Surviving
Michael
by
JOSEPH BIRCHALL
Copyright © 2015 Joseph Birchall
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1503017400
ISBN-13: 978-1503017405
Table of Contents
Fifteen Years Later
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
One Year Later
To Eileen.
‘Well? Shall we go? Yes, let's go.’
(They do not move)
Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot.
July 5, Friday, 3pm.
THE DAY MICHAEL died had been the hottest day of the year. That’s what everyone said. The heated breeze cooled slightly however as it skipped along the surface of the reservoir. It continued over the rocks and through the grass, and caused tiny goose bumps to erupt across the five boys’ bare chests.
They lay on their backs, their bodies forming the shape of a star in the long grass that swayed drowsily above them. T-shirts, rolled into balls, acted as pillows, and raised their eighteen-year-old faces to absorb the warmth of the sun.
The long, wild grass that had turned almost white from an early spell of May sunshine, formed private bamboo-like walls around the contours of their bodies. This gave each of them a subtle sense of seclusion that was broken only sporadically by someone’s voice.
Although they’d only finished their Leaving Certificate exams the previous day, it felt as if weeks had drifted by since all five of them had sat in the exam hall, clothed in stiff, navy blue uniforms, and looked out at a carefree, clear blue sky.
They drank cold beer, which they cooled in plastic bags placed under the water of the lake. Its surface stretched out like blue and green glass, mirroring the sky and the low Wicklow hills surrounding it. Hidden from view, their talk was of girls, the future and girls of the future. Their veiled presence betrayed only by occasional strings of cigarette smoke that spiralled into the sky.
The cooled breeze continued past them and fanned out onto the hot tarmacadam road that led into a sleepy Blessington village. It left them with their contentment, their complacency and a deep primordial knowledge that time was most definitely on their side and they will willingly bask in its abundance, treat it with utter disrespect and squander every precious moment if they saw fit.
‘So why don’t you just ask her out then?’ Charlie asked.
‘I probably will,’ Liam answered. ‘I’ll see how it goes.’
‘Would you fuck off,’ Nick added, ‘you’ve been saying that for ages.’
‘You’re all mouth and no action,’ Danny said and cracked open another beer.
‘No, I’m not. I just need to get her at the right time, that’s all.’
‘Chicken shit,’ Nick offered.
‘You shut the fuck up,’ Liam shouted back at him.
‘Leave him alone, lads,’ Michael said.
Charlie took a large gulp from his beer and sat up. ‘Just do what I do. Use the five second rule.’
All sex-starved eyes looked in Charlie’s direction in silent anticipation. When it came to any matter concerning the greatest of mystifying anomalies, the female form, Charlie was without doubt their guru. Their Dalai Lama of the Kama Sutra.
Much to the envy of them all, he had lost his virginity at fifteen to an overzealous nineteen-year-old friend of his sister. Like most males who lose their virginity at an early age, a psychological, albeit self-imposed, pressure was shed. He then proceeded to sleep with every non-related member of the opposite sex that showed even the slightest interest in him.
So when Charlie spoke of sex, and the prospect that he might reveal some secret law whereby the possibility of their participating in any form of fornication may present itself, they listened.
He took another teasing gulp from his beer and spoke with all the annoyance that befits any great master who needs to once again explain the basics to his inexperienced students.
‘Look, when you see a bird you fancy, before you can count to five, just go up and talk to her. If you wait any longer than five seconds, you’ll lose your bottle. Or worse, you’ll end up staring at her, and she’ll think you’re some weirdo stalker.’
They all pondered this nugget of wisdom, thinking of how best it could apply to their own lives. Charlie took another swig from his beer can. Liam opened another packet of crisps. Danny went to say something then decided against it. Michael thought of Lisa Nolan, and Nick took the final drag from his cigarette, right down to the filter and stubbed it out in the grass.
It was Liam who finally asked the question the other three wanted to ask. ‘And say what to her?’
