How?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I hope you’re still here in the morning.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘Good night.’ ‘You’re beautiful.’ ‘Thanks. You’re sweet.’ ‘Move in with me.’ She didn’t answer.
Chapter 7 -
Pink Floyd. Hey You. Shaking trees. Falling leaves. Wet streets. I was back in the hotel the following weekend. Chaplin was laying on the heat worse than ever. By mid-day, I’d abandoned any truth and just filled people with all sorts of bullshit. I didn’t think about Jennings, just decided I was going to quit. I figured Dyane was gonna leave Graham and that be that. We’d be together. Make our own plot. Fuck it.
I went for a pint with Chris after work in the Dew Drop. Good Guinness, lots of corners; and Europeans with hats and scarves. A smell of hops and ale. We took a seat by the door. Through the window, saw a line of taxis outside the Living Room.
He asked: ‘How’s Dyane?’ ‘Dyane? Goin well.’ ‘Eva?’ 'Great. I reckon this story’s running dry, though. Can't last too much longer. Might call down to FÁS and see if they have anythin goin.’
My phone rang. It was Dyane. ‘I have ta take this.’ Went out, she said: ‘Hey, I did it.’ ‘What?’ ‘Left him’ 'Left him?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘How’d he take it?' ‘I wrote him a letter.’ ‘And?’ ‘He phoned, called me a cunt and told me to go fuck myself.’ ‘How you feelin?’ ‘Like I’ve been cured from a terminal illness.’ ‘Wanna meet?’ ‘I’m outside O’Malley’s on Prospect Hill.’ ‘We’re in The Dew Drop. C’mon down.’ ‘K, see you in twenty minutes. And Jack…?’ ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. It’s ok.’ ‘Ok, babe, make your way down.’ Click. Chris waited, tapping his knee, looking around. The place was getting busy. ‘Sorry, that was Dyane.’ ‘She comin in? ‘Yeah, she left your man.’ ‘What’s she gonna do now?’ ‘Dunno.’ ‘Sure she can stay with us for a while.’ ‘I said it to her before, but I’ll mention it again. Hang on, I might go and meet her half way, she probably has bags.’ ‘Sound. I might give Eva a ring anyway.’
Sank the pint and left.
Nighttime Shop Street assaulted me with good vibes. The buzz of new beginnings. I went fast, smoking at the same time. The walk was like crossing a bridge from a world of winters to a much better climate. Threw my smoke in a puddle and gave a homeless guy my change.
There was a long queue outside Cuba*. It began to rain. I hurried on. Lotsa drunken young ones outside Vivo; letting themselves go. She looked outta place, but not uncomfortable. Blue jeans, red jumper, runners. I asked: ‘What’s with the style change?’ ‘Process of re-invention. You’ve been drinking, I can tell.’ ‘Had a pint with Chris, tasted like more. Sure we’ll have one in Richardson’s before we head back down.’
Got there. High ceiling. A line of chairs. Old geysers working on philosophical pints and time killing whisky. I asked her: ‘What’re ya havin?’ ‘Cider.’ ‘Me too.’ Bought them. ‘What’ll we toast to? Us?’ ‘And the end of him.’ Chink. Her hair down, her eyes bright. She was a portrait. Damn good cider, too. We left the pints on the counter, I asked: ‘You think he’s heartbroken?’ ‘I doubt it.’ ‘Where ya gonna live?’ ‘With whoever will put me up.’ She leaned in closer, hands in tiny pockets. ‘How was work?’ ‘Pleasant. Rewarding. Totally illegal.’ ‘So you gonna be a con man forever?’ ‘You’re talkin forever?’ ‘Just curious.’ ‘Fuck it. I’m out of it. Gonna quit first chance I get.’ Tunes kicked in, The Ramones, Pet Cemetery. Had electric vibes throughout my body, like I’d discovered the meaning of life. She said: ‘So, how does this go from here?’ ‘I get you drunk, bring you to mine and…’ She gave me a thump on the shoulder. ‘No, stupid. I mean, I’m used to meeting business partners and looking pretty. What do I do for you?’ ‘Exactly what you’re doin. Act natural. Be cool.’ ‘This is really weird. I haven’t had a new boyfriend in so long.’ ‘Not sure what to make of it myself.’ ‘You don't think it’s too soon for me to move in?’ ‘Where else you gonna go?’ ‘I don’t know. A hostel or something.’ ‘And do what? Fuck that. We’re goin home after this.’
She stood on her toes, both hands on my shoulders and kissed me. She smelled like all the things I’d ever wanted. Shortly after, we were making the trek back to the flat. I rang Chris. He was gone to Eva’s. The house sang of silent excitement, a nervous energy in the air, like lots of invisible pets had been waiting for us to return. Her bags made a loud whump against the wall. We loitered in the moment. Her eyes were dilated with amazed cider. I kissed her, we went to the bedroom, turned off the light and I thought: John Hancock can truly go fuck himself.
Woke up to a new world, one where white noise no longer existed. Dyane lay naked against me. Her pale face was serene in the dim light. She opened her eyes, like a newly born kitten, closed them again and fell back to sleep. Cars grumbled by outside. The hiss of a bus. Went to the bathroom. Stepped over her underwear on the floor. Brushed my teeth. Thought about crazy things, like a floating dead goldfish I’d once gotten as a birthday present.
Came back and she was gone. My mobile was ringing. I looked around. Out in the kitchen. Opened the door and looked down the hall. Nothing. Weird. My legs were shaking. Answered the phone. It was Chaplain. He opened with: ‘Well, bollocks.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Who the fuck is John Hancock, eh?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Ya know fuckin well.’ ‘What are ya on about?’ ‘That’s it now.’ ‘What?’ ‘It’s all fucked.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Hotel. Apartments. Bulgaria. End of shtory.’ ‘Sure what’s the problem?’ ‘FÁS were here. They’ve it all put together. Closed us down entirely. Lost our fuckin fiction licence. Can’t operate. Out of the job because of you, ya little fuckin…’ ‘Ah, hang on a second….’ ‘Seen your doll lately?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Dyane?’ ‘How do you know about…’ ‘Cos if we go, she goes, the whole fuckin plot is gone. Like I said, it’s all fucked.’ ‘If you fuckin touch her…’ ‘You made your bed, whatever the fuck your name is, now go and fuckin lie in it.’
He hung up. I looked at the ground. The was a stain on the floor that looked like the shape of Ireland. The toilet gurgled. I looked at the empty bed, at the ocean of roaring absence and warmth that was there a few minutes ago. Where the fuck was she gone?
