Balls

by Tommy Dakar

  Four years later when Mrs. Jean Kavanagh died of cancer they still had not heard from Sam. There had been some malicious gossip, a sincere but clumsily led investigation, and the police had interviewed her on more than one occasion, but neither the rape nor the disappearance were ever cleared up. Auntie Beth couldn’t have known when she took over her sister’s role that it also entailed dying of the same cancerous growth. Shortly after Paul turned eighteen she was cremated and scattered to the four winds to fly in search of her sister, leaving the brothers Kavanagh to fend for themselves.

  4

  Every so often a news item will catch a news editor’s eye and be deemed of Human Interest. A black child born to white parents, a person who falls from an aeroplane without a parachute and lives to tell the tale, a museum which explains how God made the world in six days, a kitten with two heads. These snippets fly around the world, from time zone to time zone, crossing the globe like the rays of the sun, from Vancouver to Sydney. They are light, and silly, not to be taken too seriously, and as human interest soon flags, they are readily replaced and forgotten. They are to journalism what fast food is to cuisine – inferior but nonetheless extremely popular.

  And yes, it is true, most of humanity finds self-castration fascinating. So for a week or two Paul Kavanagh was in the news, became an overnight celebrity. What was it that caught people’s imagination? The pain, the quasi-religious symbolism, the lunacy, the sexual overtones? Whatever it was, from Lima to Lahore, the spotlight fell on Paul, or more precisely, on his now unnecessarily bandaged groin. Why had he done it? How had he done it? Would it affect his singing voice? How come he hadn’t died? And, more importantly, what had he done with them?

  It was this last question that he hoped to exploit. He desperately needed to prolong his moment of fame, it was essential to his task, vital to the spreading of the Word. His wound had healed in record time and he now only kept the bandages for effect, for the photographers. He wore loose fitting trousers especially to be able to drop them without delay should a photographer appear. He was always available, in person, by phone, by webcam; was always ready to explain in detail the sequence of events. He would hint at the reasons for such a drastic decision, would suggest a higher knowledge, but without giving too much away. He needed to maintain the current level of curiosity, and he knew from experience that the best way to achieve that is through Mystery. If he were to spell it all out from the very beginning, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, it would all be done and dusted in a matter of days, and people’s attention would turn to the family of werewolves found in a remote village somewhere in Eastern Europe. He understood that the religious element was a double-edged sword, too, and that while it attracted some readers, it repelled a lot more. No, the answer lay in the Unsolved Mystery: where were his testicles now? Had he buried them, made them into a purse, fed them to the pigs? Would they be found by a simple shepherd lad, pure and immaculate? Or would they rot immediately and never be found again, only their spirit remaining? Where exactly was this ‘sacred ground’, if it existed at all?

  All in good time, all will be revealed, he promised.

  And it worked.

  Dr. Flynch lived alone. Which is not a euphemism. He was not gay, or a paedophile, he did not masturbate dressed in stockings with a plastic bag on his head. Neither did he visit the local ‘pleasure centre’, sex being to him a bit like football – rather a lot of exercise for the short-lived glory of getting the ball in the back of the net. He had experienced it, it had been ‘alright’. He may or may not do it again. It was something he could easily live without.

  He had more newspaper cuttings and video footage about the Kavanagh case than he could cope with; the media coverage had been intense, obsessive almost. Paul and his missing parts had been displayed in national and local press, had appeared on international and regional TV, had been flouted on the web, had featured in gossip rags and fashion mags. All the possible puns had been made. Stand up comedians included him in their acts, whole sections of chat programmes were based on the Kavanagh NutCase, schoolchildren giggled about him, and gangland thugs asked their prey if they wanted to be on the tele too.

  Dr. Flynch cleaned his glasses on his cardigan, not because they were smeared, but because he needed to think. Miss Reinhart had scoured their files to no avail. She had followed every link, but had come up with nothing. Perhaps he had been wrong? Perhaps there was no connection between this Kavanagh and the Kavanagh that snagged in his memory? He had hoped that the pack of journalist, (or was it a murder of journalists?),would turn something up, would delve into the poor boy’s sordid past, but their work had been sloppy and superficial, as if they knew it was not worth a concerted effort - there is no time! Life is too short! News travels fast and dies young!

  Why had nobody done a decent job, chased up his relatives, got in touch with his old schoolfriends, found out about where he had worked, his movements up to the time of the incident? Why had they focussed their attention only on his madcap beliefs, the blood, the gore, the ridiculous hunt for his lopped off testicles?

  No, there was only one thing for it – do it yourself. He would get Miss Reinhart on to it straight away.

  Ever since we have been aware of our mortality, we have been obsessed with the idea that there must be more to life than this – surviving against all odds just to drop down dead at the end. Over the centuries thousands of theologians and philosophers have racked their brains to come up with an answer to those nagging doubts and universal queries: why are we here, where do we come from, where are we going? Not the most brilliant of questions, but still difficult enough. It was as if they believed that, given enough time and inspiration, they would be able to join up the dots and see the whole picture, like in a child’s colouring book. Indeed, many even claimed to have cracked it, though the evidence was shaky and their cases would never stand up in court.

