The Gamal

by Ciarán Collins

  People found it funny and stupid.

  James told him he didn’t think he should do it any more and Dinky went spitting thick.

  —Fuck you James. I know what you’re at all right. I fucking know what you’re at all right. Lord Haw Haw.

  James just looked at him and said nothing. Dinky went ranting.

  —Think you can tell me what to do. Is it? Do you think you can fucking tell me what to do? Who the fuck do you think you are like? Think you’re fucking great that’s your problem.

  James still said nothing. That night in the céilí everyone was asking Dinky to do his monkey impression. Especially the older lads so they could be taking the piss out of him and get a laugh off the girls. Dinky was known for the rest of the week as the lad who does the monkey impressions and if it wasn’t for the fact he was always around with James, the nickname Monkeyface would’ve stuck. James caught one of the bigger Dublin lads by the scruff of the neck and told him if he heard him call Dinky Monkeyface again he’d kick him back to Dublin. Threw him on the bed then and called him Jackeen.

  The Dubs used to call the country lads boggers and we’d call the Dubs Jackeens. That’s from the time the Queen of England was let into Dublin long ago and all the Dublin lads got free Union Jack flags and didn’t they wave them like mad all along O’Connell Street and she passing. Fucking Jackeens.

  Anyhow, Dinky got on fine in Irish college after. Just had a bit of a hairy start but people soon forgot about calling him Monkeyface and got to like him as James’ best friend. One of the Tipperary girls that was there asked him about it at the end of the course.

  —Hey Denis.

  That’s what people called him before he was Dinky.

  —Yeah?

  —What possessed you to do that monkey thing?

  —I dunno. I think I did actually get possessed by a monkey.

  —Everyone thought you were crazy you know.

  —I thought everyone else was crazy from where I could see them up on my tree.

  —You’re funny.

  —I think I did it for my nephews who thought it was hilarious but they’re only five or six.

  —Ha! Really?

  —Yeah.

  —That’s mad.

  —Yeah.

  —I’d say your nephews just think you’re a bit of a fool, she said.

  Dinky blushed and laughed along with everyone else.

  On the third day we heard a commotion in the dorm next door to us. When we went in there was a fat younger kid on his knees crying. Pink head up on him same as a big old balloon that lost some air. Dimpled from the fat. Few other young lads scampered back to their bunks when we came in. The fat lad was all snots and tears but he managed to answer James eventually,

  —They were calling me skunk.

  Started sniffling and panting again then and wiped his nose with his sleeve and said,

  —And they kept saying I was farting and I wasn’t. Whenever they see me they block their nose and roar ‘Skunk’ at me.

  Then he got fierce angry and shouted at his tormentors, ‘Fuckers!’ and started banging his thighs hard with his fists, wild angry face with tears streaming down his face. And then he pointed at two of them and shouted,

  —And they call me lagging jacket.

  The two bullies were a bit shocked by this outburst. James put his arm around the fat boy and told him that as long as we were around it would never happen again. James took hold of the boy’s wrists to stop him hitting his chubby thighs in rage, all the while saying,

  —Easy. Easy.

  Then he said,

  —Come into our dorm for a while, will ya?

  The kid didn’t answer. I think he thought James wasn’t being serious.

  —Come on. We’re listening to the new Nirvana album. Have you heard of Nirvana?

  —No.

  —Well then it’s time to commence your education. Come on.

  He followed us out. James stuck his head back into the dorm at the end and said,

  —Anyone else mocks my cousin they’re going to have us to deal with.

  James put his arm on the fat kid’s shoulder and said,

  —Never mind.

  —I know, said the fat kid, snorting like a little pig.

  —No. Never mind. It’s the name of the Nirvana album.

  He tossed him the CD cover and laughed. The fat kid smiled.

  —What’s your name cous’?

  —Henry, said Henry.

  —Hey scumbags, James roared. I wanna introduce an honorary member of Nirvana.

  Nirvana was what we called our dorm as well.

  —Henry is his name.

  All the lads who were around on bunks shouted out a hello to Henry and went back about their business. Poker, computer games, car magazines. One lad had a tabloid.

  —He’s staying in dorm three but they all keep farting in there, Dinky said.

  Henry laughed. There was another chap. A big lanky Dub that hung around with us all the time as well. He was the biggest Nirvana fan you ever saw. He’d sit on the bed and play the imaginary drums along to the songs. Then there was Sinéad and her friends.

