by Donal Ryan
Eugene Penrose said When you get all them millions for that farm above, you’ll still be below getting rode up the hole by Packie Collins, I suppose.
Why did he keep on about these millions? Daddy always said the farm was worth feck all. Fellas who weren’t from land, of course, would always be going around saying every farmer was a millionaire. Mother had often said that. Eugene Penrose was standing in front of Johnsey now, and his breath was warm and stale on his face. Johnsey could see little red lines zigzagging across his eyes. He was breathing hard through his nose and his watery snout was quivering like that of a young bull. Johnsey half-expected him to start raking the ground with his foot.
He was moving closer so that their noses would soon be nearly touching and Johnsey could feel that familiar lightness between his legs. Dwyer said once it was nature’s way of minding a man’s goolies – that lightening, crawling feeling was your balls retreating upwards for shelter from violence, so that if a fella drew a kick at you you’d still be able to perform with your wife and so the survival of mankind was assured. Lads were forever getting lamped in the balls millions of years ago by all accounts, so nature had to try and do something about it for fear there wouldn’t be a sperm left that could swim straight. Eugene Penrose was saying Won’t you? Ha? Auld cutehole farmer.
His face was kind of twisted, his lips were pulled back from his teeth and his eyebrows had arranged themselves in a V shape that made his eyes look even madder. He was wicked-looking. Why was it Johnsey always had to get the brunt of this wickedness?
Some fellas, if confronted with the likes of Eugene Penrose’s big auld snotty beak, would draw back their arm and swing a fist into his puss so fast he’d be out for the count before he knew what had hit him. Or they’d butt him right on the snout with their foreheads. He’d seen a lad one time, a lad younger than Johnsey himself, pulling the helmet off of one of the Toom boys during a hurling match and boxing the face off of him. Johnsey had never been able to draw a kick or a swipe. There was something always stopped him. Probably it was that big yellow streak that had somehow, against all the grains of nature and breeding, found its way into his soul. What power did a yellow streak have? It could paralyse a man’s arm and leg and though his head would tell him lash out, that streak of yellow would make him cringe and draw inwards and turn into a hedgehog, a little shivering ball in front of the wheels of a car.
Eugene Penrose was saying Look at the cut of you, you fat fool. What do you be at above on that farm, anyway? Do you get your hole off a different sheep every night? The townie boy hooted. The trick was to just keep trying to walk to his left or right and if he pushed you back to just kind of lean against the push so that you kept making forward progress, and eventually, with the help of God, he’d tire of the game and you’d get past him. Today he was pushing harder, though, and with the third push Johnsey was knocked to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him. His legs had lost any will to help him out. He looked up the road; there was nobody. He looked to his left; the dole boys were putting their cans down on the wall around the pump. He knew they were going to give him a hiding.
He could tell the two with Eugene Penrose weren’t as interested in this carry on as their leader, but they would go through with it out of fear of him. The townie was a different story. He was smiling ear to ear and laughing in a screechy, high-pitched way and was clearly planning on planting one of his dirty runners in some part of Johnsey’s body. Tackies them boys call them. All he could do now was curl up in a ball and cover his head as best he could. The last time something like this had happened to him was shortly after the meat factory had closed down and Eugene Penrose had kicked him in the stomach one day so hard he couldn’t breathe for ages and after he stood up he felt so weak he nearly fell again and he got sick on the side of the road just before he reached home. When he went inside, Mother told him he was white as a ghost. He said he wasn’t feeling great and she ran him a bath and gave him soup and said if he was the same in the morning she would ring Packie Collins for him and tell him he was sick and would not be coming to work. The memory of Mother’s tenderness tore at his soul.
WHEN JOHNSEY WAS small he’d had the same dream over and over again for one whole summer. It was the summer that Bonesy Donnell died and his sawmill was closed up and locked. Bonesy had always frightened children, not on purpose, but just by being humped and crooked and having arms that were longer than was natural and hands that had thick hair on the backs of them and a kind of a mad smile that made his kindness seem more like a desire to eat you without salt. A few nights Daddy had had to come in to him, and once he lifted him gently from his bed and carried him down the hallway to their room and Mother kissed him and tucked him in between them for the night. That only happened the once, though, that he could remember.
In the dream he would be walking past the high gate of solid wood at the sawmill yard. It would always be locked, with a big padlock that you could see was unbreakable. He would hear noises behind the gate, like someone was using the big circular saw inside but not properly – he could hear a noise like someone was trying to saw through something less regularly shaped and wetter than wood. Then the screaming noise of the metal being sawed would change to a human screaming as the padlock burst in two and flew off in different directions and the sawmill-yard gate swung inwards and he would be rooted to the ground, just standing there, unable to move as a humped black shape grew from the shadows and then he would see that the black shape had lifted the circular saw and the whole bench from the ground and the screaming blade would be coming straight at him and he would wake with his breath gone from his lungs and his covers would be on the ground and his sheet would be wet with sweat and once his pyjamas were soggy with pee.
