by Trevor Byrne
—Wonders never cease.
—How’ll I get me videos back?
—I think he lent them out.
—To who?
Paula shrugged. Then she laughed. I looked at her for a few seconds, then I laughed as well. The videos were gone. But fuck it, so were a lot of things. I was glad.
*
The moth — and it is without doubt a moth, even if it is a freaky fat fuck nearly three inches long — is squattin still and upside-down on the ceilin o Paula’s bedroom. Like them bats at the zoo. Paula’s resumed her vantage point behind the door. I edge closer to the centre o the room, eyes glued to me prey. I’m slidin a kitchen chair along with me hip and I have a rolled up Vogue magazine in me right hand, although I’m not gonna whack it, like … I’m just gonna give it a nudge and see wha it does. I have the windows wide open, so hopefully it’ll just fly the fuck off and that’ll be the end of it.
I manoeuvre so that I’m nearly directly below the moth and stand carefully up on the chair. The moth’s big and fat and dark brown and its legs are thick and hairy. Two weird-shaped antennae movin slightly. The wings are downy and –
—Watch it doesn’t fly into yer face.
—Shush.
—They do. They don’t know wha they’re doin.
—Just shush, will yeh?
I slowly reach up towards the moth, tiltin me wrist back for leverage so I can kind o flick the thing away from me.
—Close yer mouth, says Paula. —It might go in yer mouth. It doesn’t care if it dies. It knows no better.
—Shurrup, I say, although fuck it, I might as well close me mouth. Imagine that thing in yer gob? Fuckin sick.
Right. Here goes. Just a little tap. I plant me feet square on the padded seat o the chair and reach slowly towards the moth. The Vogue magazine is about five inches from the thing, Angelina Jolie warped and stretched on the rolled-up cover, and the moth still hasn’t budged. Well, it’s turnin slightly, in little jerky circles, like an anti-aircraft gun gettin its bearins.
—Get it!
I look at Paula. —I am gettin it, I say and turn back to the moth and out o nowhere it hurtles at me all flappin whirrin wings gigantic in me vision and I can feel it brush me face, soft and hairy and meaty and me legs jellify and I let out a stupid yelp and fall backwards off the chair onto the ground with a huge crash and the moth bashes against the window random and bat-like and Paula bolts and legs it down the stairs half screamin and half laughin.
—I told yeh I told yeh I told yeh Denny, they always go for the face ick ick ick ick!
GHOSTS AND LIGHTNING CAST NO SHADOW
Fuckin hell, I’ve never seen rain like this before. Hurryin along a twistin Wicklow mountain road, eight miles from Enniskerry, three soaked and stoned intruders from the city. Teemin rain and roilin grey skies and a dull flat buzzin noise like static, like the sound yeh get off the telly when it’s not properly tuned in. All around us a sodden earthy smell and behind it the faint tang o rusted iron. There’s sheep huddlin in the fields beyond, black-eyed and watchin placidly, unmoved. I take a gulp from the bottle o wine I bought at the cornershop in the village and spill as much as I get in me mouth. The bottle’s so wet the label’s peelin off and I have to press it to me chest to make sure I don’t drop it.
—I swear, yer fuckin gettin it buddy! FUCKIN BIGSTYLE!
Maggit spits the threat at the rumblin sky. His face is upturned as he runs and his eyes are half closed against the downpour; the fucker’d fight the rain if he could. Such mad fuckin rage inside Maggit, his shaven head and angry mouth, the lips pale and stretched, a lopin, cursin, tracksuited shape in the wild evenin, the tent packed high on his back. Ahead o me, Pajo is quiet and wide-eyed, turnin in circles as he jogs, amazed and awed by the sky’s raw and sudden fury, the dozens o badges pinned to his denim jacket clackin like maracas.
Shane’s been ringin me all day, the missed calls stackin up. Fuckim. A few hours ago we were in Dublin, in Eamonn Doran’s for wha we assumed was the night, downin pints and fightin off the creepin dark and now we’re here, in the arse end o nowhere, soaked and runnin. I couldn’t face the thought o goin back to the house, the staleness and fuckin sadness of it all. Me ma’s absence weighs on yeh like a sack o sand back there. We bought a cheap tent from an army surplus shop on Capel Street and hopped on the 44 outside Trinity College, spur o the moment job. Shots o vodka from the cap at the back o the bus, rain on the windows. Unusually for Pajo he had no pills on him so he bought a handful o herbal ecstasy from the hemp store, which has BZP or somethin in it, and I’m startin to come up on the two I popped, me teeth, legs and arms all warm and tingly. Feels nice, like there’s a spell on me, protectin me from the cold; an invisible cloak wrapped tight around me.
