Spent the morning watching children’s programmes on the television, cartoons, puppets, things about aliens, flying superheros.
Later in the day went back down to him. Something changed about him now. Prowling up and down the cage looking strange, in control.
—I was just thinkin’ about yer daughter.
—Were you now?
—I remember her now.
—I’d say you do.
Walking up and down in the cage, like I say, not looking at me. Hands on his hips. Noticed he had torn strips out of his shirt and wrapped them around his wrists. Brown stains of blood.
Nice-lookin’ girl, he says. Lovely lookin’.
Suddenly stops prowling and glares at me. —Must take after her mother, does she?
—You’re funny, Quinn. Real comedian.
—Yeah. Must take after her auldwan. Couldn’t take after yerself anyways. You’ve a face that’d stop a fuckin’ clock.
Wondered what he was at. Did not understand the new light in his eyes, casually surly expression which he looked like he’d been practising. I don’t like one bit.
—Nice attractive girl. Nice body. Lovely mouth.
—Shut up.
—Lovely arse on her.
—I’m warning you, Quinn.
—Y’know what we did to her after we bet her round the place? Laughs.
—Shutup, Quinn.
—One after the other. We took turns. And she loved it too. Oh man, beggin’ us not to stop she was. Course they love a bit of the rough stuff, these posh girls, Homer. Jesus, I thought she was gonna faint on me, she came so much.
I look around in the grass for the hammer. I pick it up, fumble in my pocket for the key. I get it out. About to tear the door open and go for him when I see what he has in his hands. I stop. Now I understand.
—You better give me that out now, Quinn, or I swear to Christ I’ll leave you in there for a week.
He holds up the Swiss Army knife and grins at me. Points to the name carved on the handle. Pony Sheehan.
—Very careless lad, the Pony. Shite for brains, Homer. Y’wouldn’t think he’d leave this just lyin’ around in the grass for anyone to pick up. I mean, you give someone a hidin’, you don’t leave a knife there for them to grab. And Jesus, y’d think y’d’ve searched me before you got me in here, Homer. Y’fuckin’ gobshite.
—That’s not my name.
—What? Homer or gobshite?
He stabs the knife hard into the long wooden perch, then pulls it out again.
—Throw it out here now, I’m warning you. Or I swear you’ll get no water for a week.
Smiles.
—Come on in and get it off me, Homer. ’Mon in here and take it, y’cunt.
—You better believe me, son. You’ve hardly any water left in there. I swear to Christ you won’t get another drop till you give me that out.
Looks at me for a minute. Could happily kill me right now. Sighs and throws the knife through the bars.
—You’re a clever lad, Quinn.
Pick up the knife and pocket it. Stand there for a while listening to him laugh at me. Then:
—So you do know Sheehan then?
—Course I do, Homer. Met him above in the Joy.
—So how come he didn’t recognise you?
—Brains wouldn’t be the Pony’s strong point, Homer, y’know? Couldn’t find his own arse in a darkroom. Bit like yerself that way. Thick as a bucket of shite.
Cackles again, long and loud. Stalks up and down the cage like a lion in the zoo.
—You brought all this on yourself, I tell him.
—Yeah, well it don’t matter now anyway, Homer.
—Why’s that?
Horrible smile creeps over his face. Takes a few steps and grabs hold of the bars.
—Because I’ll get outta here, Homer. I’ve it all figured out how I’m gonna do it now. I’ve gotten outta worse than this before. That’s right. And when I do get out d’y’know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna batter seven shades of shite out of yeh, Homer.
He yawns.
—It’s the only thing keepin’ me goin’, just the thought of it, the thought of the sound of your neck snappin’ under my boot, Homer. That’s gonna happen very soon.
He lashes out with his fist and punches hard at the bars.
—Snap, he says.
Doubles up with laughter.
—You keep talking, Quinn. The more you talk, the longer you’ll be in there.
