by Dermot Healy
Silver John opened his window and tossed him a pound.
Thank you, said the skinhead cheerfully.
His voice sounded otherworldly, like he was living in a different dimension. The lights changed. We went on over the rail tracks, past takeaways, clinics, car showrooms, charity shops, Indian clothes shops, trees, workers, buses, underground stations, under bridges. The streets hummed.
Not so far now, I said.
No, said Silver John.
No one else said anything. As we got nearer home I gave an address round the corner from me.
So what are you having for the dinner? asked Silver John.
Oh fish and chips, maybe.
Very nice.
Just take a left here, I said, into Manor Street.
Manor Street, Phil.
Number 34.
Right, said the driver.
He stopped the car.
Thanks a lot, I said, and reached for my gear.
It was nothing.
See ya.
Are you going at that?
What do you mean?
Are you not asking me in? said Silver John.
Well, you see, I’m only dossing here.
Fair enough.
Good luck so.
I stood on the footpath waiting for them to take off but they didn’t. The driver lit a fag and changed the tape. The front-seat passenger, Bert, lifted out a road map. Silver John just sat there looking straight ahead. So I had to climb those steps and knock on the door of a strange house in which I knew no one. I pretended to lean on the bell, looked back and they were still there. Fuck. So I rang again. I stood back and surveyed the house. I knocked on the passenger window and Silver John opened the door.
Having trouble?
They’re not back yet, I said. Do you want a pint?
Why not. I’d be delighted with a pint.
When he stepped out of the car, so did Bert. We walked to the nearest bar. Silver John stood aside to let me go first and seemed strangely shy. The usual crowd from Kildare were there talking bowling. The elderly Jamaican was sitting alone by the table inside the door humming to himself. The printer from the Mirror newspaper with his baby son in a pushchair called out a greeting. The couple from Dorset in their finery smiled. The Connemaras speaking Irish nodded knowingly.
Dia dhuit, I said.
I saw them take stock of Silver John’s rings. The jeans cut off above the high boots. The jet black hair that looked like a wig. They fell to whispering. Silver John seemed to levitate, he went off, then returned a few seconds later to find himself back in his human frame. Flustered, he threw a twenty onto the bar.
Is this a Free House?
No, said the barman, it’s a Young’s.
I’ll have a pint of Special, then, old son, he said loudly to show he knew where he was. That he knew his way around. He looked at Bert.
A scotch, said Bert. No ice.
Ollie?
A pint of Winter Warmer.
So this is your local?
That’d be her.
He nodded to himself, taking it all in, then he lowered his head, dropped a spit and stirred it with his toes.
You nervous or something? he asked.
No.
I don’t know, he said slowly.
You don’t know what?
Ah Ollie, he smiled. He took a sip of his pint. Is there a phone in this joint?
In the corner he made a call to someone. It seemed to take a long time. He hung up and came back. I have to go, he said. He took another sip of his pint. I’ll be seeing you, Ollie. See you in the morning.
Good luck, John, I said.
See ya, mate, said Bert.
the leg of the chair
That night there was this wild banging on the door. I could hear someone shouting on the street. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. So I took the leg of a kitchen chair down three flights, but when I swung open the front door it was my brother I found standing on the step.
Redmond, I said.
Good man, Ollie!
Keep it down!
What are you doing with the leg of the chair?
Never mind.
You’re tough, he said.
Come on, come on.
He plonked his case in the kitchen and told his story. He’d arrived from Sligo and gone to Coventry to stop with the father, but there had been nothing doing so he had come on to me.
He was stoned.
I put him into my bed.
Me big brother, says he.
Keep it down.
I will.
He started laughing and so did I.
I made it, he said. I made it.
I lit a fag and listened to him breathe. He laughed again and again to himself, then fell asleep. When I woke in the middle of the night I thought he was a lady. Next thing I heard him opening the wardrobe and feeling his way inside.
Where’s the light? he asked. I can’t find the light.
I led him to the toilet.
Where am I? he said.
London town.
Now, he said, laughing. What would Ry Cooder do now?
Marty
In the kitchen at six next morning I was tapping open an egg when the brother came in.
I heard about Marty, he said, the whole crowd at home are talking about it.
What are they saying?
That he got killed.
He did.
Murdered?
Yes.
Jesus. That’s serious shit. He sat on the edge of the bad chair. They say you were there.
Is that what they’re saying?
Yes.
Well, I wasn’t.
Well, that’s what they’re saying.
Who was it said that?
I can’t remember.
Well, when you meet them again tell them they’re wrong. I came along after. I found him. And then I got arrested.
For killing him.
No, for fuck sake. I went off the head.
I heard that too.
Then they let me go.
You were lucky.
I got up and poured himself and myself a cup of tea.
I was in the hospital a while, I said.
He stirred in two spoons of sugar.
Are you better now, Ollie?
I don’t know, I said.
