by Trevor Byrne
—Yeah?
—Yep.
—It’ll get better, man. Takes time.
—That’s wha they say, anyway.
—Yep. That’s wha they say.
*
We’re back in the pub and another few pints are behind us, the pub full and warm when Pajo says:
—I saw Kasey.
Ned raises his eyebrows and sips his Guinness. Pajo’s smilin. It’s not one o these weak, watery smiles like Kasey’s ma has on; it’s the real deal. He’s beamin, his wonky teeth bared and his eyes crinklin.
—Wha? I say.
Pajo shrugs. —Out in the trees. There was someone with him.
I look towards the window. The evenin’s dyin light.
—Yeah? I say.
—Yeah, Denny. Serious.
Ned nods. He’s sound, Ned. Never judges. Unlike me.
—Hundred per cent, says Pajo.
—Did he do anythin? asks Ned.
—Nah. Just smiled. The two o them did.
Two o them. —Who’s the other one? I say.
—Dunno. A girl.
—Yeh serious?
—Yeah. Him and a girl. They were smilin and they waved. She’d black hair with blue bits in.
Ned smiles. —Here, he says. —A toast for Kasey, wha? Ghost Kasey.
Me and Pajo raise our glasses and clink them together.
—To Kasey, says Ned.
—To old friends, says Pajo.
—Old friends, I say, and I can’t help smilin. I take a massive gulp from me Guinness and set it down carefully as the women o the Cassidy family start up a verse o The Fureys’ Sweet Sixteen, surprisinly well sung, sad and happy and just fuckin perfect.
*
The pub door swings open and the priest waddles in, followed by two pious-lookin oulwans with shawls on their blue-rinsed heads. Ned calls oulwans like them God groupies; old women obsessed with the clergy and countin down the days to the next weddin, baptism, funeral. Ned nods at them as they come in, a glint in his eye.
—Check it out, says Ned. —Couple o –
—God groupies, I say.
Ned and Pajo laugh. I feel a bit better now. Mr Cassidy comes over to us with four pints o Guinness in his big hands and places them on our table. Mr Cassidy’s a big man, a Dubliner, tall and well built. The top few buttons of his shirt are open and his tie is off. Yeh can see the grey hairs on his chest.
—Yiz alright there lads? he says.
—Grand, yeah.
—Sound. Thanks for these, Mr Cassidy.
—Ah, no problem lads, he says. He runs a hand through his thick hair, then takes a huge swallow of his Guinness. He brushes the froth from his upper lip.
—Very sorry for yer loss, Mr Cassidy, says Ned.
—Ah, says Mr Cassidy, shakin his head. —Ah sure, was it a surprise, lads?
Ned looks lost momentarily and then recovers enough to make a multi-purpose sigh. The priest orders a brandy at the bar.
—Sure the way he was carryin on, lads, was it any wonder? Mr Cassidy nods surreptitiously at his wife. —Poor oul Brid is knocked sideways. But this is it lads, if yeh carry on like Kasey did. God love him. Ah sure he was always very soft.
I’m not sure whether to bring this up or not but, fuck it, here goes:
—Emm … it said in the note he left about a girl called Jackie. Who was that?
—Ah, a girl he was very fond of years ago. She died of an overdose. That oul heroin, lads. Fuckin scourge.
—I never heard him talk about her.
—Well. Sure aren’t we all mysteries, lads? There’s more we don’t understand than we do. Mad oul world, wha? And here, speakin o mysteries, I’d better say hello to the Father.
Mr Cassidy gulps another huge measure of his Guinness and stands up. He nods at us and walks back over to the bar, where the priest with his brandy and the two God groupies are standin. The priest pats Mr Cassidy on the shoulder and the two oulwans look up at him and shake their heads, two pious vultures, their eyes filled with gleeful sorrow.
THE PINK AND BLACK ATTACK
The wind from the Atlantic’s dead cold. I’m sittin on top o the van, me palms flat against the dew-damp roof and the toe-ends o me boots pointin at a wide black sky. There’s a trad band playin in the pub behind me, mad, wild fiddlin and tin whistle spillin into the night. The rest o them are inside, drunk and dancin, their shadows flashin at the old border pub’s windows. Don’t fancy it meself. Not yet, anyway. It’s been a week nearly since Kasey’s funeral and home seems dead far off. Rossnowlagh, Carrick, Derrybeg, Ardara. We’ve driven through each and stopped and drunk and danced and puked. Dungloe, Annagary, Glencolumbkille. Never even heard o these places before, never mind been to them, and yet, I dunno why, it all seems dead familiar. Mad that, isn’t it? This feelin I get that nothin is new, not really.
