Oak and Stone

by Dave Duggan

  ‘I seen Ruby getting him to pay for the dinner and all. Fair play to her. Start as you mean to go on with them fellas and don’t get caught out. She’s right there.’

  I didn’t tell her how Ruby saw the dinner getting covered. I was more interested in Maisie’s reference to ‘them fellas’ and to ‘getting caught out’. Another whole investigation had opened up in front of me, one that might lead me to my mother’s story.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me about my father.’

  ‘Ah, shur …’

  ‘I’ll know him only when I get his armour to wear. And his weapons. His claíomh and spear and shield. I might forgo the chariot.’

  ‘That’s another one of your stories. The boy again. Setanta.’

  ‘The man he became. The nearly-man by then. Cú Chulainn. All the armour they gave him, he threw off him and it broke or he bent it sideways and useless.’

  ‘Dechtire’s his Ma, am I right?’

  ‘You are. As far as I can say. And who’s his father?’

  ‘The long-armed fella? Or another fella?’

  ‘We’ll never know, but the lad never fully fledged until he put on the king’s armour and broke the king’s spear across his thigh. That’s the kit that fitted and he needed.’

  ‘The king, eh? The randy bastard, eh? You haven’t a hope, you don’t. Don’t blame your father. Or me. Or Alice. It’s only an aul’ story. Get on with it.’

  She stared right through me then, full lasers at 600 watts pulsing at 30 to 35 metres per second, sufficient to burn the eyebrows off my face and to leave my cheeks reddened as if by a slap.

  ‘You know what you’re like, you and my … you and Alice? You’re not one woman or even two women. You’re just women, like in a story, yeh. There’s a chorus of ye. Or a host. Yes, you two are a host.’

  ‘How much wine’d you have with the curry?’

  ‘Ye’re like Danu, the Goddess, the Presence, one and all.’

  ‘Go you on now and have that ice-cream you never got. Dry your eyes, wee man. Dry your eyes now, there’s a good boy.’

  TWENTY NINE

  I didn’t get an ice-cream, but Bill Peoples handed me a pint of stout, when I arrived at the City Hotel.

  ‘Get that into you. We’re a couple ahead of you. Maisie settled?’

  It was twice the number of words he’d spoken to me during the meal. A message from Ruby located them, all set for the finale of the Jazz Festival weekend. As participants, they were on the guest list, with perks.

  ‘We’re upstairs in the ballroom, but it’s easier to meet you here and get you in. Ruby said you’d like a pint. We’re on the complimentary wine upstairs. Plentiful, for a while, and drinkable.’

  ‘So I’m a jazz musician now,’ I said.

  ‘From what Ruby says, you could be anything and anybody.’

  That intrigued me. What lines had Ruby fed Bill Peoples about her family? We climbed the stairs, easing our way through the ascending and descending crowds, glee and merriment travelling in both directions, sampling music from nooks, corners, daises and stages throughout the building.

  ‘Well, do I pass?’ Bill asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, the Slevins. The brother; the big cop and the gun-man. The Aunty, so staunch even the republicans are scared of her. And Ruby, the most sought-after woman in the town, among people of a certain age, more broken hearts behind her than Billy Holiday.’

  I smiled. The more he talked, the more I liked him. I laughed, as we reached the door of the ballroom.

  ‘You’re grand, Bill. You married me sister. You’re not my boss. Here, sorry I didn’t make …’

  ‘Never you worry. It wasn’t a big thing. Just a few musicians of a Sunday, round the back of a mate’s house. We had rings and vows, speeches, food and all that, sure enough. A mate even pronounced us man and wife.’

  ‘So you’re not formally married?’

  ‘But we are “husband and wife”. I wanted to do it the whole way. I’m mad about her and I know I’m the luckiest middle-aged pot-bellied trumpeter in these islands, but she wasn’t having any of it. She said “we sing together and that’ll do us”.’

  ‘So, no certificate, no registration, no licence, no priest, minister or registrar?’

  ‘No. Just Bell End Bennigan and his trombone in a Bishop’s Halloween outfit saying “You may now kiss the bride and, if you don’t, me and everyone else here will”. I’m all clear, after the divorce and all, legal and friendly enough. Ruby said my family might be happier that way, you know, less formal. Thing is, my nieces love her, like a big sister. Swopping clothes with her and everything.’

  We went into the ballroom. When I saw Ruby I knew there was no point mentioning the conversation I had with Maisie. She was holding a large glass of red wine, slurring and giggling like a child coming off happy gas, following the successful extraction of something very painful.

  ‘Ach, Eddie, great. Thanks, Bill. Shur, aren’t you the best? Over here, over here. ‘Mon.’