I made a breast of chicken sandwich for myself and he ate a leg.
Could I get a few days with you? he asked.
Take her handy. Have a rest. I’ll see.
Can’t I go along with you?
No, I said.
Why.
I have a problem.
With who?
The ganger.
What’s wrong with him?
I’ll tell you again. He’s lamping me. It’s tricky. The less you know the better.
Couldn’t I get the start with someone else?
Maybe.
C’mon, Ollie. Bring me.
And it was travelling on the bus with him down Wandsworth Road that I heard my name called out of the void. It was a warning that I did not heed. A sorry rain was falling in the yard on the Russians and the Serbs when we got there. Mannion shook the brother’s hand. We got soaked waiting for the lorries. When mine arrives, Silver John is not on it. You! shouts Scots Bob. I get on. You! he shouts. Mannion gets on.
He with you? asks Scots Bob.
I hesitated.
Yes, I said.
You, he shouted.
Redmond got on.
25
the story
All that week we worked the road at the airport by ourselves. We brewed up tea and ate ham boiled in scrumpy in the cabin. Everything was ticking along nicely. They were pet days. Silver John arrived out in his car a couple of times with his minders and had a smoke, talked to the brother as if they were old friends, otherwise we saw nothing but endless cars till evening when we took the traffic cones in and the lorry came to ferry us back to town. We toured Leicester Square and Soh
o at night, ate in China Town, went to the pictures and the clubs where Redmond found a lady from home. I slept on a sofa in the kitchen and he slept in the bed.
It was like old times.
Whenever Redmond asked me what the story was I could not tell him. It came out in dribs and drabs and sounded like something made up. I could not get the order right as regards events.
Protection rackets, he said, what sort of protection rackets?
I don’t know, I said. But Marty got done.
Those nights walking London town came back to me. The hospital. The ganger’s house with the flowers in the garden. The Greek caff. What the story was I couldn’t say. The brother grew protective of me. He began planning a party. I started to think nothing bad had happened at all. I didn’t know how I took a job with the man I thought might have killed my mate. I still don’t know now. And worse, I had brought my brother onto the job.
Then on the Friday morning Silver John drew up alongside us in his car.
Good men, he said.
How are ya? said Redmond.
A word, he said to me.
Fire away.
By yourself, said Silver John.
There’s nothing you can say to my brother, said Redmond, that you can’t say to me.
This is private son, OK?
It’s all right, Redmond, I said.
Are you sure?
This is between him and me, said Silver John.
I nodded and followed him along the footpath. It was like the night I had followed him out on to the traffic island at the Lag. The traffic roared past. He lay up against the wall and considered me.
34 Manor Street
I was in your part of town the other night, said Silver John.
Oh yeh?
I was up there on a bit of business and I thought I might have a pint. So I thought, I’ll call on my old friend Ollie.
Ah.
So you know what, I went round to 34, number 34 Manor Street. Isn’t that right?
That’s right.
That the correct address?
Yes.
I thought so. He nodded. And I knocked and you know what?
Yeh?
They never heard of you.
I felt sick.
I’ve just moved, I said.
Strange.
You see myself and the brother found a new pad.
Is that so? But they’ve been living there for years and they never heard of you.
I was only dossing on the floor there for a few nights.
Ollie Ewing, I said. Ollie Ewing. No, they said, no one of that name ever lived here.
But they wouldn’t have noticed me.
Yeh, but you see Ollie, there’s only the one family in the house. Do you get me now? It’s a family house.
I do.
You picked the wrong door, boss.
I said nothing.
Why, I said to myself, did Ollie give me a wrong address? he says, pretending concern. Why? I asked myself. He strode away, turned, came back. Now, I said, that’s a quandary. That’s a quare one. Isn’t it, Ollie? He tipped me on the shoulder. And then do you know what I did? I did the obvious thing. I went to the pub, the Young’s house, to see if my old friend was in his local. Like, maybe I’ve made a mistake or something. And he’s not there. No sign of Ollie anywhere. So I fell into conversation with this bloke. I bought him a pint. You know how it goes. One thing led to another and then I said I’m looking for my mate, Ollie – Ollie Ewing, I said – and he led me outside and said, There, man, that’s where he lives, just over there. A nice man, Ollie, he said. So I’m looking at number 9 Olive Street. Am I right? Do you follow me?
I do.
What are you saying? Hah? What are you saying?
I’m saying I understand.
We’ll have to have a little chat, Ollie, I’m afraid.
MEN AT WORK
It’s like this, I said, John.
I’m listening.
The lads I’m with are into the bit of dope and I thought you mightn’t like it. You know what I mean. They could be up there off their heads and then next thing I’d arrive in with you.
He started laughing.
Is that the story?
That’s the story, I said. You see, they’re paranoid.
So am I, he said. Who do you think you’re fooling?
I’m not trying to fool anyone.
