The Salesman

by Joseph O'Connor

VESTMENTS

  Green, Green/White

  HOURS

  Psalter Week 2.

  MASS

  Of choice

  Gen. 49: 29–32, 50: 15–26; Ps. 104; Mt. 10: 24–33

  Saving events and significant realities which have found their fulfilment in the mystery of Christ.

  Anniversary of the epsicopal ordination of Most Revd Thomas Finnegan, 12 July 1987

  HOLIDAY (N. Ireland)

  Patron: St Killian.

  Thought for the day: A friend in need is a friend indeed.

  Late last night it occurred to me again: what a pleasant drive it is from Bray back in towards the city. It is a journey I have always liked, a good long straight road paid for by EC money, the surface as smooth as a politician’s lies. You leave Bray, passing the Solus light-bulb factory on your right – that giant black and white light-bulb wrapper on the roof, M always used to laugh at it – and you pass by Woodbrook Golf Club, and then before you even know it you’re on the dual carriageway where you can really open the throttle and give it some stick. All along the carriageway the bright orange sodium lights and concrete flyovers, the direction signs the size of gable walls, the cats’ eyes so new and clean they nearly jump out at you when your headlights catch them. Makes you feel modern to drive that road. Makes you feel European. Giant green banners and tricolour flags hanging from the bridges, last night too, because of the world cup being on. One sign: ‘Big Jack Charlton for President!’

  Police car came speeding towards Bray on the far side of the carriageway. Blue light flashing and the siren was on. When I see this, get scared it’s me they’re after. Reach down to the floor and pick up the shotgun. But no, flew past me and kept on going. Left the gun there on my lap, just in case.

  Ripped along doing seventy. Could hear him kicking away like mad inside the boot. After a short while this begins to get on my nerves. So what I do from then on, every time he kicks, I jam hard on the brakes and swerve a little. Just a bit. Then remembered something I noticed one night delivering a dish. Pulled off the carriageway and up into Markievicz Estate where I know there are speed bumps. Hit them one after another doing maybe thirty. He gets the message pretty fucking quickly. Back out to the dualler again.

  At Loughlinstown hospital turned up right towards Killiney. Bad memories of Loughlinstown, that Saturday morning I’d been out jogging. When I got back to the house M was waiting for me, sitting in the driveway. UCD scarf around her neck. Face white as paper. The way she stood up and ran towards me when she saw me coming. Came towards me with her eyes half-closed and her hands held out. Like we were attached by some invisible thread. Knew whatever had happened must have been something terrible. It’s Mum, Billser.

  G’s car had hit a lamp-post on the Rock Road. She’d been driving L into art college and was on the way home when she hit the black ice and went into the skid.

  Remember the sharp smell of formaldehyde in the hospital morgue. Had put her into a white paper shroud and an old priest was giving her the last rites. Had to interrupt him to say G was Jewish; for some reason seemed important to make this clear at that moment. Asked me if I’d like him to say a prayer anyway and I told him yes. The two of us knelt down on the hard floor and said a decade of the rosary. Was halfway through when I started to cry and he took my hand and squeezed it while he kept on praying. Very conscious of the sound I was making as I cried, echoing in the tiled clean room, and I tried to stop but couldn’t. When we finished the prayer he murmured something about trying to find a rabbi later – or perhaps Father Ronan – he had telephoned him. There was G, her face bruised, her lips swollen. The priest had his hand on my shoulder. Kept saying ‘I know, I know’ in a soft voice. But he didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know. How could he know?

  After a while asked him to leave us be for a few moments. Nodded and said he would. I stood beside G for a while – suppose I must have said another prayer or two. I took her hand in my hand and kissed it. Dried blood on her fingernails. Noticed she was still wearing her wedding ring. Thick scar around it, raised flesh on her knuckle. I folded her arms across her chest. More tears. Remember touching her face and feeling how cold she was. Brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. And found I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for everything. I mean that I actually wanted to say this out loud, right there in the white tiled room, just to say her name again, Grace Lawrence, and tell her I was sorry and thank her. But for whatever reason, I could not do this.