WHEN JOHNSEY CAME to he could not see. He was still on the ground; he could feel that his hand was in a puddle of water and he could smell rain and something else that was damp and dirty, like there was a wet dog somewhere near him. There was a taste of metal in his mouth. He could just make out a pulsing light and someone was saying You’re okay, good man, in a soft voice and then he felt himself being lifted and then doors slammed and an engine started and he slipped away. He had the dream again, and this time the black shape had a face and it was the townie fella’s face and it was roaring out of the sawmill yard at him that he was a faggot and a fat cunt and even Eugene Penrose was a bit shocked-looking and wasn’t joining in any more and was saying Ah fuck it, come on, leave him to fuck.
THE NEXT TIME he woke he was in a bed. It wasn’t his own bed, it was harder and there were metal bars either side of him. They were cold to the touch. He could smell something like Dettol mixed with shit. He was fairly sure his eyes were open, but still he couldn’t see. Then a young woman’s voice, soft and soothing, said Did you wake up? and called him love and said Don’t worry now, you’ll be fine, the doctor will be in to you in a few minutes. Then she said some words that he didn’t understand and she click-clacked away into the distance.
He spent a few minutes trying to have thoughts one after the other instead of all together. He was in hospital, obviously. He had a clear memory of being knocked down on his arse by Eugene Penrose. There had been a townie lad with Eugene and the boys and Johnsey had a memory of the townie lad descending on him in a whirling cloud of punches and kicks, but it was like he was looking at what happened through the glass of a toilet window. He remembered thinking this fella was going to murder him and he’d be on the news and they’d show the pump with a yellow tape all around it and a little bangharda minding the murder scene and there’d be a bunch of flowers left by the Unthanks and they’d interview random villagers who would say Sure he never harmed anyone, his parents were lovely people, he always kept himself to himself, isn’t it a fright to God that this could happen in our lovely village?
There were little pinpoints of light flashing on and off and that was all he could see. They must have kicked him in the eyes. Could you kick a man’s eyes out of his head? It didn’t see
m likely. Still, Mother always said them townies were fit for anything. He remembered feeling like something was exploding in his head every time that ratty lad’s runner connected with him. He should have covered himself up better. But he remembered that feeling of letting go and falling apart that came over him and it must have been after that that his defences crumbled altogether.
He was in some stew now: no mother or father to mind him and he as blind as a stone. Would he be able to manage to get a cartridge into Daddy’s shotgun even? Knowing his luck he’d miss his useless brain and blow half of his face off and he’d spend the rest of his born days being a blind monster, sitting on a chair somewhere with people lining up to scare themselves by looking at him. Some would be brave and they’d come up right close and poke him. Others would only be able to look at him through their fingers – the women mostly. Children would cry and try to run away, but parents would make them look and they’d say Now, look at what’s waiting to come for you if you’re bold, he’s the bogeyman and he eats bold children. And he’d sit there, unseeing, with one old Cyclops eye left and a mad, useless eyeball rolling around inside in it.
IF THOSE NEIGHBOURS of Daddy’s relations were able to give themselves over to the devil to get their hands on land that wasn’t theirs, why couldn’t Johnsey do the same now to get up out of this bed and be a different man? He could make a solemn pact that on his death he’d travel straight to hell and give eternity in scorching fires. In return he’d be transformed into a man who could rise up out of this coward’s cradle, sight restored, with muscles all over him like that vampire fella with the blonde girlfriend and he’d slap the nurse’s arse as he left in his cool grey suit and sunglasses and they’d all stand there shocked to see this handsome hero stride out of the hospital and one woman at least would faint away at the sight of him. God had deserted him, so why shouldn’t he switch sides? The devil might give him a better run of it.
That was the thing about the devil, though, Johnsey knew: he would promise you the world and every blue and green and growing thing in it and give nothing but more torment. Didn’t he try that old trick with Our Lord and he famished and parched in the desert? Lies is the devil’s currency. You wouldn’t catch Jesus making deals like that crowd beyond who had all the land they wanted but no immortal souls to call their own and the gates of heaven barred to them.
THE NURSE with the Lovely Voice whispered back in to say the doctor was very busy and would visit him on his normal rounds this evening. It was two now. He’d had woeful bad luck in the eye department, by the Lovely Voice’s account. His poor old eyes had had two separate strokes of bad luck: Eugene and the townie and the other two apes had split his left eye right open. A surgeon had stitched it back up. And his retina in his other eye had been knocked from its rightful place and the same surgeon took that eye right out of his head and fixed it up and stuck it back in but it wouldn’t be fully right again for a good few weeks; the upshot was he would not be blind forever and wasn’t that great news and sure he supposed it was.
The other big news, said the Lovely Voice, was that his right arm was broken clean in two and was in a plaster cast and so were three of his ribs but they would have to heal themselves without the help of a cast. He had massive bruising on his legs and back. When he was admitted his head had been swollen but there was no damage to his brain (no surprise there, he nearly said, there wasn’t much to be damaged) and the swelling was nearly fully gone down now and a cat scan had been done and from there Johnsey was lost again, swimming against a tide of big words.