—Didn’t I fuckin tell yeh about the rain? says Maggit. —Didn’t I fuckin say? Yeh can’t be fuckin told, d’yeh know that?
Maggit’s referrin to the fact that I said not to bother pickin up rain gear, but balls to that. Who needs to keep dry when yiv this mad stuff in yer bloodstream? Fuckin class this is.
—Fuck it man! I shout.—C’mon and dance!
I catch Maggit by the sleeve of his tracksuit top and twirl him, brief thin fans o red water springin up and fallin round our soppin feet.
—Dance yeh cunt! Yeow!
Pajo claps and laughs, the three of us beneath the swayin branches of a huge and ancient oak, raindrops fallin fat and sparse about us and ragin beyond. Red mud on the narrow road and the mountaintops wrapped in rags o mist. Maggit pulls away from me and shrugs the tarpaulin bag o tent poles from his shoulder, droppin them at Pajo’s feet.
—Right, your fuckin turn. Yiz mad fucks.
Pajo grabs the bag two-handed and swings it up and over his shoulder, tiltin backwards with the awkward sudden weight before I grab him. I givvim a wink and he winks back.
—Sure we’ll just pitch here then, I say. —Yeah?
—Me bollix, says Maggit. —Lookit them fuckin sheep Denny, yid wake up and one’d be in the fuckin tent eyeballin yeh.
—Don’t be a clown.
—Balls, they’d give yeh the evil fuckin eye Denny, fuck that. Not sleepin in a field with sheep, no fuckin chance.
—Right so, I say, and I bound ahead, another surge o the pills washin through me. Where the fuck I’m goin I don’t know but I start howlin as I run, like a madman from ancient times, a drugged up ancient clansman howlin at the wind, at sheep and bowin trees, at the whipped and tossin clumps o nettles, me hands above me head, clappin and spinnin and howlin still, howlin at the sheer fierce fuckin beauty and madness of it all, o the trees and rain, o the silent grey mountains and me gobshite friends, the oddness o things, the wonder of it, the sheer and mad and funny beauty.
*
Still buzzin I follow a narrow gravel path that leads off the main track and come to a garden, huge with a whitewashed bungalow at the bottom almost hid by high bent grass and overgrown bushes. I vault the gate and the others follow. There’s an amber glow from the kitchen window and a shape movin, potterin back and forth. I look back over me shoulder.
—This do yeh?
—A bleedin garden?
—A garden or sheep, up to you. We’ll be quiet, yeah? Just get the tent up and skedaddle first thing.
We’re crouchin in the rain behind a blackberry bush. Maggit scratches his ear. Pajo’s still smilin aimlessly, grindin his teeth at the same time in a weird, rictus, shiftin grin. I stick me head slowly above the cover o the bush. The shufflin shape is an old woman, forty yards away and oblivious, her hair long and white in a single braid hanging over her left shoulder. She reminds me o me nanny Cullen, me ma’s ma. I touch the ring she gave me ma, the smooth white gold. It’s her hair, mainly, that reminds me of her; me nanny Cullen never went for that blue rinse, short hair bollix. I run a hand through me own soppin hair. It’s gettin long now, like; needs a cut. I duck back down.
—Just keep it down and we’ll be grand, yeah? We’ll be found dead out here if we ke
ep this up, fuckin pneumonia like. Leave the place as we find it though, yeah?
—Right, says Maggit. —Fuck it. Fair enough.
Pajo shrugs. —Cool.
I take the bag from Pajo and slide out the first o the tent poles, then point it at Maggit, a blunt and wonky sabre.
—Grab that.
He does, and far off I hear the huge and darkly swellin grumble o distant thunder. The sound comes from a great depth, or it seems like it does anyway, to me, underwater, long and low and deeply sonorous. Somethin stirrin. Some immense and ancient form o life.
*
—Giz the flask over, Maggit, I say.
Maggit’s lying on his side, readin The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I brung it up with me and I’m surprised to see him readin it. Books aren’t his thing, yeh know? His upper body’s pokin out of his sleepin bag, his long, wiry arms almost covered in dark blue tattoos. He has the Liverpool crest on his right shoulder and Che Guevara on his left. He’s wearin his glasses and they make him look older than he is, his lips silently shapin the words. He shifts and grabs me Adidas bag, then throws it over.