  By the time I left the morgue, Seánie had arrived. In the corridor with his arms around M. Both crying. Something about this appalled me, had never in my life seen S crying before. Unimaginable. Looked over at me with tears in his eyes and held out his hand. I took it. He put his other hand on the back of my neck. Held me close to him.

  —Billy. Billy. Jesus, I’m so sorry. Funny. Because he usually calls me Liam, like when we were kids in Irish class. No Irish for Grace.

  Loughlinstown hospital. St Colmcille’s.

  Driving through a rough part of Ballybrack then. Q gave another few kicks – I jerked the wheel from side to side. Foot down hard. Two kids painting graffiti on the side wall of a house. Republic of Ireland shirts. ‘Tommo is a –’. Wondered what exactly Tommo was. Bonfire smouldering on a patch of waste ground. Young girls swinging on a rope. Travellers’ caravans. Turned off at the roundabout by the Graduate, took Avondale Road, past the convent, then down the hill into Barnhill Road, the brakes squealing a little because the hill is so steep. Long arch of dark thick beech trees along the road so beautiful, with the gold and white of the streetlights winking through. Then into Dalkey village, round the one way, up Dalkey Avenue and home.

  Pulled into the drive and stopped, screeching the tyres on the gravel as hard as I could. Got out, closed the gate behind me. Q kicking again. Another sound in the boot now, a repeated dull metallic clunk. Ignored him and back into the car. Gunned it up the drive, swerving a bit just to give him something to kick about, and stamped on the brake around by the side of the house. Cloud of gravel dust.

  Climbed slowly out, reached in, got the golf club from the back seat and put it on the roof. Then got the shotgun and jammed it under my elbow. Opened the boot. Stepped back. Q lying there not moving, legs twisted, head and torso still covered by the plastic sacks and his hands in the cuffs. Wrists bleeding quite badly. So much for fucking comfort. Heard him breathing through his nose.

  —Sit up.

  He still doesn’t move. For a moment I think he’s losing consciousness. Feel my mouth getting dry.

  —Sit up, I say, or I’ll shoot you right there like the animal you are.

  Very still for a bit but then rolled over and sat up slowly in the boot. Could see his trousers were soaked around the crotch. He was breathing even harder now, snuffing in the air through his nose. He stirred. Black sacks had a zigzag tear in them, shirt stained with dull blood.

  —Stand up.

  Managed to get to his feet. Behind him in the boot I saw the wheel brace which he’s somehow worked out of its slot beside the spare wheel. Stretched in and took it out. Threw it on the gravel. Left him standing there for a minute. Then pushed him hard. Fell backways into the boot, banging his head on the panel. High-pitched gurgling sound coming from under the sacks. Listened to it for a while. Then grabbed him hard by the ankles and pulled him out. Much heavier than I thought. Sacks caught on the lock and ripped more. Heave and strain. He fell out backwards on to the gravel. Moan of pain. Hauled him round to the front of the car, left him on the ground. Went and turned on the full headlights. Back to him. Down on my knees and got the fan belt off from around his ankles. Unlaced his boot and pulled it off. Got his socks off. Opened the driver’s door. Got the club from the roof and leaned it on the side of the car. Stood behind the door with one hand pointing the gun right at him.

  Told him to sit up straight. Reached out and tore the sacks off his head. Pulled the tape off his chin and jaw. He winces with pain, spits out the handkerchief. Face and fo
rehead very bloodied and dirty, upper lip crusted with blood, dyed hair tangled and matted. He throws back his head and sucks at the air, chest heaving. Speak to him.

  —How’s she cuttin’, Mr Quinn?

  Eyes very wide in the car headlights. Kept the gun pointed right at his head, with both hands now. He licked his lips.

  —That’s not me name.

  Swallowed hard a few times, gawped up at me. Then did his head-jerk I’d seen him do so many times.

  —No? Your name’s not Quinn? Donal Michael Quinn, formerly of Michael Collins Buildings, Dublin 1?’

  —No.

  —Really?

  —Me name is Conroy. Niall Conroy.

  —Is it? Jesus.

  —I swear to Christ, pal. You’ve the wrong man.

  —Oh my God. That’s awful. I’m sorry.

  —Lemme go.

  —I couldn’t. You might hurt me.

  —Lemme go. I swear to fuck, I won’t go near yeh.