  Ruby and her party, mainly musicians, were in a corner, strewn like battleground wounded across three circular tables, amid a slew of chairs and instrument cases. There were glasses and bottles of red wine, scattered like skittles in disarray and bottles of white wine in buckets, dripping condensation. The remains of sandwiches and sausage rolls lay scattered among the bottles, waiting to be swept into black bin bags.

  ‘Sit you there. Sit you there, aye. You can start on the wine, when you finish the pint. What do you think of Bill?’

  The hushed whisper on the last question underlined the pressure Ruby felt. The visit to the grave to see the stone and the meal in Turmeric were very important to her. Did she do right by her mother? Did she do right bringing Bill into the family, even if she only half-married him? Were her actions approved? How often, even in our adult lives, do we weary ourselves offering proofs to our families, people, who if they really do love us, do not need such proofs? Ruby used the happy gas of the curry and now the happy juice of the wine to seek the reassurance that all was well and that she was okay. It did me good to offer her some of that assurance, though I doubt she took in much of it.

  ‘Aye, great Ruby. The whole thing. Bill and the stone, some job, and getting Maisie out. She’s grand now. Settled. She’s delighted for you. And so am I. Delighted.’

  Ruby beamed and pushed my pint glass to my lips, until I supped up. Then she took it from me and planked it on the table beside us. She dragged me out of my seat and led me onto the dance-floor, where we soon buffeted and danced in a throng of people, as a fourteen piece big band belted out ‘In the Mood’.

  ‘They’re from Glasgow,’ Ruby roared.

  But it didn’t matter, for Glasgow was here and here was everywhere and we were everyone and the confusions opened up by Maisie’s answers to my questions were submerged in the joy of being with my sister, as if I was indeed at her wedding or even at my own; as if all we ever wanted was to be settled and if not yet settled, then dancing in a throng, carefree as children chasing blossoms.

  Back and forward between the tables and the dance-floor we ran. Bill filled my glass of red wine each time I landed back at our base. The complimentary stuff ran out, so people kittied up and more bottles appeared. The band blasted on, a mix of jazz standards played at a breakneck speed and popular hits that kept bodies sweating, jiving, swinging and laughing. On we danced, in pairs, foursomes, raggedy circles, unwieldy groups, swirling chains and slewing congas. I jigged about on my own to Cab Calloway’s ‘Minnie the Moocher’, calling out hi di hi di hi di oh, hi di hi di hi di hi, surrounded by a dozen fellow dancers, who laughed and clapped along. I’m sure they nudged each other, saying ‘you’d never think he was a cop, Jesus’.

  After that I decided I’d better leave. Last thing I needed was to fall flat on my face, at a public event. I was just about to mo
ve off quietly when the band launched into the big brass opening of Jackie Wilson’s ‘Reet Petite’. One of Ruby’s friends, petite herself and brimming with the pleasure of the music, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me right across the dance floor, well away from our tables, patently intent on making me hers alone.

  I had just enough red wine, so that when she pulled me in close, options other than going off quietly, readily emerged. Then, as the kilt-clad bass player spun his upright electric bass, sending spangles of light across our faces and onto the faces of people at tables near us, a delicate golden glint, a mere fibre of early dawn light glimpsed peeping between clouds, drew my eyes to a group of four women, seated in a row, laughing and swaying in unison, as if strapped together into a fairground ride. The gleam that caught my eye came from the far end of the row and with each sway and smile my attention fixed deeper and deeper onto the woman at the end of the row, so that I disengaged from my dance partner with a muttered ‘Sorry’ and strode across to the four seated women, who continued laughing and swaying, until Karen Lavery bellowed,

  ‘Good man, Slevin.’

  When the music stopped, Karen stood right in front of me. I felt the heat of her breath on my lips.

  ‘You live near here, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you got your windows fixed?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘There’ll be no more shooting.’

  I hesitated, then said,

  ‘Not at the new windows anyway.’

  Karen paused. I feared I’d lost her, but she turned to her friends and said,

  ‘I’m away.’

  One of the women called,

  ‘Ah, you got your own ride. Better be a right, good one.’

  The others laughed and hi-fived her.

  Karen lifted her clutch purse and faced me once more.

  ‘You heard the woman.’

  She took my hand and we moved into the crowd. Ruby’s friend stood in a clearing on the dance floor, her hands on her hips and thunder on her face. I mouthed ‘sorry’ again and she glared at me, gave me the finger, burst out laughing and jogged back to her table, where she’d no doubt confirm to Ruby that her brother was gone and a complete bastard anyway.

  The crowd heaved before us. Karen led me round the edges of the dance floor towards the exit. We easily negotiated the heave surrounding the bar and glided past the first floor lifts, as they opened to disgorge late comers we slalomed through, en route to the stairs. Two lads, intent on their phones, shimmied aside as we approached. At the turn of the stairs, Karen squeezed my hand and I squeezed hers in return. A bouncer I knew from the old days held the front door open for us as we exited.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr. Slevin. Miss. Go safely now.’