—No, Homer. I’ll be outta here very soon, don’t you worry. And we’ll see who’s fuckin’ clever then, Homer. Because I’m gonna burst yeh. Y’ll be beggin’ me to kill y’by the time I’m finished with yeh.
—You couldn’t do anything to me, you fuckin’ junkie.
Throws back his head and cracks up.
—The state of yeh, man. The way you swallowed that. Poor little lad, sure, sure isn’t he only a junkie? Like all them poor inner-city lads these days.
Points his finger at me and howls with laughter.
—Y’bleedin’ thick. I only wanted you out of the house for a few hours so’s I could try and get outta this.
—You’re not on heroin?
—I am in me arse. You guessed it, Homer. Pullin’ your wire. Haven’t been on it in five years. Haven’t touched it. But I remember the symptoms good, y’know? Good auld act, wasn’t it? D’yeh think I’ll get the Oscar this year?
He raises his eyebrows a few times, then he winks.
—Yer windy, Homer. Know what that means where I’m from? Means yer fuckin’ yellow. You’re scared. I can see it in that ugly auld mug of yours. Because y’know what I’m gonna do t’yeh. Y’ll be dreamin’ about it tonight. So lock up the auld doors, Homer. Because y’just never know where I’m gonna jump out of.
—You’ll do nothing to me, Quinn. And you know what you said about my daughter? What you did to her? You’ll pay dearly for that, son.
—Yer a windy, jumped-up, fat little loser, Homer. And y’ll soon rue the day y’ever laid a finger on me. Because I’m gonna slit yer throat for yeh.
Have been up here since. The bedroom door is locked. Won’t go down again tonight.
Wednesday 20 July 1994
202–164
Week 29
15th Week in Ordinary Time
VESTMENTS
Green
HOURS
Psalter Week 3
MASS
Of choice
Jer. 23: 1–6; Ps. 22; Eph. 2: 13–18; Mk. 6: 30–34
They were like sheep without a shepherd.
Patron: St Anthony Zachariah.
Thought for the Day: Be slow to anger.
Around nine this morning went down to see M in the hospital. The nurse looked shocked when she saw me, but I told her I’m OK, I just haven’t been sleeping. M’s had a bad night, the nurse tells me, she seems to have been dreaming. Unusual, she says. Maybe a good sign.
It’s the first time this has occurred to me, that she might still dream. Frightens me, for some reason. Terrifies me.
Had a sudden feeling of the most awful helplessness. Later, on the way home past the police station in Dun Laoghaire stopped the car. Just sat there for a while, smoking.
Almost went in and told them everything.
Still nothing about him on the radio or in the newspapers. Why?
How can a human being disappear like that and nobody care enough even to call the police?
Jesus Christ, how can that happen?
Thursday 21 July 1994
203–163
Week 29
15th Week in Ordinary Time
VESTMENTS
Green, White
HOURS
Psalter Week 3.
MASS
Of choice
Ex. 14: 5–18; Ps. 27 Ex. 15: 1–6; Mt. 12: 38–42.
The Israelites pursued are in fear but God answers the prayer of Moses.
Patron: St Lawrence of Brindisi (1559–1619)
Thought f
or the Day: Blessed are they who hunger for justice.
This afternoon I take a chair from the kitchen and go down the garden to the aviary. He is squatting on the floor with his back to me and won’t turn around. I put the chair down in the grass and sit on it. He knows damn well I’m here but won’t say anything to me.
—Quinn. Do you want something to eat?
He starts to whistle.
—Do you want anything?
No reply. Just keeps right on whistling, bobbing his head from side to side in time to the music.
—Do you want me to let you have a walk?
He stops the whistling and begins to softly sing.
Down in the willow garden, where me and me love did meet
She passed the willow garden, with little snow white feet
I had a bottle of burgundy wine
Me love she didn’t know.
So I did murder that dear girl, all on the banks below.
—Lookat, Quinn. Do you want to have a walk or not I said?