  —Really? Honestly? Would you do that? You wouldn’t hurt me?

  —Course I wouldn’t. I swear.

  —That’d be very good of you in the circumstances. Could I really trust you though, not to hurt me? Considering everything.

  —I swear to Christ. Just lemme go, man. Me name is Niall Conroy. I won’t touch yeh.

  —That’s so nice of you. Really.

  Put the gun on the car roof and picked up the club.

  —Do you know what you are?

  Gaped up at me.

  —No. How d’y’mean? Look, just lemme go.

  Lashed out with the club and caught him bang right on the wrist.

  —You’re a lying little bastard, Mr Quinn. That’s what you are.

  —I swear, man. That isn’t me name. I’m Conroy. Niall Conroy.

  He tried to stand but toppled right down on his backside. Laughed at him. With the gun still on him, went to get the refuse sacks. Down on my knees beside him, ready to put the sacks back over his head. Suddenly sucked in his breath and spat into my face. I dropped the gun. He let a scream and jumped to his feet. Hurled himself towards me, tried to butt me in the stomach but I grabbed his head in a lock. Bit my hand. Hard, still sore now, cramping up around knuckle of thumb, difficult to write. Tried to get my hand out of his mouth but he wouldn’t let go. Growling like a dog. Punched the back of his head but still, biting me hard, wriggling his head from side to side. Managed to get him stood up and lashed out with my foot and caught him slap between the legs.

  Sank down moaning. Grabbed him by the shirt and started dragging him up the path towards the house. When he saw the back door seemed to panic, absolutely wild. No, don’t, don’t. Wriggled and squirmed and tried to kick me. Very strong. Tried for maybe a full minute to get him in through the door, but just couldn’t seem to do it. Finally got him back down on the ground and sacks over his head again. This time tied them with my belt, nice and tight around his neck.

  Got him up on his feet. His black toenails like claws. Let himself go limp in my arms and then suddenly started flailing at the air with his feet. Grabbed the belt and pulled it tighter. Warned him. One more move and I’ll fucking strangle you. OK, OK. Was just about to make him go in when it occurred to me.

  No.

  I don’t want this scumbag in here. I don’t want this piece of shit inside my own house. I know what I’ll do with him.

  Yes. I know.

  Turned around and looked down the garden. There it was. The aviary.

  Grabbed him by the head and dragged him down the steps by the rockery. Stumbled into M’s old bicycle still lying there in the uncut grass. Made him stand and started hauling him down the length of the garden. Security light on the back of the house clicked on. Blazing whiteness. Startled birds whistling and fluttering in the trees.

  Old song came into my mind. ’Twas early early, all in the spring, When the young birds did whistle, and sweetly sing. Changing their notes all from tree to tree. And the song they sang was old Ireland free.

  Found myself singing the song. As I was climbing the scaffold high, My own dear father was standing by. But my own dear father did me deny. And the name he gave me was the Croppy Boy.

  Garden full of rustling, scrabbling sounds. Somewhere up above, that old pheasant croaking. Dull beating of wings. I felt good. More drunk than anything else. Q tottered from side to side, bumping against the trunks of the beech trees. Lurched into the flower beds and I hauled him out. Stumbled to his knees and I kicked him in the back. Snatched at his hair through the sack and pulled him up to his feet. Walked forward, right into that low bough of the apple tree. Told him to stand up and stand still.

  Opened the metal gate of the aviary and managed to push him through it. Hit the floor with a clanging metal sound. Breathing quick and very hard. Lay on the floor and said sweet fuck all for a while. Slammed the door closed and looked in at him. Strange bird.

  Blood pumping through my temples. Locked the gate. Seemed that I could actually hear the palpitations of my heart. Straining to keep me alive.

  Reached my hand in through the bars and undid belt around his neck. Then ripped the refuse sacks off him.

  —Well now. Welcome home, son.

  His head darted from side to side. Twitching. Got up on his knees and looked himself, saying nothing at all. Looked at him. Suddenly felt very thirsty. Back up to the car and got the gun.

  When I returned Q had his back to me. Pointed the barrels in between the bars. He heard the sound of me clicking the safety catch. Could tell this, because suddenly his shoulders stopped moving. Told him to turn around and face me but he didn’t.