Charlie shook his head in erudite disappointment.
‘Ah, how about “hello?” or “how are you?” She’s just a bleedin’ bird, you know.’
‘Yeah, but what if she tells you to get stuffed?’ Danny asked.
Charlie shook his head again.
‘Then she’s an utter bitch, isn’t she? Do you really want to go out with an utter bitch?’
This was considered.
Nick was about to answer, ‘it depends on how big her tits are,’ when Liam interrupted him.
‘Then what’ll I say?’
‘Any chance of a ride?’ Danny joked, but nobody laughed.
‘You’ll think of something. Just be natural and try not to look at her tits too much.’
Liam raised his eyebrows at the impossibility of this.
‘Look,’ Charlie continued, ‘as soon as you think about riding her, you get nervous and you get needy. Have a bit of a laugh with her and don’t be too serious. Girls hate needy blokes. If they’re comfortable talking to you in the pub, a bit of a ride isn’t a million miles away. Just talk to her as if she’s your sister.’
‘I would lash the hole off your sister,’ said Liam. A thought he wasn’t aware he was saying aloud.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Charlie shouted at him.
‘She’s your cousin, you pervert,’ Nick reminded him.
‘I only said I’d ride her. I didn’t say I wanted to have kids with her.’
The beer was starting to have an effect on Liam. ‘I remember once when we were kids, she was wearing this white dress, and in the sunlight it was almost see-through and you could see…’
‘Do you want a bleedin’ slap?’ Charlie sat up and yelled at him.
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well fuckin’ don’t, right?’ he said and got up and walked down to the lake’s edge to get another beer. He was prepared to relinquish even further pools of seduction secrets, but by the time he had returned, much to his disappointment, their conversation had moved on.
‘Well, it looks weird is all I’m saying,’ said Nick.
‘Charlie, what do you think?’ asked Michael.
‘About what?’
‘About Danny’s gold ring.’
‘Yeah, Danny,’ said Charlie, ‘it looks a bit mad.’
‘Why did you get it so big?’ Nick asked.
‘I told you,’ said Danny, ‘it’s my granny’s ring.’
‘Well, it’s fucking huge. It looks like you’re married.’
‘You wear it on your left hand if you’re married,’ Danny told him.
‘You’ll never get a bird coming near you with that gold thing on your finger,’ Liam said.
’Don’t mind them,’ Michael said. ‘Fair play to your granny for leaving it to you. You must have meant a lot to her.’
As usual Michael’s words dispelled the tension in the group, and they each lay back down and allowed their thoughts to wander.
Encouraged by their momentary silence, a large, black and white magpie flew down onto an overhanging branch above them. Wit
h his large beak he preened his long shiny feathers and shook his head; his razor-sharp claws keeping him confidently balanced on the branch. He bobbed his head from side to side restlessly with an almost apparent self-awareness of his movements, and looked out towards the reservoir as if admiring the view.
The reservoir, for its part, lapped against the bank as if beckoning them to it. During the day, it glistened invitingly, like a spider’s web in the morning dew. The sound from its waves echoed outwards along the country lanes. Their surface sparkled as if scattered with gold coins, caused by the sunlight squeezing through the tiny gaps in the overhanging trees.
At night, when masked by the darkness, the reservoir became like a cold opaque heart. The lanes that reached out from it became like black veins, silent under the stars and covered by strangely formed shadows and rustling leaves whispering ancient dark secrets.
It was then with an almost stoic inevitability that, on Nick’s command, they all rose silently. They followed him obediently out to the tip of the pier, which cut a slit in the water’s surface like a gateway to its depth. The pier was about two hundred metres long. The water surrounding it appeared to grow murkier and more viscous the further out they marched.
Each passing moment now would be remembered, relived and retold a hundred thousand times to friends and families and strangers. And then a hundred thousand times more to themselves when alone. Every second analysed over and over in their mind’s eye for eternity. A sacrificial walk where only four of them would make the return journey back along the pier, through the lanes and home to waiting parents and waiting futures.