He raises his fingers in the air and begins conducting.
I drew me sabre through her, oh it was a bloody sight
I threw her in the river, it was a dreadful night
Me father’d often told me that gold would set me free
If I did murder that dear girl, whose name was Rose Connolly.
—I asked you if you wanted a walk, Quinn.
He manoeuvres himself around to look at me. Small devilish face set in a sickening leer.
—But I’m after been out for a walk already today, Homer. I’d a grand stroll around the gaff while you were out earlier.
He laughs – Look at the mug on yeh.
—Bullshit, I said.
—Take a dekko up in the kitchen if y’don’t believe me. I took two cans of yer Coke out of the fridge. Very nice. Lovely and cold. I like them cold. Long, tall and fuckin cold. Like me women, Homer.
He turns away from me again and continues singing. I look at the gate of the cage. It’s definitely locked. There’s no way he’s telling the truth, is there? Is it possible he got out some way while I was down in the village? No. I sit and stare at his back. I take out a cigarette and smoke it. Surely he couldn’t really have got out, could he? After a while I get up and go to leave. He calls out ‘hey’ and I turn. He is grinning.
—Can I tell y’somethin’, Homer?’
—What’s that?
He points at me.
—Y’re gonna be sorry for all this, pal. Y’re gonna be one sorry yellow fucker when I decide t’let meself outta here again. I might do it later tonight. Y’never know.
—You’ll get out when I’m good and ready to let you out.
—We’ll see about that. I’d lock them doors if I was you, Homer. Because I’m gonna come up and visit later, Homer. And that’s a promise for y’now. Don’t forget that. Go on now, you just shag away off with yerself and I’ll see y’in a little while for me supper.
Came up here and into the living-room. Switched on the television. Nothing much to watch. What he said was bothering me. Flicked around the channels. Some documentary about people climbing mountains in Russia. Twenty minutes ago I heard a twig snap just outside the window and jumped up. Just a blackbird, pecking around in the briars. Sat back down. Watched a man on the screen dangling over a precipice from a rope attached to his waist. He swayed in the breeze, twisting his knee around the rope. Then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He’s bloody lying, of course. The six cans of Coke I had are all still there. But he made me look, that’s the thing. He made me look. Took out the ice tray and held it to my forehead. So cold it stuck to my skin.
Came up here and smoked a cigarette. Through the open window I can hear him singing again now, loud and strong.
Me race is run beneath the sun
The scaffold now waits for me.
For I did murder that dear little girl
Whose name was Rose Connolly.
I wish to Christ Jesus he would stop singing and let me sleep.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
Friday 22 July 1994
204–162
Week 29
15th Week in Ordinary Time
VESTMENTS
White
HOURS
Proper; Psalter Week 4 at Day Hour
MASS
Of the memorial
Cant. 3: 1–4 or 2 Cpr. 5: 14–17; Ps. 62; Jn. 20: 1–2, 11–18
‘She stood by his cross.’
Patron: St Mary Magdalene*
Thought for the Day: The two words Jesus said most often were ‘fear not’.
* NB: The gospels give no warrant for identifying her with the ‘woman who was a sinner’ who anointed Christ’s feet (Lk. 7: 37) or with Mary the sister of Martha who also anointed Him (Jn. 12: 3).
Newspapers say it’s one of the hottest summers in Ireland since records began. Tomorrow will be the hottest day of the year. Government warning the farmers to be careful. Conditions absolutely perfect for potato blight. Some people in Ireland would actually like this, of course. Yet more tragedy and self-pity. Fed up to the back teeth reading articles about how the Great sodding Famine still important in Irish psyche. Some foreign director making a fucking film about it now. Hope it’s a comedy, myself. Carry On Starving. Nothing about Q in any of the papers, searched from cover to cover.