I rang Chris. He answered, in a bad way. ‘I woke up and Eva was gone.’ ‘Yeah! Dyane’s fuckin gone too.’ ‘It’s the plot, man, it must have fallen apart.’ ‘Chaplin rang.’ ‘Does he know about Hancock?’ ‘Yeah. Said FÁS were down and suspended the fiction licence.’ ‘Fuck!’ ‘What are we gonna do?’ ‘Fuckin cuntish!’ ‘Yeah, I know, what are we goin to do?’ ‘Absolutely fuckin cuntish altogether!’ ‘Chris.’ ‘What?’ ‘What…’ ‘How the fuck do I know?’ ‘What’s goin to happen to us?’ ‘I’ve never even been out of work before.’ ‘I’m worried.’ ‘So you should be. What about the women?’ ‘I went to the bathroom, came back, Dyane had disappeared.’ ‘Entirely?’ I looked around: clothes, jewellery, everything gone. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Same here.’ ‘We’ll have to meet somewhere. How was Chaplain?’ ‘Thick as fuck.’ ‘Fuck him. We’ll go to Necahtains.’ ‘Sound.’ The shock was wearing off. The fear was setting in. Was afraid parts of me were going to start disappearing, like when time travel gets tricky and the universe collapses. There was no sign she’d ever been in the house, that she’d ever even existed. I checked my phone and her number was erased. I knew only two things: I had to find her, and I was dying for a pint.
So I got dressed and went to Neachtains
Chapter 8 -
Exterior. Outside Neachtians. Lots of beards and wicker chairs and thin cigarettes. Burshted in. The hiss of flowing ale. A smell of soup and coal. I got the first round, asked Chris: ‘What do ya think?’ ‘I tried to ring Chaplin, there. He’s gone too.’ ‘Jesus. Where the fuck do people go?’ ‘I don’t know. Like I said…I’ve never….’ ‘I know yeah. Bollocks anyway.’ I took a hit, said: ‘Nice Guinness.’ ‘Not bad, yeah. Hancock must have caused a right fuss.’ ‘Prick.’ Chris shouted two more. ‘We’re left around for a reason all the same.’ ‘How d’ya mean?’ ‘Like all the rest of them are gone, but we’re still here, talking, so we must be the only interesting characters worth keeping.’ ‘No, Dyane was savage. He should have kept her. There was more: Emotions. Tears. Heartbreak. Weird sex. Why the fuck would he write her out like that?’ ‘You wouldn’t know in the fuck. Same fuckin thing with Eva sure, we were having a mighty time til she evaporated off the bed. Wanted to make a go of it with her and everything. She was fuckin lovely.’ ‘Gorgeous.’ ‘Shite.’
Sip. Wipe the lips. Rasp. Thump of heavy pints on wood. A warm fire, heats up your jeans til they get too hot and burn the back of your legs. Guy at the bar turns around. It was Spike ‘How’s things?’ I gave a sullen howya. He continued. ‘Ye should have come to Richardson’s that night. It was savage craic. Did I hear ye say you’re missin someone? I gave him the outlines. He said: ‘I know just the man? ‘How d’ya mean?’ ‘To sort ye out.’ Chris asked: ‘Sure how can we get sorted out? They’re gone.’ He took out his phone. Talked. Hung up and said: ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
Half an hour later, Jennings walked in. Smell of wet socks and stale piss. Greasy. Long fingernails, jaundiced eyes. Cheap jeans, worse shirt. He wheezed: ‘I’d a feelin this might happen.’ then turned, said: ‘Howya, Spike.’ ‘Kurt.’ ‘Will ya have a pint?’ ‘Go on so.’ He called a round. I asked: ‘What’s the plan?’ ‘Any sign of the women since?’ Chris said: ‘No.’ He got pensive with: ‘I took a walk passed the hotel there, too. Gone.’ Took a long belt of porther. Trad session starting in the corner. Accordion clearing it’s throat. Jennings took off his jacket, rolled a thin smoke. He was playing man of the moment, trying to heighten the drama, milk the attention. Spike said: ‘Who’re ye lookin for anyway?’ We told him. He asked: ‘Does the red head work in New Look?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘She’s savage.’ He looked at me. ‘Sorry, I don’t know Dyane.’ Jennings said: ‘I’m goin out to smoke this.’ I went for: ‘Come back with a plan, we’re stuck for a future.’ ‘Relax, relax.’ He walked out. Chris said: ‘Suddenly he’s a fuckin Buddhist.’ ‘He’s the best,’ said Spike.’ ‘Best at what?' I asked. ‘Talkin shite?’ ‘He’ll get ye the wheels ye need?’ ‘What the fuck do we want wheels for?’ ‘To get the women back. There’s only one kinda car that can go there?’ ‘Where?’ ‘The next level.’ ‘Have another pint, Spike. What the fuck are you on about?’ ‘Ye’ll see.’
Jennings came back, said: ‘I had to think about whether I wanted to do this or not. I had to think long and hard. There’s a lot at stake....’ Hit him with: ‘Cut the bullshit and tell us.’ ‘When I was young…’ Chris said: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake! Where are we going?’ Spike cut in: ‘Just call it the afterlife for characters. It’s like going into a black hole. No one ever sees you again. No one knows what’s on the other side.’ I swamped the pint, asked: ‘And that’s where the women are?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘What’s it called?’ Jennings went for prophetic, sinister, ominous, but just managed a wheeze. ‘Fisherman’s Blues.’ Chris looked at me and rolled his eyes and muttered: ‘....Shtop….’ Spike said ‘It’s a song by The Waterboys, too.’ Told him we knew that. He said: ‘Oh right.’
Things were getting mental. I called a round of Jameson. Asked Jennings to explain. A guy came in from outside. Rain coming off his opened umbrella, dripping on the ground. The trad session kicked off. Accordion going strong. People tapping their feet. Delighted Germans drinking glasses of Guinness. PhD types in the corner, froth on their bushy lips.
The whiskys went down warm, kicked the tonsils on the way. Jennings went for more drama. An old man telling young men an unfortunate tale. It was taking too long. He turned round and I drank his whisky. He copped on after that, started trying to make sense. It was all about going through a special door somewhere. You had to find it in a particular way and only certain cars could achieve the force and centre of gravity required to make the leap through. It was going to be dangerous, terrifying, daring, but we had no choice. There was silence. Spike said: ‘All ye need is the balls and the car.’ I asked: ‘What kinda car is it?’ Jennings said: ‘Opel Astra. Has to be silver to reflect the intense heat of the fiction warp. It was discovered in an old shed by a couple of Lithuanians about two years ago, but they didn’t know it’s true value and sold it to me. I’ve spent my whole life lookin for…’ ‘Ever used it?’ ‘No. I’m terrified.’ Chris asked: ‘So how the fuck do you know if it even works?’ For the first time, I saw him angry. ‘It’s a Silver Opel Astra, 1994! It has to work!’