Charlie spoke. Then Liam. Then Danny. The frivolous and innocuous words they used now would later become solemn and prophetic.
‘So who’s it going to be then?’ asked Charlie.
‘I can’t swim, and besides I already dared you to do it, Mike,’ said Liam. ‘If you don’t do it, then we’ll all give you the slaps. It’s your choice.’
‘I’ll go next after you,’ said Danny.
‘Looks like it’s you so, Mike,’ said Nick.
‘Why can’t it be you?’ asked Michael.
‘I’m wearing my contact lenses. They’re not supposed to get wet.’
Michael looked down over the edge. The pier had been built with a slight gradient so that the longer it became the higher it went, resulting in the boys standing over ten feet above the water.
‘Come on, Mike,’ said Charlie, ever impatient. ‘You’ve been dared. You have to do it.’
‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Michael.
‘Don’t be such a girl,’ said Nick.
‘Just jump for fuck’s sake,’ Liam told him. ‘Stop being a chicken.’
‘Will it hurt?’ Michael asked.
‘You won’t feel a thing,’ Nick promised him, and Michael took another step forward.
A lone cloud that had been drifting across the sky, momentarily blocked out the sun’s light and cast a shadow over the pier. The air grew colder and they shivered in its shadow.
Michael took one last look into the inky swell. He frowned his concerns and half turned to his friends.
‘I think that...’ he began, but what Michael thought would never be known.
In a gesture that was half aggression borne of impatience, and half playful, Charlie lunged at him and pushed. Caught by surprise and without a sure footing, Michael’s body keeled over. He inhaled sharply as he fell, cutting off any scream or cry for help.
Time slowed as his body fell head first through the air and into the welcoming embrace of the lake. His head hit the water first. The iciness shocked him and cut off his breath once again. His body stiffened as it reacted to the freezing water.
When he finally managed to haul his head above the surface, he was so disoriented, he swallowed a mouthful of the liquid and his head went back under.
The third time he emerged, the yelp of panic he emitted caused an instant alarm in his four friends looking down at him.
‘Is he messing?’ Liam asked.
‘Why isn’t he swimming?’ asked Danny.
‘Mike,’ Nick called out to him.
The next, and final time that Michael managed to raise his face above the water, he swallowed a lungful of air before something seemed to pull on his leg and drag him under again.
‘He’s trapped,’ Nick said.
‘The current has him,’ Danny said.
Nick bent down and started to pull off his shoes.
‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asked him.
‘We have to try and save him,’ Nick said.
‘You’ll get caught up as well,’ Charlie warned him, but it was already too late.
They could see Michael’s upper torso and his face just below the surface of the water. The ghostly outline of his legs was barely visible in the darkness under him.
Michael’s eyes, six inches from the surface, could see the watery outlines of the four motionless boys looking down at him.
All panic left him now, and a sense of serenity flowed through him. His fate had been decided and finally accepted. He breathed in the dark water surrounding him, and it poured easily down his throat and seeped into his stomach and lungs.
It’s unknown how long they stared at Michael’s blue eyes before life faded from them. It certainly wasn’t until the cloud continued on its journey and allowed the sun to shine down on them again.
It was Danny who spoke first.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘Oh sweet Jesus Christ.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Liam asked.
‘Let’s go get somebody,’ Nick said and turned to run.
‘No, wait,’ said Charlie. ‘He jumped in.’
‘What?’ asked Nick.
‘We say he jumped in.’
‘Charlie, it’s not your fault,’ Danny told him.
Liam’s head dropped, and he began to sob.
‘But we say he jumped,’ Charlie said again, breathing heavily. Danny and Nick looked at one another, then at Charlie. Liam had his face covered with his hands.
‘Please,’ Charlie pleaded.
They both nodded. ‘Okay,’ said Nick.
‘Okay?’ Charlie asked Danny.
Danny nodded.