  We skipped down the hotel front steps, turned left, crossed at a red pedestrian light and raced to the riverside railing, where we paused to catch our breaths.

  ‘Is the glass cleaned up off the floor?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Yes. Everything is exactly as it should be. And as it will be from now on.’

  ‘I heard you had a new job.’

  ‘Aye, a handy number. I might have to think about, you know, settling down.’

  Karen grinned and bit her lip.

  ‘Good man, Eddie. Not far now.’

  Then she began to run, her cerise party frock flying behind her like the tell tales on a racing yacht, as if along, not beside, the river.

  I ran too, laughing, my crepe-soled feet slapping on the tarmac, as I chased in her wake, keeping the river to my starboard and catching up with her, when she pulled up opposite my building. Two seagulls stood sentry along the railings, eyeing the dark surge of the water, brimming upon itself.

  We strode hand-in-hand across the road. A car horn blared. The entry codes worked without fluffing. Our feet barely touched the two flights of stairs to my floor. Through charmed minutes of breathless, ardent and exhilarating undressing and embracing, we cajoled each other into the full-press hold we both sought, while the revellers at the hotel, long behind us now, applauded the final chant of the great Jackie Wilson song. Higher and higher and higher.

  My phone sounded. I scrabbled for it. The room was dark as a tomb. The back-light from the message-screen illuminated my face.

  ‘If you want the gun, be at the broken bridge in ten minutes.’

  It registered as ‘number unknown’, but I knew who it was. I had been waiting for this, as the seed pod waits out the winter and responds to the first heat of Spring.

  The bed creaked as I rose up. I dressed as briskly, but not as passionately as I had undressed two hours previously. I was cold and quiet, urgent and singular. I armed myself. Springs clicked into place, the breech engaged. I was ready.

  Karen stirred behind me.

  ‘Where are you … Eddie …’

  I leaned over her. I kissed the nape of her neck. Her breathing settled and she returned to her dreams.

  I exited the building by the rear door, onto the lane behind the Chinese restaurant. I crouched at a dumpster, wreaking of discarded cartons, stale rice and evaporating soy sauce. Lights from street lamps and a flat above me showed the lane was clear. I checked my phone and timed a three minute wait. I tuned my ears to the night sounds. A rat rummaging in the dumpster. Pigeons, unsettled by my presence, grumbled, but remained on their night perches. Wood lice scurried, not knowing day from night. They sensed my heat and grew alert to opportunity and to danger. My phone vibrated on three minutes and I moved off, at a crouch, turning and reversing until I reached the junction with Clarendon Street, where I hugged the wall of my building, then, judging I was as clear as I could possibly be, I dashed across the empty street to the river-side railings. There were no seagulls watching for me. I ran beside the river again, this time against the direction of the ebbing tide, now emptying swiftly to the sea.

  On and on I ran. Stragglers stumbled from the City Hotel, corralling the last of the taxis. The Guildhall clock eyed me, as I passed. A drunk lay in a heap at the entrance of the Peace Bridge. Another urged him to get up, pulling at his arm, then letting it flop down, where it rested across his lap, limp as a clubbed baby-seal. I gave them a second look. They were the same lads I’d seen at the top of the hotel stairs, scanning their phones.

  I ran on. My breath blew constant and regular. My legs pumped strong and vital. My gun bumped gently on my hip. I would use it when it came to it. I would get answers to my Todd Anderson questions.

  I ducked my head, though there was no need, as I went under the top deck of Craigavon Bridge. I planted my feet carefully as I approached the old railway sheds, all disused and shuttered, then I minced across the rusted rail tracks and crouched fully once more.

  Ahead I could see the truncated bridge, the muted blue metal arcing in aspiration over the water. The river itself lapped high on the other side of the wall. I was close to where my mother went in. Confusion unsettled me once more. One set of questions at a time. The gun. Todd Anderson. The file. The past. The case unsolved. The dead end.

  Footsteps? Is that a squeaking shoe? A squeaking voice? Hulking figures? There? Sudden as an embolism racing down an artery. Two figures? Four? A blow and lift. A rush and toss. A high-flying toss. Air. Air. Height. The wall below. Air. Air. Too late. To reach. Water. Splash. The phone. More splashes. Gun, wallet, keys, over the wall. Topsy turvy. The cold douse of the water and now, in the slap of the tide, the chill of the liquid, the Ophelia-embracing water, on the surface the coloured lights dancing and reaching from one broken bridge to another, reaching, ever reaching.

  Under, into ink as cold as glacier melt and twice as cutting. Darkness, total. Morrigan? Medusa? No. The last light of Dechtire, Danu, sister, mother, aunt, lover. A hand? A promise of the heart, leading further on.

  Gone. Gone.

  Lung-filled. Tide-swept.

  Gone.<
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