The Gamal

  It was a glorious, oh, truly glorious spring sunrise, all Egyptian creams and golds under a Renoir sky of silver blue, the beach sun-dappled and still, seeming not so much itself as its own image in a faded photograph from some years ago.

  The streams on the distant hills were like cracks and crevices in the earth’s surface, revealing a moving mercury sea underneath.

  The redbrick façade, although tumbledown, is really rather attractive when looked at with a forgiving eye, the surface of each brick worn, their edges rounded, some protruding oddly, the years of rain coalescing the rusty browns and maroons, comforting somehow, like the appearance of a favourite old cardigan say, or a winter’s fire.

  The lad who wrote that stuff won some big book prize. Must be good so. I just don’t get it unfortunately. As far as I’m concerned the lad who wrote that has a way too much time on his hands to be coming up with shit like that. Anyhow I’m gonna get all my similes out of the way in one go. Get them over and done with to fuck. Cos I hate them.

  The book was like a page followed by about three hundred other pages and they were all stuck together along the side.

  The car was like a jeep but in the form of a car.

  Snoozie was like a piece of a jigsaw. And a piece hiding in the middle where he wouldn’t ever be noticed. A piece as far away from the edge as he could be. Could never live on the edge. If he had wings, he’d walk.

  Being in primary school was like being a daddy-long-legs that someone pulled the legs off.

  In secondary school you realised that all the other daddy-long-legs had their legs cut off too but now the legs were starting to grow back again and it felt good and the assholes that cut them off were starting to get a bit worried and were trying to placate you and lick your arse and entice you with stuff and the promise of more stuff to make it all OK again so that you might come round in the end to join them pulling the legs off the younger ones.

  That last simile was like a baby’s first steps that he couldn’t bring to a reasonable stop before crashing.

  Or a drunk’s speed-wobble that he couldn’t bring to stop before stumbling into people and making an eejit of himself. Embarrassing.

  Dinky was like a tree in the shade of others. He grew all wonky and weird and out of shape in order to get a bit of the sunshine. Surviving fucked him up. Like the rest of us. But he did survive. Like the rest of us.

  Death did them part. Like a divorce. Only final.

  Watches are like a slap in the face telling you to do what you’re told the whole time. That’s why I never wore one. I still pretend not to be able to tell the time from the face of a clock.

  Fire is like all we have isn’t it? Like life. My favourite word. Fire.

  Music is like the only bit of quiet I used to get. Shut out all the voices I’ve heard through my life. Don’t need music any more for that.

  I wrote another shit simile there like I give a fuck.

  I write similes like a fella that can’t write good similes.

  Jealousy sat on James’ shoulders like mighty new big lumps of cancer.

  Jealousy was new to him like the new way a man looks at life after he’s been told he has fuck all time left.

  Jealous like a fella on his deathbed.

  He hadn’t a clue, like he spoke a language all along that had no word for jealousy.

  There’s things you can’t be saying too. Like saying a fella’s family were relieved he killed himself cos he was such a troublesome sort of a prick. That he didn’t really fit in anyhow and life would be a lot better without him. Or someone saying Jesus Christ that’s a ferociously ugly child you have. Or saying the reason she doesn’t leave him really is cos she’s addicted to his violence. Same as a gambler.

  Had to ditch some similes – kill them off like the farmer drowned the kittens with no home.

  Similes are like empty retches between vomits.

  He was mean like a baby. Babies don’t give two shits about all this sharing is caring business.

  James’ father looked out the window of the castle like an alien. It was like this fella was on the wrong planet or something. First time I ever seen him look stupid. Like the monkey in space.

  The body was lying there wasted like Pompeii. Seen Pompeii on the telly one time and I very small long ago and never forgot. Seen the shape of them.

  Waste is a sad word like innocence but it isn’t sad in the same way.

  The body was cold and stiff like a Christmas turkey in the butcher’s isn’t it? The mouth was open in a gamallish kind of way. Anything could crawl into it overnight. One eye was fully open. The other one closest the ground was a small bit less than half open. Lying on the left side, half naked. Couldn’t have looked more different. A body is no comparison to the person anyhow isn’t it? Especially what I seen. In the dreams. No comparison. Should have evaporated or something. Or been turned into a diamond statue standing all graceful or something. And there should have been music maybe. But what I seen and the mouth open. No. No. In my dream. Nothing. Worst dream ever isn’t it?

  Where the body was was nice like a postcard. The look of the body wasn’t like a postcard.

  The tears in his eyes made it hard to read the words he was typing. Was like looking through an empty bottle.

  Sad like looking into someone’s eyes knowing that they’re trying to figure out if you’re lying to them or telling them the truth and it means so much to them but they’ve no way of knowing and they can only hope hope hope.

  A miracle like Sinéad channelling Kurt Cobain and she singing ‘Pennyroyal Tea’. She didn’t bring him back. But she brought back how he felt isn’t it? How he felt was alive now in someone else. I was there. I seen it happen. Heard it.

  There’s a million different ways from A to B but most people only know a few. Knowing all these ways is like being a human that can fly. Or like being the invisible man.