—Hardly any left, he says.
Pajo’s rollin up a joint and his fingers make me think of a documentary I saw a few days ago, with this close-up of a spider’s legs as it rolled up a fly. Pajo’s wired to the moon, but in a completely different way to Maggit; there isn’t a hint o violence in Pajo. He’s as serene as they come. And a bit frazzled, as well, to be honest; a bit addled, like. Black and white, these two. They don’t even really look that similar, cept for the eyes.
—There y’are, Denny, says Pajo, passin the joint to me. Pajo’s collarbone is pushin against his skin like it’s tryin to force its way through.
I take a long, deep drag. Nice. I take another and then hand it to Maggit. Maggit closes over the book and takes the joint, regardin it for a few seconds between thumb and forefinger, then takes a quick puff. He nods his head and passes it back to Pajo, who taps the ash into an empty Monster Munch packet.
Pajo skootches over and sits beside me. His hair’s brushed back over his head and his slightly yellow, misaligned teeth are bared in a big grin. He takes a heroic drag on the joint and offers the smoulderin remains to me. I wave it away.
—Yeh sure?
—Positive man, I’d be snoozin in no time.
Pajo nods. —Cool. Sound. Very wise.
I stretch and crack the bones in me neck.
—Preposterous, isn’t it? says Pajo.
—Preposterous? Wha is?
—The weather.
Preposterous. Yid never catch anyone cept Pajo sayin that. It’s not even really that preposterous at all, this weather in November, in the mountains. But yeh have to laugh. Madman, our Pajo.
Pajo’s inspectin the inside o one of his soaked Doc Marten boots. Behind me I can hear Maggit readin, whisperin to himself. We’re all knackered. Fuckin cold, as well. The BZP’s wearin off, like. This was probably a dopey idea, comin up here.
—There’s a few things we’ll need for the séance, says Pajo.
—Wha?
—A few things, like. Emm … trappins and that. I’ll have to get a few things together.
—Like wha?
—Just … emm … there’s a special candle. And yiv to have a strong-smellin spirit. Whiskey or wharrever.
—Right.
—Yeh have to do it proper, like. Yeh can’t just mess around with the paranormal.
—Paula said it might be a revenant, I say. —Wharrever difference that makes. None.
—Well. There’s different types.
I shake me head. —Yer a sky pilot.
—There is, though. There’s, like, poltergeists, spectres, wraiths. And there’s this Swedish one, a gjenganger. I don’t think it’s one o them, though. They’d probably have an accent.
—I suppose they would, yeah. Like ABBA.
Pajo nods. —Don’t be, like, afraid or anythin Denny.
—I’m not afraid.
—Well … OK. Good. There’s nothin to be afraid of.
—There’s nothin there at all for fuck sake.
Pajo shrugs. I do feel a bit edgy, though. I mean, out in the middle o nowhere like this, fuck all protection. I saw a sheep’s skull in one o the fields, big empty eye sockets and all its teeth still in place. Fuck that. I turn away from Pajo and look at Maggit.
He’s still readin.
It’s mad that. Maggit readin. Not that he’s stupid or anythin. He’s a canny bastard but he’s not what yid call a scholar. Still, it’s cool all the same, seein him gettin into a book. Lookin forward to askin him about it, actually. Havin a chat like, yeh know? I’ve known Maggit forever but we’re dead dissimilar in loads o ways, and I think we’re driftin. I wonder, sometimes, if we’d still be in touch if I hadn’t o had to come back from Wales. If me ma hadn’t of … like … and if I’d o stuck it out and got a decent job, or a qualification or wharrever. He never rang me while I was over there. Although I was only gone a few months so I suppose yeh can’t make too much of it.
Me big plans. Off to Wales. Get a job. Get some money and go to university. Meet someone. Someone nice. Didn’t happen. Dunno why I thought it might.
There yeh are, anyway. Must o stepped on a snake somewhere. Slid back to Dublin. Square one. Or Wicklow at this exact moment, which might be square two, or even minus one. Ah sure, details. I’m fucked either way.
Outside there’s a small white bird dartin through the air from tree to tree. I think it’s a lark but I wouldn’t stick money on it. Shane or Gino would know. Gino especially, he’s mad into birds.