  —Get on with it, he says, if you’re gonna do it.

  —I told you to turn around. Or believe you me, I’ll let you have one in the leg first.

  Swivelled around to face me, head low.

  —Not so brave now, are you, Quinn? Not such a hardchaw now.

  —Please. Listen. Me name is Niall Conroy, I swear. Look here in me wallet.

  —You make me sick, Quinn. You make me puke my ring up. I’m going to go over there into the dark for a while and just watch you, Quinn. If you make a single sound I’ll come back here and shoot you in the leg. And then every time you make another sound I’ll come back and shoot you again some other place. Now, turn around and sit down.

  He did this. I left him there.

  Sky like a bowl of navy and fiery light. Walked up the garden, looking at the stars. Yellow satellite tracing long straight line across the northern sky. Two aeroplanes trailing white smoke. Venus winking, brilliant puncture in the sky.

  Came in here, locked all the doors and unplugged the telephone. Looked at Sky News. Riots up North the last few nights. Orangemen marching. Nationalists under curfew. RUC threatening rubber bullets and tear-gas.

  Amazes me how well I slept.

  Strange dream. Old English car we bought once with GB sticker. Kids wrote ‘race’ and ‘illy’ after the G and the B, whole thing in a heart.

  Half-five this morning the alarm went off with a sound like shattering glass. Got up and went to the window. Grass moist. Steaming. Lying on his side on the aviary floor, with his back to the house.

  Went down and rang the presbytery in Dun Laoghaire. Rang for a long time and then some old man answered. Parish priest? Told him I needed to speak to Seánie. Started on at me about the time and I say it’s urgent. Another long wait. S came on the line, coughing and yawning. Pinched my nose hard while I talked to him. I’m feeling awful, just dreadful. It doesn’t look like I’ll be coming to Lourdes after all, you see I’ve come down with some terrible bug in the night, I’ve been puking and sneezing and running to the toilet.

  —Billy, Jesus, sure you have to come. It’s booked.

  I can’t, I’m absolutely dying. Silence on the line for a moment. Could hear him breathing.

  —Billy, God, this is terrible luck. Are you sure?

  Yes, yes. Actually I think I might need to go down to the hospital in a while. There’s something seriously
up with me. I’ve been passing blood. I’m in pain. Did a bit of groaning and sighing. Christ, yes, he says, I seem to be in a bad way all right. Funny, he’s been thinking how run down I’ve looked the last few times he’s seen me. Yes, I tell him, badly run down. Well, he goes, then maybe it’s just for the best. Makes me promise to get myself down to the hospital.

  S says he’d better get going. Taxi for the airport is calling in half an hour. Am I sure I’m going to be OK? Do I want him to send somebody up? Yes, yes, he knows I’m a big boy now. Well look, he’ll say a prayer for me over there.

  He should do that, I laugh. He should say a rake of prayers. That way, maybe I’ll get a miracle.

  Last thing. – Billy, did I leave my diary in your place last time I was up there? A big thick thing with black covers, ecclesiastical diary? Gold cross on the front.

  —I don’t know, Seánie.

  He yawned. – I did I think. On top of your telly. But sure keep it. I won’t need it where I’m going.

  —I’ll use it to write in.

  —Yes. Why not. Use it to write in, Billy.

  And spent this morning in bed, feeling strange and heavy. From time to time up and went to the window to take a quick look out at him. I suppose some small part of me maybe even hoping he’s escaped, because let’s face it, it isn’t an easy situation here. But he hasn’t escaped. Every time I looked he was there, still lying on his side, with his back to me in the cage. Noon by the time I got out of bed properly.

  Why didn’t I have the nerve to do it? One pull on the trigger. A couple of stabs with the knife. Why not?

  Very bright today and ferociously hot. Radio news said it’s a record summer. Water running short in the reservoirs. Strange plants blooming up in the botanic gardens. Department of Health warning about sunstroke and melanoma. Nothing about his disappearance on any of the bulletins.

  Maybe lunch-time when I picked up the gun and went down the garden to see him. Looked dreadful. Face coming up in yellow and navy bruises. Pus. Discoloration around the eye sockets. His mouth crooked with pain. When he got to his feet noticed he was limping badly.