The pub went quiet. Kinda got the feeling it was an old yarn they tell the Americans so they’ll get free drink. Up there with Leprechauns, Banshees and Pishogues. There was only one thing to do. Chris said: ‘We’re going to need to see the car.’ ‘Tomorrow.’ Said Jennings.’ ‘Why not now?’ ‘Cos this is the last session we might ever have.’
Spike wanted to know if he could come too. We thought why not? Bought more whiskys. Big drink. I was worried about Dyane. Wondered where she was. If she was waiting for me to come for her. Wasn’t too sure how to feel, cept we had something and it was worth chasing.
Chris said Eva was: ‘The besht fuckin girl he’d ever met.’ Spike called it a ‘Mission from God!’ Jennings tried to sing but the bar man said he was shite, and if he didn’t shut up he’d get barred. So he stopped singing and got kinda sulky and sat on his own but he was back in time for the next round of whiskys. We asked the bar man for some Waterboys but he said it was bad luck and he wouldn’t play it so we went back to the flat, through the cold night and the rain and the gnawing wind. Jennings said they didn’t have rain in the fictional afterlife. I asked him how he knew that. He said he read it in a book. I asked what book but he wouldn’t tell me.
The busker was outside Eason’s. We brought him home. He was delighted to get inside and drink some Jameson. He was kind of Spanish or something. He played a few acoustic numbers and then we asked him for Fisherman’s Blues. He went kinda pale. We gave him the outline of the story. He said: ‘You kies are fuckeeen crazeee…no?’
But he played the song anyway. Said it was the only time he’d ever play it cos it was a serious occasion. Put in the perfect notes. Perfect tune. Lyrics all on cue. We listened like it was a sweet siren calling from a terrible place in the far beyond and we knew that we would never be the same people again after tomorrow. Like it was our last night before a terrible charge into a hopeless war. I went to hug him after, with tears in my eyes, but my shoelaces were open and I fell and busht my head off the side of the couch and didn’t wake up again for the next thirteen hours. At that stage he was long gone. Cuntish.
Chapter 9 -
Jennings woke me, asked: ‘Jack, are ya right?
Opened my eyes. First person I thought about was Dyane. Her scent. Her body. Her hair. Felt like I was built from radioactive emptiness, sharp hollow pain. March sun through the window. An empty bottle of Jameson on the floor. Stomach flipped, like a dying fish on dry land. Jennings kept shaking me, saying: ‘C’mon…we have to get the car…’ I stood up. Felt dizzy. Gave the couch a stern look and asked: ‘Where’s the fuckin busker gone?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘How the fuck do I know? Chris is on the way back with breakfast rolls.’
‘That might do the job.’
‘Then we have to go get the Astra.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Behind the Blue Note.’
‘What’s it doin there?’
‘I hid it.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos it’s the most valuable artifact know to man. That’s why.’
‘Shtop. What time we leaving?’
‘After the breakfast, we’ll go to Aldi, get some booze, and then we’re good to go.’
‘Aldi.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothin.’
‘D’ya want a cup of tea?’
‘No, I want to find Dyane. Fuck it anyway. How are we getting to this place?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘How complicated?’
‘Cuntish enough.’
‘Far?’
‘Not really.’
‘Where’s Spike?’
‘Neachtains.’
‘Is he still comin?’
‘I think so.’
Chris arrived. Silver torpedoes of cholesterol. We lashed them open. Chewed hard. Relished. After, felt a bit better, sipped tea and smoked. Chris said: ‘So the car’s in The Blue Note?’
‘Behind it.’
‘Sound, we’ll go there first, collect it, stop at Aldi and get going. Any idea how we’re gettin there?’
I looked at Jennings. He looked at the ground, said again: ‘It’s complicated.’
The day was bright. Lots of people shopping and talking on their mobiles. Walked passed Abrakebabra and the entrance for Corbett Court. The sweet sound of a harp came across the top of Shop Street. There was a beautiful girl playing, long hair, mittens on her tiny hands. She had a crowd, but didn’t seem to mind. Jennings said: ‘Think I’m in love with her.’
Chris answered: ‘Beshta luck with that.’
I asked: ‘Who is she?’
‘That’s Annie, she’s a legend.’
Wanted to talk to her, but hadn’t got the time. Gave her a tenner and kept going. We all lit smokes. Grey Nicotine, and a tinge of self-hurt. Took a right by the Spanish Arch. Chris asked Jennings: ‘Do you reckon they have reception in the fictional afterlife?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘Well you seem to know everything else about the fuckin place.’
‘Piss off.’
Chris took out his phone. Dialed. Listened. ‘It’s ringing!’
We all stopped to see, then: ‘Hello?’
Big excitement. ‘Hello, Eva?’
‘No, this is her friend, Sarah, she left her phone at work. Have you seen her today actually, she’s not in and she hasn’t called in sick…’
Chris said: ‘Aragh shite.’ And he hung up.
We walked on with heavy hearts. A light drizzle began. Galway rain, unique in the world, speaks volumes, melts on the streets like memories, plays on the cobble like piano keys.
The Blue Note was blue and closed. There was a car park out the back. We got there. Found a gate. Jennings had a key. We entered. Rusty hinges. Loud squeal. Smell of oxidation. Puddles. Potholes. Trees. A path through the middle. We pushed on. A warehouse. Large. Padlock. Another key. Opened it.
The Astra was inside. A mechanical diamond. Impressive physique. Untarnished silver. New tires. Polished lights. The place was empty besides. Smell of spilled oil and birdshit. I asked Jennings: ‘Who owns this place?’ ‘I used to. When I wore a younger man’s clothes.’ Chris said: ‘Open her up to fuck.’
We sat in. Comfort. Clean dash. Tape deck with jack for hooking up your Mp3 player. More keys. There was a discussion about who should drive. None of us trusted Jennings. Chris was still on his provisional license. It came down to me. Fuck it. I’ll do it.
We pulled out. She was a beast. Wanted to roar ahead. Felt like I could take Mercs, SUV’s, anything that came my way. Sensitive to the touch of the foot. Power steering. Motorised personality. We roared into Aldi. Envious looks. Shtuck her in the disabled spot. Attacked the off-licence inside. Shlabs of Bavaria, Fosters, Firkin Brau, Stolichnaya Vodka, a few bottles of Country Spring Lemonade. Filled the boot and most of the back seat. Got food too. Doritos. A loaf of bread. Dodgy butter. Twenty cans of beans. We were set.