Anyway. Busy oul thing, this lark or wharrever it is. Keeps dartin from the trees on one side o the garden to the other, dodgin raindrops. Then onto the roof o the bungalow and a low dip over the grass, dead close to the tent then back to the first tree. I can hear the whirr of its wings. It just keeps doin that, over and over, like it’s castin a spell or somethin. The old woman could be a witch and the lark, or wharrever, her familiar anyway, is layin some strange curse on us, some witch’s hex.
—Lookit that, I say.
Pajo puts down his boot and looks up.
—Wha?
—The bird there, lookit. —The white one?
—Yeah, lookit the way it’s flyin. Watch. We sit there for a few minutes, our eyes dartin after the bird.
—Mad, isn’t it?
—Yeah.
—Maggit.
—Wha?
—Lookit this out here. Wha kind o bird is that?
Maggit closes the book and shifts slightly, the evenin’s dyin light catchin in his glasses. His head and jaw are stubbled. The glasses make him look strange, kind o … I dunno, vulnerable or somethin. Not that I’d say that to him.
He takes off his specs and peers past me and Pajo.
—Where?
—There, look. That white one on the bungalow, on the roof there. See it?
—The roof?
—There, look. Put yer glasses on.
—They’re not fuckin binoculars Denny. Where?
—Look, there. Yid wanna get yer eyes tested again.
I meant that as an observation, the thing about the eye test. As advice or wharrever. But as soon as it comes out of me mouth I know it sounds like I was slaggin him. Maggit looks at me for a second, scopin me out, annoyed, then scratches his ear and sinks back down into his sleepin bag.
—Just sayin man, I say. —I don’t mean like –
—I can’t see the fuckin bird Denny, right? he says, without lookin up. —Poxy fuckin trip.
—Ah c’mon, says Pajo. —Don’t start gettin cranky and, like … yeh know? Relax the cacks, lads. Deep breaths.
I nibble on one o me biscuits and shrug.
—Don’t be so sensitive man, I say, and I wanna say more but fuck it, there’s no point. For a harchaw Maggit’s feelins are very easily bruised. Sometimes, anyway. Other times he’d laugh it off, slag yeh back. Fuckin impossible to know which road he’ll take. Ah,
sure. Rough and smooth, yeh know? Way o the fuckin world, isn’t it? Too right, man. Too fuckin right.
*
It’s freezin and we’re swayin in the semi-dark o the tent, cross-legged and face-to-face like peace pipe smokers, three pale and bony totems grinnin at each other over Pajo’s Euro-Stretcher lamp. I’m absolutely, completely and utterly spaced. I drum me fingers on the now empty biscuit tin. I’d love another Jammie Dodger. Ah well. Our shadows are lurkin behind us, full o mischief and intent, flickerin, shiftin as we shift, dark and stretched second-selves on the tent wall. Goin on about wrestlin for ages, the topic dredged up out o the past — The Undertaker and Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels. The mad spectacle, the pomp and lunacy. Undertaker was my favourite, Bret was Pajo’s and Maggit’s was Shawn. I’ve always loved wrestlin — the heroes and the villains and the stories they told with their bodies. The sound o the rain’s heavy now and so’s the hash’s thick sweet smell and outside and above us, all around us, the deep sad sound o the night wind. Maggit and Pajo’s faces are alive with smoke and shadow. Huckleberry Finn‘s on me lap. It’s an old copy, used to be me mad uncle Victor’s.
Pajo shifts his weight and farts. It’s dead loud and ripe and fruity. I don’t mind cos Pajo’s farts are basically odourless. Maggit’s are toxic. We launch into a fit o deep and gulpin laughter. Seems like the funniest thing in the world, which is another sign o how far gone we are.
—Fuckin noise o that, says Maggit.
Pajo grins. —It’s about yer posture, like. If yeh tilt a bit yeh can get great ones.
—Is that wha they teach yeah at yer Buddhist classes?
—Nah. Just, like, found out.
I brush a few crumbs off o the book’s cover.
—Wha d’yeh think o the book? I say.
Maggit chews on a mouthful of Garibaldi. He washes it down with a swing from a bottle o wine. He’s still on his detox. He reckons he’s gettin a bit of a belly, which he is, so he’s off the beer. I tried to tell him that detoxin on wine’s not that likely to make a difference when yeh drink it by the bottle but the cunt knows it all, apparently.
—It’s good, he says, noddin at the book.
—Yeah?