  Sometimes I black out. Like when you’re reading something and you realise you were thinking of something else all the time and have to go back and read a whole page again. Except with me the page is gone and you’ve nothing to go back to. I never really get caught out though cos no one ever expects me to know anything anyhow.

  Nothing is like no music. Same as death. And who cares?

  Regret is like more than enough punishment for the mistake.

  His love for her was like medicine or bandages or a cure for her.

  I’m like the laptop with a broken screen that everyone thinks is useless but the computer’s working fine.

  That’s the end of the similes. Over and done with. I asked Dr Quinn was there any chance they could perforate the pages with the similes so you could tear them out and wipe your ass with them. He said ’twould be very expensive. Maybe you could use a scissors or something.

  My nose is running like nobody’s business.

  He burst into the room like nobody’s business.

  The car was green like nobody’s business.

  I never got it. Nobody’s business? What’s that about? I think in Ireland we say nobody’s business when we don’t know what something is like. Anyhow that’s the last three similes for you. I couldn’t think of any more. Just like that. Nobody’s business.

  5

  Mind for Faces

  Some people have a mind for faces. Other people have a mind for names. Other people remember things they see. I remember things I hear. Always did. I could hear a song once and I’d know it. Or a conversation in a pub. I remember these things word for word. Sometimes I wish I didn’t cos when I think of things or people sometimes it’s like voices in my head.

  Laugh

  I made people laugh. I don’t know if it’s cos I hated them or loved them. I’d get myself into all sorts of tangles and look at their faces then and they all laughing mad at me. Head full of blood on them, pushed up from within with the height of heaving. Make you wonder what has laughter got to do with disdain. Or what has disdain got to do with loyalty.

  Seen it the time I go
t stuck. When I was thirteen I was the water boy at some big under-fourteens’ match and the ball hopped over the gate of the fence that was around the pitch. Cos of the bank it rolled back near the gate so instead of trying climbing it I tried to reach through it and I got my head stuck in the gate. They sent some fella off to get his angle grinder cos every time they tried to get my head loose I let an almighty roar out of me. At half time people were going over to the chip van and the shop and they were all asking me was I all right so I said I was fierce hungry so they came back with some chips for me. They put them down on the grass in front of me where I could reach them.

  —Are you all right now Charlie?

  —Yeah, says I with a big mouthful of chips and I trying to look up at them best as I could with my head two foot from the ground stuck in the gate.

  And they all walking on laughing and shaking their heads saying,

  —Jesus Christ, he’s some pity, ha?

  —God help us.

  We won the match. They got one of the subs to be running on with the water for the rest of it instead of me. The whole crowd stayed on at the end of the match to watch when the man with the angle grinder came and cut me free. And the big cheer then. Ballyronan’s supporters and the other team’s supporters. They were all for me, and they were against the gate and they all laughing and joking together. Not like during the match when they didn’t like each other at all.

  6

  Next thing then was we all went to Irish college. Sinéad studied Irish like mad so she’d get a scholarship and she did. She was mad to get away from home for a few weeks cos things weren’t so good at home. The gardaí had been to the house over her mother and father fighting and her mother had gone to stay somewhere else a few nights leaving her on her own with her father. She used to hang around with me and James in the evening until she knew her father was gone out to the pub. Then we’d walk her home and maybe have a cup of tea with her in her house and they’d work on some lyrics or a song or just listen to some tunes before going home. They worked on ‘Evening Shadows’ around that time.

  James used to sing it cos the voice in the song was a man. Anyhow enough fucking talk. We’ll have the song now from James Kent. Wouldn’t doubt ya James. Good man James.

  She like some kinda Marilyn Monroe type

  Or some girl out of a Shane McGowan song

  Dunno I must have eaten something rotten cos I vomited that time yesterday. I’d to take sleeping tablets then to sleep.

  I’m thinking there’s stuff the world doesn’t deserve isn’t it? Like the songs. Sinéad and James’. I’ve recordings of theirs.

  You should hear the way this one took off to another level when Sinéad would join James for the chorus.

  And the evening shadows fall yeah

  Rolling summer evenings slow

  And the evening shadows fall yeah

  Maybe it’s time that you let go

  The tune of the verses was fierce safe, and James sang it just right. Safe. But this made Sinéad’s input in the chorus blow your fucking blah. The way with music isn’t it? Just the right amount of safety and risks. And in music you’ve less to lose. Just time. And you lose that anyhow cos there’s no choice.

  The end of the song never got wrote far as I know. Lots of songs never got finished. But I have the recordings and I have their notes.

  Anyhow, I suppose I’ll have to explain to you what the summer Irish colleges are before I go any further. Irish is a language. Yeah we had our own language before the English came and beat it out of us. So anyhow after eight hundred years didn’t we finally beat the cunts and Ireland became no part of Britain no more. So there we were with our own country again at last only wasn’t the whole country after forgetting how to talk Irish. The crowd in charge then were trying to figure out how in the name of God to get people talking Irish again. They realised then that there were people in the arsehole of nowhere way out in the west of Ireland and in the little islands on the west coast who were still talking Irish every day. ’Twas how the English had no interest in these places cos there was no good land there worth stealing, only rocks. So for eight hundred years they escaped a right good battering and having to talk English. By the time Ireland was free these places were the only places still full of Irish speakers and diddly-idle-dee music and Irish dancing and weird old-style singing called sean-nós.