Rang Spike. He said: ‘I think I’ll stick here. The craic is good.’
‘Sure?’
‘Fuck it yeah, I’ve to sign on the dole tomorrow and if I miss it they’ll cut me straight off.’
‘Sound.’
‘Talk to ya. And good luck.’
‘Cheers.’
Hung up. Found a €50 fine on the windscreen for not having a disabled permit. Gave it to Jennings. He said: ‘Shite!’ and put it in his pocket.
I said: ‘So tell us the next step. What’s the plan?’
He finally told us how we were going to go through his special fuckin door. After, I looked at Chris. He was staring at a puddle on the ground. I turned back and asked: ‘Which roundabout?’
‘Headford Road. ’
‘And we have to what?’
‘Drive around it.’
‘Ok, and tell me the rest again...’
‘We have to drive around it the wrong way, in the opposite direction like…’
Chris, asked: ‘Jennings, are you fuckin serious?’
‘Hey, we’re fucked anyway.’
‘Where’d you get this idea from?’
‘I heard it.’
‘Where?’
‘St.Mary’s.’
‘The fuckin mental home?’
‘I was in for drink a few years back and a man told me in there.’
‘Better get the Bavaria, Chris.’
‘Hang on,’ said Jennings. ‘It’s true. He said he was there. He’d done it.’
‘And what happens if a big fuckin Artic arrives?’
‘It won’t if we go fast enough.’
I lit a Benson. Let the smoke go through, exhaled. A bruised cloud in the distance over Menlo. The Astra was getting bored. A clunk came from somewhere inside it. I asked: ‘How fast?’
‘Once you hit fifth in the car it’s supposed to reach faster than the speed of light. We go round it sixty times, it should only take half a second at that speed. Then you veer to the centre of the roundabout and the door opens and you go through.’
Chris sparked a can, slugged, said: ‘Astra. Speed of light. Wrong way round the fuckin Headford Road roundabout, what could be simpler?’
Jennings checked his pockets, said: ‘Fuck it, I'm outta fags, have ya got one?’
I gave him one. His fingers were brown. I took out a can, sank it fast. Tasted like my first Holy Communion, when the oul fella went to the jacks and I drank his pint. He came back and I thought he was going to kick my hole. Instead he said: ‘Fair fucks to ya, you’re well able for it....’
Irish dads. Can’t beat them.
Chris said: ‘Right, are we doin this or what?’
We all sat in, kinda awkward, like this was a stupid idea but no one wanted to say it. A smell of air freshener. I started her up and she roared. Put it in first and crept towards the roundabout. The most important thing was to find a quiet moment, when the cars were few. Pity it was one of the busiest spots in the West of Ireland, and that no one really understood roundabouts anyway, just kinda drove on and hoped for the best.
A truck trundled past, its trailer bouncing in delight. The lights went red at the Limerick Road and I sank the shoe. Thing is, soon’s ya do something erratic, everyone starts beeping, pointing; thinks they’re a motorological fuckin genius. No one could believe what they were seeing. A fat woman in an SUV. A suit and glasses in an Audi. A scumbag in a Honda Civic. Their faces said: He’s American. Stupid. A fuckin eejit. Doing his driving test.
The beeping got louder. Everyone trying to say: ‘You’re doin it wrong!’ Like we didn’t fuckin know. Lights flashing everywhere. A mad man with an umbrella trying to wave us down. We got to fourth on the first spin around. A siren wailed, but we were going to fast to see it. Narrowly missed a motorbike by the Dublin exit. He managed a demented swerve and sped to safety. Everything started to blur. The cars less solid, stretched before the eyes. Head getting dizzy. Jennings shouted: ‘Do it!’
I gave it a second, afraid, then shoved her into fifth and there was an almighty explosion of light and sound and intense energy. And everything went black and we weren’t even real anymore. De-materialized into some kinda bright particles. No sound, no taste, no touch. Just a floatless drift into somewhere we couldn’t see. And for a second I knew everything. I knew the meaning of life, the world, of people. I knew what death was. I knew the nature of existence. I knew what it was to transcend and revisit the point of conception. And then we landed, in a great dramatic crash, and the Astra bounced on to something that felt like a road. Jennings was screaming in the passenger seat and all around us there was sand, such a vast landscape of sand, and blue sky, and a lonely small cyclone of brown grains, and there was a hiss cos some of the cans had burst in the back, and the car was still running when we looked through the windscreen and saw a long endless highway stretch ahead. We all panted. Jennings said: ‘I thought we were dead.’
‘I think we are,’ Said Chris.
I looked around, asked: ‘What now?’
‘Fucked if I know, ‘ said Jennings.
So I put her in first in and drove.
Chapter 10-
Infinite road. Bright sun and heat and hard silence. Mad barren landscape either side. We were ten miles gone when the petrol gauge came on. I looked down, asked: ‘How’s this baby on juice?’
‘Fuck,’ said Jennings. ‘I meant to fill her up before we left.’
‘What the fuck happens if we run out?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Do we have a Jerrycan? ‘Asked Chris.
‘No.’
He tutted, then leaned between the seats and pointed: ‘What’s that?’
I squinted. ‘What?’
‘There.’
Something in the distance. Looked like a tree. Turned out to be a man walking. Got closer. Slowed up. He turned when he heard the engine, looked kinda surprised. I pulled in. He was disheveled. Denim jeans. Army coat. Stubble. He walked towards the window, blue eyes, gum breath, asked: ‘Where the fuck did ye come from?’
‘Galway.’
‘Galway! Oh for fuck’s sake.’ He reached in a hand. ‘How’s things?’
We shook, I said: ‘Not too bad.’ He looked around the car. Said his name was Gerry. Everyone did the introduction thing. Silence, then he said: ‘What’re ye at here?’
We gave him the outlines. He asked: ‘Is that your one that works in New Look?’
We said yeah. He said: ‘Shtop. She’s savage. And who else?’
‘Dyane.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Bright background. The car purred. I asked: ‘What are you doin here anyway?’
‘Fuckin penance.’
‘Penance for what?’
‘I fucked up.’
‘What ya do? Sure sit in and we’ll bring you a piece of the way.’
‘Can’t. I have to walk a million miles.’
Jennings said: ‘A million fuckin miles, for what?’
‘Robbed the Cathedral. I was in a bad way one day… went in and shtole the price of a few pints.’