‘You have to say it,’ Charlie told him.
‘Okay, okay.’
Charlie walked up to Liam and put his hand on his shoulder.
‘Liam,’ he said, but Liam continued to cry.
‘Liam, listen to me,’ he said louder, and slapped him on the back.
Liam moved his hands away from his face.
‘We’re all going to say he jumped, okay?’ Charlie told him. Liam looked at Charlie through his fingers.
‘Okay, Liam?’ Charlie asked him. ‘He jumped.’
Liam nodded and then covered his face again and began to cry harder. Only then did Nick turn and race down the pier and did not stop running until he reached Blessington village.
Fifteen Years
Later
July 5, Friday, 3pm.
Nick
THE CLOBBERING SOUND of Alysha Devon’s stiletto pumps coming down the wooden stairs is having such an adverse Pavlovian effect on the warehouse staff’s general tranquility, that I’ve long ago stopped looking forward to her little visitations. It’s not even as if the warehouse staff ever had any great surplus of enthusiasm for their work in the first place. But now that there’s such erotic excitement in anticipation of, during and after her little escapades out of the office, I feel that something is going to have to be said.
But what’s to be said? And more importantly, to whom? If every rumour is to be believed, and I believe every sordid one of them, she’s bed-hopping from one manager to the next. Last Friday she took a lift from Gary, the sales manager, in his Touareg jeep. On Monday, she arrived in with Tony, the financial director, in his BMW. Poor old Mr. Boylan hasn’t even been seen in the last two days.
It’s not that I even begrudge them their bouts with the bawdy li
ttle gold digger. It’s just that, well, if there’s going to be any screwing the system going on, then I want my fair slice of the screwing. Am I not a manager? Albeit warehouse manager, but a bona fide manager nonetheless. She could at least have started with me. We’ve all had to pay our dues and resentfully work our way up the ladder, so why not her?
Instead, all I get are these five-minute mickey-teasers of her descending the stairs on some bogus errand, and then climbing the stairs again. Every masculine eye on every feminine curve of her legs; her heels to her sublime calves, to the tender valleys of the back of her knees and all the way up her thighs like a bewitching boulevard to a hidden treasure. If this is her modus operandi for management manipulation and for getting my attention, then why do I have to share my fringe benefits with the rest of the staff down here?
We all used to laugh at first when little Barry Stephens would run off to the bathroom for ten minutes every time she came down, but now he’s become depleted and even emaciated of late, to be frank about it, I’m becoming quite worried about him. He’s of no use to me whatsoever for the rest of the afternoon. The poor chap’s become somewhat of an addict to her perfect contours. Last week she had a half day, and he was itching and scratching at himself like a junkie.
Perhaps she sees me as just one step above the likes of them, and barely worth the bother. Sees me for what I am. Or rather, what I could have been but am not. She knows well enough that I have enough clout in this place with the boys upstairs to warrant a nominal amount of respect from her at the very least, and that very little leaves this factory without my input. But she’s seen through all that with the inherent perception that only women possess.
I’ve been in this place since it opened, and it would undoubtedly struggle to function without me, but still, after, what is it? Eight years... Christ, eight years. After eight years, that’s as high as I’ve risen and am ever going to rise. Sure, they flatter me with public praise and throw me a perfunctory salary raise every now and then, but then I do make their lives run a lot smoother. I open up in the morning and lock up in the evening more times than even the owners do. There used to be twenty of us down here, but after the Celtic tiger emigrated, we’re back down to the same six that we were eight years ago. I do realise the freedom I have, and the level of trust too, but it comes with a price tag. I have my leeway, but only as far as the links in the chain will allow me. I’m fully aware that the end of that chain is bolted securely to the floor of the warehouse, and its length will never increase to allow me beyond the base of the stairs. I am what every smooth running body needs to function at its optimum efficiency – an arsehole. I deal with all the shite and make sure everyone comes out smelling of roses.
Surviving Michael Page 1