This afternoon when I brought him down bread and water he was doing push-ups on the aviary floor. I put the bread rolls and the glass of water on the ground close to the aviary. Where he can reach them if he wants. He can’t say I’m not being decent. But he doesn’t take them. Doesn’t even look at them. Just keeps at the push-ups. Stand there and watch. Just keeps on going, pushing himself up and down very fast, and grunting. After a while I tell him to stop but he ignores me. Could see the tendons in his neck and temples straining as though they’re going to pop.
—Cut it out, Quinn.
But he doesn’t. If anything he speeds up. Panting.
—Just keepin’ meself right, pal. Just stayin’ strong so’s I can split y’in two when I get outta this.
Pushes up now and while his arms are fully extended he claps his hands together before slamming them to the floor again and lowering his weight. Groans and does this a few more times. Sweat running in sticky rivulets down his arms. Bloody bandages on his wrists soaked through. Turns over and gets on his back. Jams his feet between the bars, puts his hands behind his head and starts to do sit-ups. Grunts every time he sits up. Throws himself up and down with such force that the whole cage creaks. Closes his eyes and yelps like an animal. Face purple and completely drenched with sweat but he just keeps going.
—I said cut it out.
He gasps, spits on the floor.
—I’ll cut yer heart out, Homer, when I get outta here.
—If you don’t stop I’ll give you no food or water.
Keeps going, pushing himself up and down, fingers clasped to the side of his head.
—Yeah, well I don’t want anythin’ from you, Homer. I don’t need anythin’ from you.
Flips over on to his side and stares at me, his chest heaving. Licks the sweat from his upper lip. Taps the side of his head.
—Y’don’t know how strong I am in here, Homer. Y’ve no idea. Thought you’d screw me up, didn’t yeh? But y’re after backin’ the wrong bleedin’ horse, Homer.
—Why are you calling me that?
—What? Homer? Because that’s what y’look like. Homer Simpson. A fat stupid gormless twat. A fuckin’ loser. Look at yerself, man. Pathetic. Getting your kicks are yeh? Lookin’ at me in here, Homer?
He giggles.
—Well, yeh’ll get your kicks all right, when I get out.
Stand and go to the cage.
—Give me back that blanket, Quinn.
Big ugly grin. Yellow teeth.
—Come in and get it off me, Homer. Just come on in if you fancy yer chances. I’ll tear the fuckin’ head off yeh. And you know what I’ll do th
en?
—What?
Smiles, puts his hands on his hips, starts thrusting his pelvis.
—I’ll do what y’want me to do, Homer. I’ll give y’the ride of yer life, don’t worry.
I leave him and come up here.
Spent the afternoon sleeping and listening to records. Bedroom door locked and barricaded. Hunting knife under the pillow. From time to time heard the cage creaking again, or thought I heard it, and then I knew he was doing his push-ups.
Of course he would love me to go down to him again, I know, so’s he could try to freak me and frighten me. But I’m not going to. Intend to stay up here in the bedroom.
Went downstairs an hour ago. Won’t be intimidated in my own house. Turned on the television and looked at some stupid sitcom. The kind of American family where the teenagers have their own telephone and the fucking dog has had orthodontistry.
The moon is full tonight and the sky is very clear. When I went to close the curtains saw him hanging on to the roof bars, pulling his body up and down, and grunting. Loud chant.
Watched him doing this for a while. Pulled the curtains closed.
—I can see you, Homer.
Singsong voice.
—I can see yeh, Homer. Lookin’ down at me. Don’t hide, Homer. I can see yeh.
What am I going to do?
Saturday 23 July 1994
205–161
Week 29
15th Week in Ordinary Time
VESTMENTS
Green, White
HOURS
Psalter Week 4
MASS
Of choice
Ex. 16: 1–5, 9–15; Ps. 77; Mt. 13: 1–9
‘The Lord gave them bread from heaven, mere men ate the bread of angels.’
Saturday Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary
Patron: St Bridget of Sweden (1303–73).
Thought for the Day: In work is human dignity.
The Salesman Page 24