You’re trying too hard, Ollie. Far too hard.
I mean it, John.
Do you think I believe this shit?
I don’t care whether you do.
Whoa! he shouted. The boy is cross. I like you, Ollie. Ollie Ewing. The wee carpenter. I like it. The wee carpenter and his bag.
Fuck off.
He walked away and came back again.
So, you’ve nothing against me?
No.
You trust me?
I do, I said.
Ha-ha, he said. Me not know. Me not know.
Me neither.
And you boys like a bit a’ smoke?
Yes, I said. And we’re having a party tomorrow night, Saturday, if you want to come along.
You’re moving too fast for me. A party is it?
For the brother.
He lit a fag.
You’re asking me to a party?
Yes.
Wonders will never cease.
So?
I like a draw myself, he said. And I like a snort. You like a snort?
I do, I lied.
C’mon, he said. And bring your brother.
He went back to the car.
C’mon, I said to Redmond.
Where are we going? he asked.
In the car, I said.
With that mad bastard?
Yes, I said.
We got in. Redmond sat rigid in the front passenger seat. I moved a pile of site maps and a pair of wellingtons and got in the back. Silver John lifted a silver wrapping from his pocket. Nice, he said, opening it. Redmond caught my eye in the mirror. John inched out three lines of coke with a penknife onto a shaving mirror.
So you like a snort?
I do, said Redmond, surely.
He handed an empty biro tube to the brother.
There you are son, he said, get that down ya.
The brother aimed the biro and snorted one of the lines. He smiled back at me. I looked at the cocaine and thought of the speed some fucker had put in my tea. I saw my face in the mirror. Flip me. I shot a line and handed the coke back.
So we’re for a party? smiled Silver John.
That’s right, I said. And by the way it’s fancy dress.
That’s right, said Redmond and he went into a fit of laughter.
You don’t mind if I bring a couple of the lads?
No problem.
Is that good stuff?
Fuck me, said the brother.
Silver John snorted the last line. Whoa! he shouted. He whacked the steering column then closed his eyes.
The wee carpenter, he said.
That’s me, I said.
I like it, he said.
So do I, I said.
Ollie Ewing, he said, and I heard it, I suppose the way we all do, our names on another’s lips, in a newspaper, at the end of an exam, on a TV, on a lover’s lips, in secrecy, loudly, quietly, in the mind, all the days of my life the whisper of the name someone gave you, like tadpoles. Whatever that means. We sat in the car watching the world whoosh past. Suddenly a white Jaguar shot by on the inside lane where we had been working a few minutes before. It scattered the traffic cones into the air then swerved out into the centre.
What the fuck?! said Silver John.
Then a cop car that was chasing the Jaguar came screaming by, throwing the cones further across the road.
Let’s go for it, said Silver John.
The three of us got out and ran through the traffic, collecting the cones. I walked back up the road and fetched the sign that said STAY IN MIDDLE LANE – MEN AT WORK. It had been thrown i
n the air and landed on the hard shoulder. Myself and the brother walked the loose kerb stones along the path while Silver John stacked them one on top of the other. We covered the sand with plastic and clamped her down with stones. We washed out the cement mixer and cleaned down the shovels. We put the cement bags in the cabin. We locked the cabin. I got my bag of tools.
I think we can call it a day, boys, said Silver John.
We turned for London.
splendid
That Saturday was a long day. The lads worked hard for the party. We had a whip-round and went down to the off-licence and bought, oh, maybe six dozen cans of cider and beer, a few bottles of vodka and bags of nuts. Redmond went up to Notting Hill and came back in a black cloak with silver tassels round his neck. Joe from Carney threw four chickens in the oven. Brendan McGlouglin from Easkey made potato salad.
I made a pile of burgers with plenty of chilli and garlic. Then Joe’s woman, Sally, came round with a few bowls of salads. She was in khaki. We bought candles and incense. I stepped into a sari. Two girls from Sligo dressed as angels arrived with lentil curry. A crowd from home came up from Slough, and La Loo even made it from Luton, dressed as Boy George. A pair of farm labourers tipped in from Oxford. Redmond ran a broom around the flat singing Galileo! Galileo! Galileo!
We told the gay bucks below us about the party and they arrived with meringues for dessert and extra chairs. The old man above gave us his blessing and said he might drop by. Jim the Jamaican came as a clergyman and brought over his stereo and reggae collection and hung around cutting sandwiches. And Mannion came in a blue suit with a bottle of poitín wrapped in Christmas paper.
We were motoring.
Then we all went down to the pub.
Word had spread.
What’s the party for? asked the woman from Dorset.
No good reason, I said.
What will we come as? she asked.
Come as yourselves, I said.
the heart was going
We were fairly flying when Silver John and Scots Bob arrived to the door of the house wearing togas. Meg was hanging off Bob’s arm.
So this is your pad? said Scots Bob.
Very nice, said Silver John.