He had one big question he needed to ask but he was damned if he was going to go embarrassing the owner of that lovely voice. How was he going to go to the jacks? And just as the question presented itself in front of his blind eyes, she answered it, as if she could read his mangled thoughts – a cat eater had been inserted into him and that would drain his bladder. It was all cats in this place. Now that she mentioned it, something was not quite right down there. His mickey felt like it had more going on than usual; it wasn’t quite sore, but it wasn’t the height of comfort either. What about it? Just as long as this cat eater didn’t bite.
What about having a shite? He lay there and hoped she could see this question floating around as well. She could begod. The Lovely Voice told him he was to tell her when he wanted to move his bowels and she would give him a hand. How in God’s name was the Lovely Voice going to help move his bowels? Was there not a cat eater they could assign that horrible duty to? She took his good hand and guided it back and up towards his head to what felt like a big knob and told him he was to press that when he needed a nurse. She would be going off duty soon but there would always be someone there for him. And then there was the sound of a rattling trolley and a singsong townie voice said Hello love, will you have chicken or beef or pasta salad for your di-nnerrr, and he said Beef, thanks, and the Lovely Voice said she would give him a hand with it if she was still here, sometimes they did this ward first because they were near the kitchen. Johnsey prayed to that treacherous God that they would. If he was going to be spoonfed like a big mangled baby, his mortification may as well be accompanied by the Lovely Voice.
It would soothe you, that voice. You could just lie there, listening, and lose yourself in it. You could pick it out from away down the corridor, and follow its approach in laughs and greetings and delicious words being flung carelessly here and there. And that’s what Johnsey did for the rest of that long April: he listened for the Lovely Voice and waited for the light to come back. Like the flowers abroad in the gardens, pushing up through the darkness towards the sun.
Some flower he was.
May
MAY IS always lovely, no matter what. You’re meant to seal the borders of your land against piseogs on May Eve by sprinkling holy water on the ditches and praying to Our Lady for protection from badness. May was Daddy’s mother’s name. She was a famous beauty. She could make the stones laugh, too. May was Daddy’s favourite month. Was that because it was the month for which his mother was named? Maybe it was because it was a month of grace and beauty and smells that could make your heart feel like it was going to burst. Daddy wasn’t inclined to explain himself, though; it was his favourite month and that was all there was to it.
There was a May altar abroad in the corridor outside his room. The Lovely Voice told him about it. If you saw the one that put it up, you know, and she decorating Our Lady’s feet with daffodils as much as to say there’s a pair of us in it! She’ll be looking for a halo of her own next. Silly slapper!
SOME THINGS IS easy do, when you have no choice in the world but to do them. Like shiteing into a bedpan, in front of a nurse. Or having bits of you felt and examined and talked about by doctors in quare words that don’t sound like normal English. Thinking about it, it seemed as though it was always that way. It’s easy have things happen to you. All you have to do is exist. Making things happen back is the hard thing. Like words: they’re grand to listen to from other people, and when they’re words spoken by the Lovely Voice they’re like a 99 with a flake in the middle of summer, but it’s fair harder to try to arrange them for yourself. There’s no pleasure in listening to yourself, that’s for sure, only hardship in the knowing of your own stupidity.
The faithful Unthanks came nearly every day to see him. Himself would shuffle around the bed and Herself would tell him sit down and he would huff through his nose like he was annoyed. She would say to Johnsey You poor pet, and Himself would huff again as if in agreement. One day, when he was gone to the jacks or the shop or somewhere, she leaned in closer to Johnsey’s face so that he could smell perfume and bread and Mass off of her and she said Himself never stops talking about it, you know, you getting bet up like that. It’s after upsetting him more than anything ever upset him before in all our lives.
All Johnsey could do was nod.
She said he charged off bald-headed over to the Ashdown Road like a bull, and into the Villas, that first night you were here in the hospital, and h
e nearly went in the front window of the Penroses’s house and there was four or five of them there, you know, but he saw no fear he was so cross and he effed and blinded and cursed every one of them and told young Penrose if he so much as looked at you sideways ever again it’d be the last thing he ever did, but that crowd only laughed at him.
There was a stinging behind the bandages. Salt on his wounds. Himself came back and she leaned away again. He was huffing more now, after the stairs.
Will you eat a Twix, Johnsey?
I will. Thanks.
A Twix was easy ate.
THE GUARDS had come, of course. A fella with a beard in a shirt and tie – a detective no less – and a skinny lad in a uniform, the Lovely Voice had told him. That was shortly after he had come round. They had asked him what happened and he had told them he didn’t remember too much except the bit of pushing and shoving and he was knocked and a fella he didn’t know with birds on his neck had taken an awful dislike to him, it seemed. The guards laughed a bit at that. They told him don’t worry, they’d come back when he had his sight back and he could look at a photo and formally identify the bird-neck lad, but he had been questioned already and so had his three mates and they had been told in no uncertain terms that they were to stay local. Johnsey told the guards he’d rather they fucked off to be honest and they laughed again and Johnsey nearly felt good about himself for a second or two.