  So, like poor lost little children we keep calling out our unanswered questions to the heavens in the hope that some universal parent will hear us and explain it all in detail. No luck to date.

  But Ron was a practical man. When asked about religion he would simply answer C of E, and refer you to the local vicar. The Church took care of such things, pretty much like the government took care of taxes and road safety. They had experts on every issue, and he was quite happy to leave it all in their competent hands. He would attend the unavoidable services, dress for the occasion, sing hymns heartily if required, and even give generously if there was no way round it. If any further contact was deemed necessary, he could always rely on Daphne, the perfect PR officer. Ron had more urgent business to attend.

  Ken and The meaning of Life, the Netherworld, the Blue Beyond, the Church or anything vaguely similar did not get on. However, it was better not to cross-examine him on this as he would undoubtedly get in a muddle. As he would put it: I know what I mean. Expressing it was another matter. So he preferred not even to think about it, convinced that he could cross that bridge when he came to it. It was a bit like retirement, he sometimes concluded; the days worked and wages earned would be calculated for you, and then you’d get the pension you deserved. He had enough on his plate. Anyway, he could always rely on Jill to put in a few good words for him, she liked a good pray. Not that she was seriously religious, she just wanted to believe that someone was looking after things and lending an ear. Or something like that. One thing he knew; steer well clear of any mumbo jumbo, bible-pushers, gurus, soul savers in general and vegetarians. At least strict vegetarians.

  Like his brother Paul.

  Who, for his part, had seen the Light, was possessed with the Truth, had joined up the dots. He felt calm and slightly superior, though burdened with the responsibility of preaching to the unbelievers. He was quite amused by the fact that everyone else thought he was mad; it seemed to prove his case. After all, look what they did to Jesus. And you certainly wouldn’t expect Ron or Ken to take such drastic measures of atonement. No, it had to be the s
piritual member of the family, the guide, the saviour. He knew that his brothers and their respectives laughed behind his back, called him a weirdo, swore that he did it to call attention to himself, needed psychiatric help. He knew Ken thought that vegetarians and gays were all necessarily not right in the head, and that smooth talking Jill felt the same despite her kind words. He knew that Ron would love to disown him, or at least ‘cure’ him, and that Daphne cursed her luck at having a brother-in-law like, like that. But he cared not. He had the words of Mr. Swan. He had a bandaged groin as his testimony. He had his sacred ground. It was so much easier that way. Life just rolled out before you, tranquil and ordered and free of doubts.

  Which left plenty of room for the task in hand.

  The supermarket was not only stacked full of tins and shiny glass jars. It was also full of furtive peeps, whispers, snide remarks, heads nodding in her direction, very polite smiles from people she’d never noticed before, and numerous accidental, casual encounters. Her trolley would be bumped – do forgive me, oh, I say aren’t you….. As she reached for the baking powder another hand would coincidentally grab the very same packet – no, no, please, really, I insist, I didn’t mean to…. Any excuse seemed valid to start up a conversation which rapidly became an interrogation. Sometimes subtle, sometimes blunt, but always about Paul. And the same at the Post Office, the Savings Bank, the school. Yes, Jill had been well and truly put on the local map.

  And she loved every minute of it.

  She had always been a closet gossip, had always wanted to know exactly what was going on in the neighbourhood, in the family. But the difficult thing was to be ‘informed’ without being regarded as nosey, for like all women of good-breeding, she absolutely abhorred idle tittle-tattle. Discretion was the key. Jill ‘overheard’ conversations and comments whilst remaining strangely indifferent, aloof almost. She had certainly never intended to snoop. She also made a point of keeping her opinions to her chest. Neither judge nor condemn. Let others interpret the look on her face – her lips were sealed!

  So, by accident, she had gleaned tons of vital information over the years, information which she shared, in strict confidence, and not that she was really interested, with her friends, colleagues and neighbours. This was not gossip mongering, this was not malicious chit-chat, this was merely an interchange of local knowledge.

  But ever since Paul had become an Overnight International Celebrity, Mrs. Jill Kavanagh had become the Queen of Rumour. It took her no time to realise that she could obtain all matter of detail about almost anyone in the town in exchange for a few insights into the Missing Heirlooms Affair. At first she had been amused and flattered by the attention, and had fair traded snippet for snippet, but it wasn’t long before she had begun to understand the free market. She became ruthless. She wanted to know everything about the divorce, the sacking, the hospital visits, before she would give even the slightest glimpse of Paul’s complex personality. She no longer devoured soap operas or Women's magazines, she had no time, no need. She would spend hours in the shops, on her way to school, crossing the park, just talking and talking and talking. And the poor inquisitive souls flocked to her like refugees around an International Aid truck. She would take their money, their last prized possessions, and throw them a handful of grain in return.

  Without realising it she was fast becoming the most unpopular popular housewife in town.