‘Fairly harsh all the same.’ Said Chris.
‘Yeah, but then the priest caught me and I told him to FUCK OFF!’
‘Oh right.’
I said: ‘Shtill.’
‘Then I hit him a belt in the mouth, and he went mad and he chased me out the door and we were running across the road and he got welded by a bus.’
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Yeah, I kept running. Went straight to Padraigs. Hadn’t one sip of the pint taken and the legs went from under the barstool and I woke up here.’
We all expressed sympathy. Then I asked: ‘How do you know you have to walk a million miles, though?’
‘There was a note in my pocket when I got here.’
He pulled it out, handed it to us. It said: ‘For the lad that killed the priest. Please walk a million miles in the forward direction. The eyes of God are watching. If you cheat, you will be sent back to the start. You will not get older, hungry or tired. But you must complete the task.’
Jennings said: ‘I see.’
Gerry smiled kinda sadly. ‘I sat there, on the side of the road for a good year before I started. Called God every cunt under the sun, but nothin happened. There was nothing to do, but think about my life. So in the end I just said "fuck it" and started walking.’
‘How’s it going for ya?’ I asked.
‘Not too bad. I’ve about a thousand done now I’d say.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a lift?’ Asked Chris.
‘Shtop. I’ll keep goin the way I am now. That’s mighty ye’re from Galway. How’s Garvey’s doin on the corner back there?’
‘Great,’ said Chris. ‘Had a pint in it the other night.’
‘I’d murder one.’
I took out a can. His lips watered. I said: ‘Chance one of them.’
‘Jez I don’t know.’
‘Go on, sure.’
He took it. Sparked and slugged, said: ‘That’s Heaven itself. Ye didn’t bring fags?’
Chris handed him a box. ‘Keep them.’
‘Are ye sure?’
‘Go on, we’ve plenty!’
‘Twas God that sent ye.’
I said: ‘You don’t know of any petrol stations around here?’
He frowned. ‘I didn’t see any, but sure there must be.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Are ye low?’
‘She’s in the red.’
He gave the wing a once over, asked: ‘Is she an Astra?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll be sound so. Did Mayo win the All-Ireland yet? I’m from Swinford originally.’
‘I’m from Ballinrobe.’
‘Are ya fuck? Here, shake my hand again.’
We shook again.
‘C’mere and I ask ya, is the Valk shtill goin?’
‘Tis, it’s all done up now.’
‘Had Some fuckin nights in there.’
‘You used to come up from Swinford?’
‘I was seein a girl there from Partry.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah, Delia Biggins.’
‘Don’t know her.’
‘She’s probably gone now.’
‘Oh hang on, is her oul fella a guard?’
‘Yeah! Joe.’
‘I have ya now.’
‘He’s a prick with ears.’
‘Did me for speedin last year.’
‘Did me for drink drivin. Didn’t look great. Fell outta Harrington’s one night. Bushted with sauce. He caught me at Keel Bridge.’
‘Pulled ya like?’
‘No, well, I hit a deer.’
‘Right.’
‘Zero-zero Peugeot, brand new at the time.’
‘Your own?’
‘Delia’s.’
‘How’d she take it?’
‘She ran me.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Cuntish alright.'
He took a long drink, beat, then, ‘I’d love to go back for a day.’
‘To Partry?' Asked Jennings.
‘No, fuck that. Just back to life, ya know?’
‘Maybe when you’ve the million walked…’ Said Chris.
He looked ahead to the long road, said: ‘Yeah…maybe. Listen;. If you’re down again, or ye make it back, will ye do me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘I've been thinkin a lot about the oul pair. Will ya call into them and tell them I’m alright. They do be worried, like.’
‘We will ya. What’s their names?’
He told us their names, then said: ‘I 'spose I better let ye go again and I'll walk another bit.’
I took out another can. ‘Here’s another one to keep ya goin.’
‘Go way will ya!’
‘Go on, take it!’
‘Have ye enough for yourselves?’
‘You’ll want it more than us, go on!’
'Are ya sure?'
'Go on!'
He took it, reluctant, stared at the writing on the side. ‘Ye’re sound men.’
‘Right, we’ll make a bursht here again so.’
‘Drive her easy sure and I might meet ye for one up the road somewhere.’
‘What’s the craic with it gettin dark here and all that?’
‘Same as anywhere. Just gets dark.’
‘Sound. ‘
I put it in first, he stood back, slapped the roof with his palm. ‘Right, sure, belt away.’
We tore on. White line. Sky the colour of a swimming pool. No clouds. Desert. Astra glad to be in action. I looked in the rear view mirror and Gerry had started walking again. Head down. Thinking. Kicking an odd stone. Chris said: ‘I won’t be robbing any Cathedrals for a while.’
‘Fuckin right.’
‘Poor cunt.’ Said Jennings.
‘I meant to ask him where we are.’
‘Oh yeah…’ said Chris. ‘Shite.’
‘And how come everyone knows Eva and not Dyane, what’s the deal with that?’
He shrugged. Jennings said: ‘Maybe Dyane’s got a different name here.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
He was picking his nose and throwing the snot out the window. I said: ‘Then why would ya say somethin like that?’
He didn’t say anything, just stared ahead, like he was deaf and mute. So I put her in fourth and sank the shoe.
Hours passed. The sun dipped. The road stretched ahead, far as the eye could see, all the way to the end of the universe for all we knew. Dark arrived and ghostly whispers came across the desert. I felt them as I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other out the window as the passing breeze went through my palm. Chris was asleep. Head back, half a bag of Doritos in his lap. Jennings hadn’t said anything for hours. It was just me and the road and the eternal thoughts about home and whether I’d ever see Dyane again. I was thinking about old Gerry and those million miles too. Then Jennings spoke. ‘Where are we goin to sleep?’
It had never occurred to any of us. We had booze, and beans, but no sleeping bags. Fuck it. Hit the brakes for a second, kinda hard, enough to jerk Chris awake. He came to life and grabbed the bag of Doritos like someone was trying to steal them. There was that big crunch of tin foil. Then he said: ‘What the fuck sorta drivin are you doin?’
‘We’re tryin to decide where to sleep.’
‘Here in the car.’
Jennings said: ‘Not a bad idea.’
I said: ‘It’ll be too hot for all of us.’
‘Sleep on the ground outside so.’
I pulled in. Feeling beat and tired and lost. The sky was a dome of stars, an orange halo rested across the horizon. I walked onto the hot desert and lay down and felt an odd comfort. It was soft like a bed and it was warm enough without a blanket. There were crumbs of stone but there was no life. No insects crawling. No small tress stirring in the distance. The Astra stayed alongside me, faithful as a good dog, a proud protector. This wasn’t just an open space. It was some kind of abyss. Kind that makes ya dizzy, like standing on the edge of high cliff. .