Me watch beeps. Ten o’clock. The ocean’s shiftin in the dark. I can hear it, the low roar and crash and hiss o waves. The smell, as well. Dead fish and smashed, buckled crabs and beyond that the salty tang o the sea.
This place o wind and wetness. The outer edge of an island already on the edge o things. How much has this place changed? Cabbages yer head to think like that, doesn’t it? I mean, this place has been here thousands upon thousands o years. Me ma brung me to the natural history museum in town, years ago, and the thing that I remember clearest is the Irish elk. So big. So fuckin massive. What sights would that elk have seen? An older Ireland. A world o dense forest and clean skies and green and purple hills. An immense elk in silhouette on the mountainside, its antlers huge and ornate, a strange four-legged chieftain o the high places.
Me mobile buzzes. It’s Paula.
—Hello?
—Heya Denny. Yeh alright?
—Yeah, I’m grand. What’s up?
—Nothin much. Where are yeh?
—Donegal. Sittin on the roof o the van.
—Very nice. Where’s the rest o them?
—They’re in the pub. I just came out for a bit of air.
—Shane’s just after callin round.
Fuckin hell. —Wha did he want?
—He dropped round to Slaughter’s.
I hesitate for a few seconds. —Dropped round? Wha d’yeh mean?
—Him and Gino. They dropped round to him. They said everythin’s sorted.
—In wha way, sorted?
—Yeh know wha way, Denny. They went round, them and a few o their mates. Yeh know yer man Butler and that. Philip Butler, I think his name is. It’s sorted, anyway. He won’t be comin anywhere near here again.
—Wha, like they –
—Look, Denny, I’m gonna have to go. It’s all sorted, there’s nothin to worry about. I’ve hardly any credit and I’ve to ring Teresa. She got that new job. We’re after doin the house up a bit. And here, one last thing. I think we should have a bit of a think about sellin this place.
—Wha?
—Just have a think about it. Shane mentioned it and he said we can split some o the money, help us get on our feet. I’ll talk to yeh soon. And remember, everything’s grand with Slaughter and that. Shane and Gino sorted it. Yeah?
—Yeah.
—Right, I’ll see yeh, so.
—Bye.
*
I grab the three pints and carefully pick me way back to the table, me fingers spidered round the glasses, strainin to keep them all together. Another mad, improbable but inevitable comeback from Liverpool. Peach of a goal from Alonso, as well. Top quality signin, he was. Benitez’s best so far. Maggit was already after givin up, he was in the jax and he missed it. He legged it back out with his belt floppin when he heard the roar from the pub and as soon as he saw the score he jumped up on the table and started dancin like a madman. Nearly got us thrown out. Dermot, a local GAA head with shoulders as wide as the van, winks at me as I pass him at the pool table, still strugglin with me stout overload and the people millin round me.
—Some fuckin game, what? he says. —Should watch soccer
more often.
He’s after sayin this about ten times already. He said he’s callin it soccer rather than football to assert his Gaelic roots; a continuation o the great struggle against Britain on a linguistic level. I give him a wink back and then finally set down the drinks in front o Maggit and Ned.
—Sound, says Ned.
—Cheers, says Maggit. I gave him a bit o stick about his lack o faith earlier on but he insisted he never gave up; accordin to him he turned to God while he was in the jax; he got down on his knees in the cubicle and prayed for an equaliser and lo and behold, Alonso’s volley rocketed into the net.
I take a sip from me Guinness and then it’s back to the bar for the double vodka and Coke for yer woman Maggit’s after pickin up with. As usual I can’t remember her name. She’s from Belfast anyway, a student. Seems nice, like; there’s somethin really cool about her. She’s the same age as me but she’s after goin back to uni, to finish an English degree she started a few years ago. She writes stories. Fair play to her, like; gettin on with things, gettin ahead. Or tryin to, anyway, which is more than most people do.