  She wasn’t too popular on the home front, either. The time spent having to put up with nosey parkers and attending those damned phone calls, those insistent reporters, had to come from somewhere. Her kids, Susan and Robbie, normal, well-behaved happy kids, ten and eight years old respectively, tried to take it in their stride, but couldn’t avoid the odd ‘Muuum!’ when their packed lunch had no juice, or the evening meal was yet another hasty pizza. And of course Jill was not to be interrupted whilst on the phone or the laptop, which meant they got a kiss in the morning and a few minutes’ attention at bedtime. Luckily kids worldwide take life as it comes, heave a sigh, and just get on with it as best they can.

  Ken was another matter.

  He felt surrounded. There was mad Paul in every paper and on every TV in the world. There was big brother Ron fuming about his public image and the money squandered on St. Christopher’s. And now his wife! Like so many husbands, he hadn’t seen the warning signs, had believed every word his loving wife had told him. He had heard her say, from her own mouth! how much she abhorred idle chit-chat. He had swallowed all her explanations about how she knew so much about just about everybody (people confided in her because she was so discreet, and really not at all interested in local gossip). Like so many men, he couldn’t understand how she could say those things without really meaning them, how she could be the opposite of what she made herself out to be! Slow off the mark, poor judge of character, and a sucker for a burst of ‘sincerity’, especially if accompanied by sexual insinuation.

  Under normal circumstances. Yet it is when people are under pressure that their true nature appears. So he was horrified to have to admit that his wife, his discreet, disinterested wife, was lapping it up! Despite his despair, despite his anger, despite his lack of control. Just when he needed her most, she was too busy enjoying the whole sickening mess!

  No beer! Again! He stormed into the kitchen, ready to give her what for, but, as always, she hushed him – she was on the phone. He tried storming at her in sign language. She couldn’t play that game right at that moment. He insisted. She swivelled round on her chair

  ‘Well, he’s not too happy at the costs involved, naturally enough.’

  He yanked open the fridge door. No, no fucking beer! Incredible! Plenty of time to drag his family through the dirt, but no time to pick up a six pack. His anger was bubbling away and he was only too prepared to keep it on the boil. He needed to make a point, needed a gesture, needed her to see that all this had gone far enough. He stood in the kitchen and stared at her back. He was blank.

  ‘in a way. Yes, mysticism, hmm, yes, in a way.’

  He could bang out the front door and have lunch at the pub. But he wouldn’t be in the cheery mood required by such places, and just lately they all behaved a little uncomfortably in his presence. He could grab her by the hair and thrust the fucking mobile down her throat. But that isn’t done anymore, and like having an affair with the neighbour’s seventeen year old daughter, it would have to remain in fantasy land where he could control just how much it all got out of control. Reality has a habit of ruining dreams.

  ‘ha, ha, ha. Yes, yes, it does. Very good. Hmm? Uh-huh.’

  Now who was she blabbering off to? She seemed very relaxed, very friendly, very blasé. That’s it, tell the world! Hello, my husband’s got a mad brother, and you’ll never guess what he went and did to himself. Personally of course I suspected it all along….

  He was still standing in front of the fridge staring at her back. He had managed no dramatic gesture at all, and now his anger was beginning to evaporate like rain off a car bonnet. He heaved what he thought to be a really big, saddening sigh, which fell on deaf ears, so he sank on to a chair and buried his head in the paper. He would refuse to talk or be friendly to anyone but the kids.

  ‘Heavens no! If anything I feel the family is more united over this than ever before…’

  Ron and Daphne hurried along the lofty, ornate seventeenth century passageways of the Town Hall towards the shoddy, functional twentieth century administrative buildings, apparently immersed in an intense and strictly private conversation. This was a relatively new ploy. He knew that once safely inside his office he could be attending a perpetual meeting. It was on the approach to this safe haven that the dangers lurked. There was an enormous variety of unwelcome interceptions on offer – toffee-nosed (I am not in the least bit surprised), smug (so, the ambitious high-flier bites the dust, does he?), jokey (literally tongue in cheek, as if chewing on a gobstopper), disgusted (lunacy is contagious, so best keep your distance). Even sympathetic (I always
feel so sorry for life’s losers).

  He locked the office door - now they would not be disturbed. There was no need to inform Miss Bell; who better to keep a secret than a secretary?

  Ron, as always, was fuming. To no avail Daphne had lectured him on self-restraint, the futility of anger, the importance of relaxation exercises. She had tried convincing him with Universal Truths – there’s no such thing as bad publicity, when the going gets tough and the like. But to no effect. He was, as the English so oddly say, beside himself.

  ‘Oh, that’s marvellous, just bloody marvellous. “We do not feel at this particular moment that you would be the ideal candidate”. Incredible. After all I’ve done for them, they stab me in the back. Et tu, Brutus!!’

  He gave Daphne a grave, betrayed look, but she seemed to answer ‘yes dear, very Shakespearean. Get on with it.’ So he did.

  ‘Insult to injury, that’s what it is, insult to injury.’

  He wanted to make his point, wanted to come up with something damning, but kept resorting to clichés. He needed help.