Went and got a Bavaria. Sparked it, took a long slug, burped. Looked at my shoes, grains of sand in the laces. Drank more, it was smooth. Thought again about Dyane. Was she dead or alive? It was impossible to know. Looked at the car, Chris was gone back asleep, but he’d begun to snore. Jennings was twisting and turning. Eventually I told him it was better to sleep outside. He thanked me over a can. We were well into the Stolichnaya and lemonade when he said: ‘That Country Spring is pure piss.’
‘Like drinkin bog water...might as well drink the vodka straight.’
Silence. Then I said: ‘You’re like a man that has a shtory.’
‘Every man has a story.’
‘But yours has ya turned inside out.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘And what was that about being in St.Mary’s for the drink?’
‘I wish that’s all it was.’
‘Go on, sure. Talkin cured a lot of things before St. Mary’s ever came along.’
‘Twas a woman of course.’
I looked into my drink. ‘Isn’t it fuckin always....?’
‘I was a teacher.’
‘You were a teacher?’
He let the surprise slide, said: ‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry, go on.’
‘I’m used to it.’
I took belt of the paint stripper, asked: ‘Couldn’t handle the pressure?’
‘Not that.’
‘The students getting to ya?’
‘Her name was Kohlia.’
‘What the fuck sorta name is that?’
‘I never found out, as much heartbreak as it caused me.’
‘Was she a girlfriend, like?’
‘Pupil.’
I looked at the car, at my thumb, then said: ‘Oh right.’
‘She was older than the rest.’
‘Fuckin hope so.’
’19.’
‘And you were?’
’30.’
I thought about it. It was like a suitcase that’s so full it only closes with great effort and might burst at any second. Took a hit, it was like a kick from a tinker's horse, said: ‘Go on.’
Chapter 11 -
He got ready to speak. Swallowed hard and assembled the story. Talked like he was describing a movie in his mind. His eyes turned inward, watching the scenes go by. ‘I was a professional. Admired. Passionate. She was young, highly intelligent, beautiful. I’d never seen a mind like hers.’
‘So ye hooked up?’
‘She wanted grinds.’
‘What did you teach?’
‘Maths.’
‘Better it’s gettin.’
‘Hey! If ya don’t want to fuckin hear it….!’
‘Go on; go on!’
He swallowed, too far gone to stop. ‘It was the usual fuckin story. November. Warm fire. My house. Her legs. Us alone. No one giving two fucks about maths. She didn’t need grinds any more than I did.’
‘And…’
‘She told the parents she was staying at a friends place. It was all set. But when it came to it, I turned away.’
‘Why?’
‘I had morals at the time.’
‘How’d she take it?’
‘Never said a thing. We never actually spoke about it.’
‘I don’t get what you’re tellin me.’
‘She left soon after that. I was engaged the same year to be married. My fiancé was a teacher too. In the same school, Solerno. There wasn’t much money around at the time and teaching was a good job. We were all set and then I met Kohlia; and then Kohlia left.’
‘Where’d she go?’
‘One day there was a note in my folder. “I’m gone. You know we could have been something. Have a good life.” That’s all it said.’
‘And you never saw her again?’
‘It’s not the point. She was inside me by then. It was like swallowing a hive of bees and every one of them stingin ya to escape…’'
‘Cuntish.’
''I saw her on the street. In the distance. In the shadows. At night, with my wife to be, I tried not to think about her, but…’
'Fuck.'
‘Yeah. So I started drinking kinda heavy. Didn’t work. I went to hookers. Didn’t work. I read books on philosophy, love, the psychology of obsession and for a while she’d go, leave me alone, the torment would stop, but then, like a fuckin tsunami, it’d take over me again and I’d be lost to the black fuckin...nowhere.’ He drank. Burped. ‘My work suffered.’
‘Fired?’
‘Not at first. They let a lot of things go. I lost patience with everyone, almost got violent. Then I came in drunk. Tried robbin the principal’s office...'
'Why?'
'To find her file, like, and figure out where she’d gone. He came in and caught me and that was that.’
‘What you tell the Fiancé?’
‘Turned out I’d caught Gonorrhea off one of the hookers so that was that fucked too.’
‘Jesus…’
‘She married the woodwork teacher a year later.’
‘Who? The hooker?’
‘No, ya thick cunt, my fuckin fiancé.’ He contemplated his hands for a few seconds. ‘Eamon Cusack. Useless creature.'
‘Ya fuckin eejit.’
‘You don’t understand torment.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘If I say to you: “Have you ever been tormented?” and you hesitate for even a second, then you’re lucky cos the answer is no. If I asked: “Have you ever been in quicksand? Then you’d remember fairly fast, no?’
‘Maybe you should have just been with her.’
‘I felt it was morally wrong.’
‘Even though ye connected?’
‘Yeah, look where my morals got me.’
‘I don’t know how you resisted.’
‘If she hadn’t left…maybe…’
‘I suppose she was young all the same.’
‘She was and she wasn’t. It was like a one horse race and I didn’t put any money on cos I was afraid I’d lose.’
‘You’d see your own arse with hindsight.' Took another hit. 'And you think she's out here somewhere?'
'Yeah. I don't know how I know. I just know she's here.’
‘Why didn’t ya use the Astra until now?’
‘Look at me? You’re after sayin I’m turned inside out, what’s she gonna think if I meet her in this shtate?’
‘Shtill. What else had ya for doin?
‘Drinkin…’
'And you ended up in St. Mary’s?
‘Cunt of a spot.’
‘And ya met your man that told ya….’
‘Yeah, only good thing that came outta the place.’
‘What’s the first thing you’ll say when you see her?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll tell ya straight – I’m scared. Been scared since the day I bought the car.’
‘But you came anyway.’
He took a drink, looked into his plastic cup, then out over the flat nowhere. ‘Yeah…I came anyway….now pass the fuckin bottle….’
Morning comes slow and bright like the fingers of a baby angel coming over the horizon. Soft sand and a chronic hangover. Jennings flat on his face, dead except for snoring. I stood up and stretched. Head sore, like it was full of poison ice cream. Dry mouth and peptic screams and the fear that I might puke a furry animal at any second. I thought about Dyane. Her moist lips. Long afternoons. Warmth and Vulva. Suppressed it. Felt worse.