  Anyhow. Right. So the government started setting up Irish colleges in these places and paying for youngsters from all over the country to spend a few weeks with families there or in the dormitories of the colleges and go to classes where they’d learn Irish. In the night then there’d be a céilí which was like a disco only no flashing lights and no disco music, just diddly-idle-dee music and Irish dancing. Just other youngsters and time. Three weeks of it.

  It’s a magical place cos there’s a load of young people who are neither children nor grown-up humans and they are freer than they ever been before. With no one pushing them forward or holding them back. Free to love and be loved. Reject and be rejected. Dream about and be dreamed about. Trust and be trusted. I went on a bit. But that’s what it was. That’s exactly what it was for the young people.

  The world was full of pain but that didn’t matter to them cos just like all the grown-ups who ever went before them, they now had perfected the same language too and the same words. And the thoughts these words permit conspire to allow the pain of others to be ignored. We are all proof of that isn’t it? But them thoughts never got into their heads. They had Coca Cola and Tommy Hilfiger and Lynx and Nirvana and seeing how they were figuring up alongside other people their own age. They had how they looked and how they spoke to be thinking about. And they had attractions to pursue or keep under control. And they had fun. More fun than they ever had before, most of them maybe. And I loved seeing every second of it all and even though I was on the sideline of life I wasn’t jealous of them. I was rooting for them all and they fighting alive and fire in their bellies.

  I said very few words in Irish college myself. Made people think I was tough and cool in the beginning but at the end of three weeks they probably just thought I wasn’t right in the head. At least they didn’t know I was the village gamal back home. And they weren’t going to find out either with James around. Mostly I just said nothing and people got used to ignoring my presence. James said at the start,

  —That’s Charlie. He doesn’t talk. Finds it all too boring. He listens to music. But he’s cool. Charlie’s all right man.

  I used to have headphones on all the time. Hardly ever had batteries in the walkman but no one knew the difference.

  There was an old fella who was teaching Irish dancing and old Irish music. He was kinda funny and everyone liked him and were nice to him, even the bold kids, but he was a bit obsessed with Sinéad’s singing. He was in charge of the choir at Mass too and he had Sinéad doing all the solos. Sinéad really liked it. I don’t think she was used to all the praise she got. Local old women used to come up to her after the Mass to thank her and to ask her where she was from and who her parents were as if she should’ve been related to some famous singer in the area a hundred or two hundred years ago. But they couldn’t trace her. Only Halloran one of them knew went to America long ago and she said that he had the voice of a bullock and they were glad of the peace when he left. Sinéad was just smiling and nodding her head and blushing a little too but only at the start.

  —Beautiful.

  —Go hálainn ar fad.

  The old Irish dancing teacher caught her eye and gave her a proud nod, as much to congratulate himself too. He knew he’d done good. Charming the young shy talent out of her. The talent beginning to believe in itself. James was happy in the background playing the guitar or the keyboard. He knew this confidence would help her to fly isn’t it?

  He used to like watching her dance too – the old dance teacher. Sinéad wasn’t the best Irish dancer of the girls or nowhere near but had something else that the other girls could never have even if th
ey could seem like the ground was electricity shocking them a foot into the air every time their feet touched it. Sinéad had something different. The best was when she made a mistake – she’d frown and smile all at the same time.

  The old dance teacher had me in charge of the tape recorder cos I was fucking up all his dances the first day.

  —Maith thú, a Sheárlas, he used to say. Good man Charles.

  —Píosín ceoil a Sheárlas marsin, le do thoil. A little bit of music so Charles, if you please.

  —Bhí sé sin go hálainn ar fad a Sheárlas, Maith an fear. That was beautiful altogether Charles, good man.

  As if I was playing the accordion and not just pressing the play button on the tape recorder. Maybe he thought that he could even give a fella like me a bit of confidence. Old teachers think anything is possible cos maybe they seen it done. I’d say this old fella definitely, he believed in miracles.

  In the last day of dance class he asked Sinéad to sing for himself and the class. She agreed. She sang the old Irish song called ‘Ar Éireann Ní Neosfainn Cé hÍ’.

  There was just silence after for a bit when she finished and wherever it brought the old teacher it made his voice break a bit when he thanked Sinéad.

  —Go hálainn ar fad.

  I could have given ye the lyrics of the song for free cos they’re ancient and the fellas who wrote them songs a hundred or two hundred or three hundred years ago were only tramps and beggars who walked the byroads, cos the Irish chiefs were all after getting beaten. It’s the same song I mentioned earlier that was played on the uilleann pipes at a funeral one time. But Dr Quinn said no one would understand it cos it’s Irish and ye wouldn’t be interested.

  Anyhow Dinky used to be doing monkey impressions in Irish college to make people laugh. He’d stick out his chin and somehow pull his bottom lip up as far as his nose. Then he’d bend over, tickle his armpits and go,

  —Ooo-ooo, ooo-ooo, ah-ah, ah-ah, ooo-ooo.