Feelin pretty drunk now. Nice though. Cool little pub this, the Tapper’s Yard. Dead small like, only the one room, and apparently oul Seán does a lock-in every night if there’s people up for it, and there usually is. Fuck-all pubs like this around Dublin. The jukebox is free. Not great stuff on it mind, but there’s some Dylan tunes and Thin Lizzy and a bit o Neil Young as well, so it’ll do. Heart of Gold’s playin now, for probably the fifth time since we’ve been here — Ned loves that song.
—Thanks very much, Denny, says the girl as I place her vodka and Coke on the table.
—Yer grand, I say.
Lovely eyes, she’s got. Not sure if they’re brown or a deep, shiftin green. The place is buzzin, packed. We’re sittin on the little bockedy red corner couch, dead snug and warm. Dermot is up at the pool table with Pajo, rackin up a new game, his hair pulled back in a tight, short ponytail. There’s a wind blowin in from the sea and yeh can hear it shakin the window in the frames. Deadly atmosphere. There’s loads o locals (oulfellas with papers at the bar, a dolled-up oulwan teeterin on her stool) and a few students from the local university. A few o Dermot’s mates as well, musicians and that. One o them, Lorcan I think he’s called, pulls out a stool and plonks down his pint o Bulmers beside me Guinness.
—Up for a lock-in then boys?
—Deffo, says Maggit.
—Bit of singsong and that, ey? Yeh up for it?
—Yeah, I say. —Sound.
—Got me guitar in the car, and Dermot’s. Back in a jiffy.
He gulps the last of his pint and hops up, pickin his way through the crowd towards the door. When he opens it the wind whooshes in with a howl. He runs out into the dark with a whoop. A broad-shouldered fella in a denim shirt slams the door shut behind him.
The girl tucks one of her dreads behind her ear and smiles at me. They’re green, her eyes. She has a small stud in her nose. She’s got high cheekbones and she’s wearin a slightly shabby, buttoned-up denim jacket. Maggit looks put out already, now that the attention’s not on him, and makes a bit of a face. Which is stupid cos I’m not interested. Well, I would be, like, if I’d o bumped into her first but there yeh go. I wonder if he told her he has a kid? I doubt it. And anyway, I don’t wanna annoy her, like. I mean, she’s out here to have a laugh, to enjoy herself, not to have gobshites like me doin her head in.
Maggit laughs at somethin but I didn’t catch wha was said. I didn’t see him at all the day o the funeral. Well, after he walked out, like. Then, the next mornin, he rang me. Asked me to meet him at some greasy spoon in the village. He was sittin by the window, the remains of a fry on a plate in front of him; the skin o the white puddin and the pale fat of a rasher.
—What’s the story? I said. I knew somethin had happened. Somethin had changed. I sat down across from him. It was a nice mornin, the village comin to life outside. Maggit looked at the back of his hand, then up at me.
—Well? I said.
—She’s movin away, he said.
I knew who he meant. —Where?
—Fuckin Bulgaria for fuck sake. Or Albania or one o these mad fuckin places. Her da’s after buyin her a house. Supposed to be dirt cheap over there.
—She takin Anto?
—Wha d’yeh think Denny? For fuck sake.
I nodded and that was that. I tried to talk to him about it but he wasn’t havin it.
He didn’t wanna know.
Maggit’s still laughin when the door flies open and Lorcan falls in backwards, the two guitar cases clatterin off the floor. Seán howls drunkenly from behind the bar, his fat round head lollin on his shoulders.
—Few tunes, ey? That’s the stuff, man! Few tunes! And remember now boys to tell Carmel that I was askin for her! A beautiful woman so! Ah boys I tell ye, it’s an awful pity ye never saw her when she was young! An awful pity!
*
Mrs Kinsella was right about the whiskey. Fuckin hell, I take one shot and the head’s nearly blown off me. Seán slaps me on the back and laughs.
—True enough, ey? Is that or is that not the finest whiskey yiv ever tasted?
Finest? Fuckin strongest, anyway. I cough and nod.
—Aye, it is so, says Sean. —Me own grandfather came up with the recipe. Good stuff, ey?
—Yep, I manage to blurt out.
Ned’s standin up on a stool, beltin out a rebel tune about Wolfe Tone with Lorcan below him, bashin away on his guitar. Pajo’s doin a mad little jig beside him, his arm linked with a short-haired woman with rings in her nose and a swishy, multi-coloured gypsy skirt. Maggit, the dreadlocked girl, Seán and Dermot are sittin at the table with me. Maggit seems a bit off, still. We’ve all been tryin Sean’s patented, top-secret recipe whiskey and to be honest, we’re all well gone at this stage, fucked, totally AWOL. Great fuckin craic, though. Mad, like. We’ve a load o whiskey glasses in front of us and out o nowhere Maggit says, eyes on his whiskey:
—Know wha I’d love to do?