  So. We went on like that. Three weeks. A kind of freedom. Except for the teachers who as long as you stayed put and didn’t go killing or hurting anyone they left you alone. And you had to make an effort to talk Irish when they were around of course. So it was a bigger version of freedom than any of us were used to.

  And every year everyone cried leaving Cape Clear, same as all the other Irish colleges. I watched them all. The trying to be hard men, the young beauties, the spotty self-conscious, the lucky confident, the young eyes filling with their first knowing tears. For the friends they’d never see again. They knew it now. That the truth of the world was the truth of leaving isn’t it? New to them all, the old was. And how they might never see the Naomh Chiaráin ferry boat again or the little roads and the old people who watched them being young and the hills and the sea within a mile in any direction. Even me they’d miss and my weird self so hopeless and strange and sad to them. They knew too that life gets hard and cancer and big stuff happens and they’d change and have to work and change into people that could succeed and survive and wear suits or uniforms and behave all appropriate always so they’d succeed and survive. And they knew they’d never be like this again isn’t it?

  Could go through the whole three weeks there but it’s not really part of the story so I’ll just go straight to the last night. Some stuff I tell is just so you can kind of know the people isn’t it? Important that you know the people.

  The last night was always mental on the island. It was the tiring middle-aged teachers versus the teenagers who were sprouting wings in the dark hours. The worst that can happen is they’re sent home but everyone is going home the next day anyhow. The plan was to escape from the dorms at four in the morning and meet the girls by the ruin for sunrise.

  —Henry I’m sorry you can’t come.

  —What? Ah come on.

  —No. Anything happened you we’d be in fierce shit. You’re too young.

  —Nothing will happen.

  —We could easily get caught.

  —I don’t care. I’ll risk it.

  —Not going to happen.

  —Who’d wake you Henry?

  —I’ll set my alarm.

  —You’d better not Henry.

  But there was the last céilí first. Went on longer on the last night and there was a disco for an hour after the Irish dancing. Sinéad loved the song ‘You Are Not Alone’ by Michael Jackson. Was on the radio the whole time that time. The DJ was only a teacher. A young bittertwisted fella of about twenty-five called Ó Cinnéide who took a strange dislike to James from day one. Anyhow James asked him to play ‘You Are Not Alone’ when the slow songs were on in the disco but Ó Cinnéide said he didn’t have it but James saw it on the desk and said you do have it and then Ó Cinnéide told James to get lost. James told Sinéad she’d hear it before the night was out but e
ven though James went up twice more to Ó Cinnéide, he still wouldn’t play it.

  The last time James went up and asked him to play ‘You Are Not Alone’ Ó Cinnéide had a right good rant and shouted at him not to ask him again. James turned around and walked away but he was after stealing Ó Cinnéide’s Michael Jackson CD unknown to anyone. Except me. I seen it. Ó Cinnéide was all business lining up his CDs and James just lifted it and stuck it into the belt of his trousers under his shirt.

  7

  Ó Cinnéide didn’t know his problem. His problem was that he didn’t like young people and he was after choosing a job that wouldn’t ever let him get away from them. He didn’t trust them. He was afraid of the fire isn’t it?

  Anyhow the girls’ dorms were about fifty yards from the boys’ dorms. By half one in the morning they were all in bed asleep or nearly. The teachers had stopped patrolling the corridors. That’s when the wave came. The soundwave that woke the stillness for a dance.

  Probably for the first time ever in the history of Cape Clear island or the island when it had no name at all but just was there. And probably for the first time for the goats with the beards. And for the first time for the old people who lived on the island. And the rabbits in the fields. They all woke or stopped dead on their tracks and tried to figure out what the sound meant. In the dorms the young people from the mainland sat up in their beds and knew it was Michael Jackson.

  ‘You Are Not Alone’

  It sounded good coming out over the intercom. Could hear Ó Cinnéide starting to shout. Ó Cinnéide was a zealot.

  —Séamus Kent, tar amach as sin! Oscail an doras.

  When I went down a few of the older teachers were pulling Ó Cinnéide away from the door cos he was wanting to break it down. They knew he was got the better of but Ó Cinnéide wasn’t inclined to believe it. The teachers were busy dealing with Ó Cinnéide so I walked away out so as to hear what the music sounded like under the stars.