Haunted by The Guggenheim Grotto, I told you so. Jennings' story. Kohlia. Torment. Shtop. I shook. What the fuck was he at? Every one to their own I suppose. Still, she’d want to be fuckin savage, even then. The empty Vodka bottle, scattered cans. No wind, hard to relate to nature when there isn’t any. Everything kind of amplified, yet coming from a distance. Went across the road to have a piss. The tarmac felt surreal, as if it was made from glass over a massive drop below. The piss gathered in a busy puddle, but didn’t soak in.
Zipped up, feeling raped by vertigo’s sister. Fuck it. Woke Chris and he stretched too. And then we stirred Jennings and it took a while for him to come around, but we eventually got going. The Astra rolled smooth, a silver shimmer, confident and elite. Chris opened a can of beans, threw the lid out the window. A small fading tingle of terrified tin. I lit a fag. Benson. Inhaled. Bloodstream nicotine, a satisfied thirst. We were all kinda thinking the same thing. It was time to say: ‘…so we’re here….drove for a whole day….saw nothing, except Gerry, are we just gonna do the same fuckin thing again…or what?’
Chris pointed. ‘What the fuck is that?’
I saw it. Hit the brakes. It was a huge road sign in the shape of a crucifix. One arm said: ‘Turn here, Gerry. You are now on 2,000 miles. Good man yourself. ’
The other said: ‘Bambino Highway.’
I asked: ‘What the fuck is the Bambino Highway?’
We were at a four way junction. Chris said: ‘Well we’re not fuckin Gerry, so we should take the other one.’
‘Why not go straight on?’
‘Cos it’s the first sign we’ve seen in a thousand fuckin miles.’
Jennings went. ‘The guy in St. Mary’s talked about The Bambino.’
‘What he say?’
‘I can’t really remember.’
‘You’re some fuckin help.’
‘We should take it.’
‘Whatever, get in the back so.’
‘What?’
‘Get in the back, I’m sick of talking to ya, let Chris in here for a while.’
He muttered: ‘Fuck ya so.’
And got out.
Chris got into the passenger seat and I indicated and drove. He offered me some beans and I said no. Still hungover, but not as bad, starting to feel safe. The sun got high and there was a blister on my thumb from the heat. The windows were open but we were starting to boil up all the same. A smell like melting gum. And the road stretched on. We accelerated. The speedometer was up to the last yet the engine showed no strain. Chris asked: ‘What did ye do last night?’
‘Drank the vodka and talked shite.’
‘I was wrecked.’
‘We heard ya snoring.’
‘Fuck it, sorry.’
‘You’re grand. What do you reckon’s up here?’
He took a scoop of beans. Some of it fell on his shirt. ‘Dunno. Somethin to do with a Bambino, whatever the fuck that is.’
‘Do you miss the hotel?’
‘Do I fuck.’
‘How’ll we get out of this place?’
‘Drive I’d say,’
‘Back the same way?’
‘We better find these fuckin women first, anyway.’
‘What do you think they’re at?’
‘Probably on the piss somewhere.’
‘Is there even pubs down here?’
‘Knowin Eva she’ll find one.’
‘Ya miss her?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, she’s different.’
‘How?’
‘Agh, you know.’
‘I do, yeah, how the fuck could I know?’
‘Shtop. These beans are shite.’
Midnight Oil. Beds are Burning. Something materialised up ahead. It was like a building or a clump of trees. Chris took out twenty Benson and threw me the box. We sparked. The shadow came closer. Solitary tress appeared in the barren landscape either side. Small shoots of grass. A light wind, akin to life, oxygen in a stagnant cave. Great big Billboard sign appeared from nowhere saying: ‘Paddy’s Bar. Ten minute drive at the speed of light. Free coffee for the driver. Last Exit for the Bambino Highway.’ Beneath was a picture of a fuel pump, a knife and fork and a pint.
I said: ‘Looks promisin.’
‘I’d love a rasher sandwich.’
‘I want my free coffee. We goin at the speed light?’
‘She has to be in fifth. Remember the roundabout?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Will I hit it?’
‘Be here all day otherwise.’
‘Sound, better fuck on the seatbelts.’
We did. I revved. The Astra rose to the task, collected all it’s pistons and got ready for the surge. We peaked on fourth at 50,000 M/ph and then I hit it. Moist lips. Long afternoons. Warmth and Vulva.
CHAPTER 12
Speed of light is fairly mental. Fastest thing possible. Hyper reality. Opens your mind to bigger things. Kinda turns everything upside down and inside out. Like your man that figured out the world is round. Thousand of years of people thinking it was flat and he looks at the sky one day and thinks: ‘Hang on a fuckin second.’
We got to the trees. Things were lush now. A few ponds. Less desert. Thin roads. I put her back in fourth to get our bearings. There was a red round sign that said: ‘20,000 K/ph.’
And then:
‘Paddy’s Bar. Next Left. Last exit to The Bambino Highway.’
We pulled in a few minutes later. It was a thatch cottage. Car parking outside. There was no doubt we were in some kinda civilisation.
We got out. Looking back it was still possible to see the desert, a great yellow sea of sand and empty. Standing on gravel was good, familiar. Bright red door. Petrol pumps to the right. Light wind. Lapping water somewhere. Something moving inside. ‘Better knock, anyway.’ Said Chris.
He did. The door opened. Nobody stood at the entrance. It just squealed inwards.
So we walked in.
Interior. Counter. A smell like sawdust and coal. Couple of geriatrics working on some Guinness and whisky chasers. Calm light on their heads. No hurry on them. Fire going. Fella behind the bar with a goatee, gave us a look, said: ‘Lads.’
Chris answered: ‘Are ye well?’
The old men grunted. Bar man asked: ‘Pints all round?’
I said: ‘Sound.’
‘I’ll have a Jack Daniels chaser too.’ Said Jennings.
This caused a stir, a few dirty looks, a re-assessment, but the drinks came without any further fuckin around. Chris said: ‘Fine spot.’
Bartender extended his hand. ‘I’m Joe.’
We did the intro. He asked: ‘Are ye lost or what?’
Told him we kinda were and we kinda weren’t. He listened to the predicament, kept a curious eye on Jennings, then said: ‘Well ye came at the right time anyway.’
Chris took a long drink, asked: ‘Why’s that?’
He pointed to a big banner overhead. ‘Happy Birthday, Nola!’ Written across the top. ‘Savage party planned here tonight.’
‘Oh yeah?’
He was about to talk when the bolt on the door rattled and the hinges creaked. Woman walked in. Sallow skin. Huge brown eyes. Black top and tight jeans. Hair autumnal. Joe greeted her. She had an accent. South American. She eyed us up. Jennings stared at her chest. She let it slide. We talked. She said what Joe had said.