Here we go. —No, I say. —Wha?
He looks up. —D’yeh know what’d be me ultimate fantasy? Like, even if I could win the lotto, I’d rather have this. Top, top fantasy.
—G’wan, I say, takin a sip at me whiskey. Everyone’s lookin at Maggit. He’s drunk but he’s not quite wrecked.
—Serious now, he says. —Wha I’d love, right, is to be locked up in a … like, a kind o big tanker thing. A big steel room with no way out. And it’s full o midgets.
Dermot and the dreadlocked girl laugh, puzzled. Seán looks perplexed.
—Wha yeh on about? I say.
—With midgets, like, he says, dead earnest. —Locked up. Say about thirty o them. A big gang. And like, for me ultimate fantasy, I’d batter them all to death. Fuckin cream them. I’d have one in a headlock, bam bam bam, diggim in the head. Boot another one. Schmack, up against the wall. Dead. Batter them, the lot o them.
He starts laughin. —Best fun ever.
—You for real? I say. —That’s yer ultimate fantasy?You on somethin or wha?
—For real, he says, lookin round. —Fuckin hate midgets, like. Little bastards.
—How many o them did yeh say?
—Dunno. About thirty.
I set me whiskey down. —For one, Maggit, that’s a mad thing to say. And two, I reckon thirty midgets’d kill yeh. They’d wear yeh down.
—Me bollix they would.
—They would. Thirty’s too many. Yid probably kill a few o them but they’d get yeh, they’d overrun yeh. Yid be dead. Killed by a tanker full o midgets.
Maggit fills himself another measure o Sean’s whiskey. He’s thinkin somethin over. He takes a sip then says, lookin at no one in particular:
—Wha a fuckin way to go though.
*
Seán shakes his head again. He’s been regalin us with tales about the Troubles and it looks like another one’s on the way. Apparently this place was used as a safehouse for IRA
heads on the run. And he says that Mrs Kinsella was — and is — a staunch Republican. She lived up here for a while when she was younger.
—All madness aside, he says. —I’ll tell ye this for nothin. Worst mistake I ever made in me life was lettin that woman slip between me fingers. Too busy with the cause so I was, with stupid dreams. At the end of the day it’s all about now, what ye can have right now and hold onto, not what’s in the past or fuckin worse, what’s in the future. Sure who knows what the future holds, ey? Ye take stock o what’s in front o ye, what’s fuckin important. And before ye say it, yes, of course the cause is important, of course it was worth fightin for. But sure what’s the use when in the end it’s not about yer country, it’s about yer life, it’s about yer happiness.
Seán sighs and runs a hand through his thinnin hair.
—Don’t say that to Carmel now, OK? It’s too late for all that so it is. She’s happy enough where she is and that’s an end to it I suppose. Still, here’s me bringin the mood down! Would ya listen to me! Sure get some more o that down ye! C’mon now, show an old gunrunner what ye’re made of in the capital!
And another round o whiskies is poured. We hold them out over the table and clink glasses. I catch the dreadlocked girl’s eyes and she smiles at me again. I wink at her.
—Ready now? says Seán. —Sláinte!
—Sláinte! we shout, and down the whiskies in a fit of coughs and gasps and barely suppressed, pukey heaves.
Everythin’s swimmin round me, spinnin and soft-edged. I try to focus on a picture o the Hunger Strikers on the wall by the window but it keeps goin blurry. Everyone’s sittin now, the ten or so people that are still here at wharrever time it is, swayin and nursin their pints. I look at me watch. Half five, I think. Jesus. The dreadlocked girl is sittin between me and Maggit and we’ve been chattin away for ages. I’m not sure wha about, but it’s cool. The feel of her thigh against mine is gorgeous, fuckin electric. She takes me hand to look at me ring.
—That’s nice. Where’d ye get that?
—It’s me ma’s. Well, like, used to be.
—It’s lovely.
—Yeah.
I wanna say more, like, but I can’t think of anythin else to say and me voice is kind o slurred so I just nod and smile and take a sip o me pint.