‘You come at a good time. I’m Melissa.’ She said it like this: Mallissa.
We shook. She kissed me twice on the cheek. Smelled like caramel. Chris asked: ‘What time’s this party shtartin?’
‘Soon. You should join.’
‘We will.’
‘Ok.’
‘Ok.’
‘Ok. Ciao.’
There was mischief in her eyes. The foreign kind, like she knows well what you’re thinking and she’s gonna fuck with you for a while. Her boots echoed away and she started organising tables in the back bar. I asked Joe: ‘Where’s she from?’
‘Here.’
‘Where’s here?’
‘Ye don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Ye’re in for a bit of learning tonight, so.’
‘We’ll happily learn now if ya like.’
He wiped the counter, said: ‘Shtop. The next one’s on me.’
Pints later, Melissa left with a large bowl covered in tin foil. When she opened the door, we could see it was dark outside. We were too bushted to drive and none of us fancied sleeping on the gravel. Joe told us not to worry, we’d be sound. So we ordered another round and then the crowd came.
A real motley crew. Guitars. Sombreros. Bongos. You could tell they’d already been drinking. The place exploded with their arrival. Didn’t waste any time getting set up. Kicked off in a language we didn’t understand. Same kind of accent as Melissa. The place got packed and warm. We waited for someone to talk to us. Joe told us nothing. A blonde woman came round with a basket of cocktail sausages with chips. We wired into them. Later she came back with some chicken nuggets. There was a mouth watering smell of fat being cooked. Someone said they were making steaks out there. It was time to go ‘Out there.’
Picked up the pints and bursthed out. There was a small lowering of noise among the crowd with our sudden appearance. Melissa came and saved us. Told us to take a seat at the back bar. We did. The band played on.
An air of excitement. It was all about waiting for Nola, whoever the fuck she was. Suddenly there was an almighty uproar of delighted screaming and she was here.
Cake. Lots of candles. Singing. Photographs. The bumps. Dancing. Got on to Jaggerbombs. Knew everything there was to know about dancing. Tried to tear it up. Nearly killed Joe with a stray elbow.
Butterballs. Baby Guinness. Swinging young ones round. Eventually Nola caught me at the bar, said: ‘Thanks for coming but I don’t know who you are?’
She was blonde, up to my shoulder, all heart. I told her roughly. She said: ‘Joe said something about that, are you looking for the Bambino Highway?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Wherever the hell Dyane and Eva are gone, we’ll go there. It’s our mission to save them, you know?’
‘Are you sure her name is Dyane?’
‘Ah…yeah…’
‘Is that your car outside?’
‘The Astra?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘Galway.’
‘Galway!’
‘Yeah.’
‘You and I will need to sit down tomorrow, ok?’
‘Ok.’
‘We need to talk about that car. And Dyane. And where you’re going.’
‘Sound.’
‘I can’t do it tonight, cos I’m celebrating.’
‘Yeah, yeah, Jesus don’t worry about it…’
‘But I think we’ve been waiting for you.’
‘How d’ya mean?’
‘Tomorrow, tomorrow. Let’s do a shot.’
‘Here I’ll get them. Two double Jaggerbombs, Joe, when you get a chance.’
They came. We drank. It was highly potent. She said: ‘Alright, let’s party.’
‘Be better if I knew what they were singin.’
‘Oh you don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘It’s an ancient musical dialect. Listen hard. You’ll get it.’
‘Thanks, Nola.’
She kissed me on the cheek, then pointed a finger. ‘Enjoy yourself, hun. Don’t forget. Tomorrow. Serious talk.’
She dissolved. The night went on. Jennings fell asleep on a couch in the corner. Someone handed me a plate of steak and potatoes Lashed into that. Washed it down with a can of Bulmers. Started wondering about Chris. Hadn’t seen him in a while. Then Melissa arrived beside me. Not too sure how we got dancing. She was good at it. I was shite. Almost fell and knocked the two of us over. Blank.
We’re all sitting around a table and the band have finished. Some people are singing old songs. Melissa is sitting on my knees. One of the band still has his guitar and everyone goads him to sing. He eventually does.
It’s haunting. Coarse voice. High vocals at the end. It’s the kinda moment that hangs delicate in the balance, requires silence for full appreciation and effect. Nobody dared talk, take a drink, even move. Spellbinding. He had his eyes closed. Feeling it. Living it. That vibe.
He was half way through when Chris fell in the door. It was like he was trying to take it off the hinges. Thish, rump; arackle - Whang! Rump a thump rump. Muttering: “fuckin bastardin cunt of a fuckin door….’ Shirt open. Wide eyes. Frantic. Almost knocked a stool over, caught it awkwardly and made a world of noise trying to stand it up straight. Everyone looked at him like he was mad. He asked: ‘Is the party over?!’
The silence gives him the answer and he says: ‘Fuck! And is the bar closed?’
He looks. Realises. ‘Shite! Went to the car for a joint and fell asleep.’
The musician leaves the guitar down. The moment’s over. Everyone’s annoyed but no one says anything. Melissa turns and asks. ‘You have a car?’
I said: ‘Yeah, Opel Astra, 1994. Besht fuckin car in the world.’
Her eyes went wide. 'Silver?'
'Yeah.'
Everyone at the table stopped what they were doing. Chris asked: ‘Where the fuck is Joe gone anyway?’ Musician turned to me. ‘It’s impolite to make jokes like that. You are messing with a concept that is very important to us.’
‘Sure what am I jokin about?’
‘You say you have an Opel Astra. 1994. That’s impossible.’
Chris says: ‘Fuck this. Joe!’
I said: ‘I have yeah, it’s outside.’
Nola intervened. ‘I talked to him about it, Greg. We’re not sure. We’re going to see tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow! What’s tomorrow?! Why not now? If the car is there….’
‘Tomorrow. Now is not the time.’
‘We’ve been waiting this long, why wait more?’
‘Because we need to be sure. We can’t send them driving into the….’
‘Now’s the time.’
There was an abusive verbal exchange out back somewhere. Chris was heard mumbling to a woman who was asking him to leave. A baby began to cry and the woman lost her temper and tore into Chris with dog's abuse. Nola said: ‘Oh, he’s woken the child.’
Melissa took my hand. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Now.’
Greg stood up. ‘I can’t believe this.’
And left. A general tumult ensued. Jackets retrieved. Chinking glasses. Drip trays clattering. We got outside. Melissa’s curves. Delighted cold air. I was feeling lucky. She looked at the car. ‘Is this it?’