  If you can imagine night-time and outside and no wind and an intercom and Michael Jackson playing out over the intercom then you’ll have a good idea of what it was like. No lights came on in the girls’ dorm and the only light coming from the boys’ dorm was the office. I could see the shadow of James. He was standing dead still for the whole thing – just holding the mic to the CD player. Everything different cos it was night. Stilly isn’t it? And not stupid with daytime business. Stones on the ground with the memory of the sun. But Michael Jackson reinvented everything that night. All was new. Even the stones could never be the same again. And the air was new. All was new to the goats on the hill. Michael Jackson made it so. Atmosphere. And I was new myself from it.

  So. That was the last night on Cape Clear. James had to stand outside the door of his dorm in his boxer shorts for the whole night with Ó Cinnéide sitting in a chair watching him.

  —Did he let you go to bed? I whispered when I heard James getting into his bunk underneath mine.

  —No. Ó Cinnéide fell asleep. We’ll have to go out the window.

  When James did stuff like that it was like he didn’t know what he was doing. The pros and cons of it didn’t enter his head. Was like he was stupid. Same as the tide comes and goes. Doesn’t think about it just does it. And if you tried to stop James these times you might as well have tried to beat the tide back with a stick. Some things are just going to happen no matter what.

  It was just ourselves, the waves, the moon and the old ruin. At half three in the morning we snuck out. We were just up the path and we seen Henry coming out behind a bush. All you could make out first was the teeth in his smiling head.

  —About time, he said.

  James got him in a headlock and rubbed his head,

  —Doubt ya kid. Glad you made it scumbag.

  —You too scumbag. What’s with the gas drum?

  —We’re gonna light it and it’ll fly out over the Atlantic like a rocket, James said.

  —Oh cool, said Henry, the eyes wide in his head like the moon.

  Dinky and the Dublin lad laughed.

  —When did you get out, the Dublin fella asked him.

  —I got out about half twelve.

  —Half twelve?

  —You’ve been out here three hours?

  —What have you been doing all the time?

  —Waiting.

  —Why’d ya leave at half twelve?

  —That’s when Ó Crualaí was down in the kitchen. I could hear him talking below so I knew I could sneak out the front door. If he was in his room he’d hear me leaving.

  —Good thinking Sherlock. So you’ve been out here three hours.

  —Yip.

  —Jesus.

  —Have you any provisions?

  —What’s provisions, like blankets? I have my sleeping bag here in the bag.

  —No I mean food.

  —No. I’d a packet of chocolate digestives but I ate them to pass the time.

  The lads laughed.

  —Seriously, I wasn’t even hungry. Feel a bit sick after them.

  He burped and the lad laughed again.

  —Henry, Henry, Henry, said Dinky.

  —Yes, yes, yes, said Henry, moving his bag to his left hand now, his fat little legs starting to struggle.

  —All right there Henry? asked James.

  —Yeah, said Henry.

  —Good man, said James.

  All the drink had been found by the people running the Irish college so we hadn’t a drop. But James borrowed a gas cooker, a tea pot and a fist of tea bags. The worst was the big orange gas drum that we took turns carrying. That’s what made us about fifteen minutes late. The walk was a laugh. Dinky dropped the gas drum on his toe and let a yelp out of him. I can hear the voices.

  —You couldn’t carry a fucking virus, the Dub said.

  —I think my fucking toe’s broke!

  —Ya dick!

  —Seriously, it’s fucking agony.

  —Walk on the other foot, we’re nearly there. Charlie take the gas drum the rest of the way there will ya?

  —Thanks Charlie!

  —No bother. How’s the toe?

  —Broke.

  Once we reached the final horizon the sight of the skeleton of the old ruin against the Atlantic and the moon’s reflection way out south beyond was reward enough for our escape. But the faint sound of the girls below was even better. I can hear the nervous excited giggling. It told the night-time’s eerie silence to go away and fuck off.

  —Jesus Christ we thought ye were after getting caught.

  —What have ye got there?

  —Sure ’twouldn’t be right if we couldn’t have a cup of tea.

  —James borrowed the kitchen and we helped him to carry it!

  —Jesus Christ.

  —Ye’re gas.

  —Jesus I’d murder a cup of tea.

  Within twenty minutes everyone had a hot cup of tea in their hands. Sinéad was delighted she got to hear her Michael Jackson song and we all had a great laugh about it and thinking about Ó Cinnéide waking up and seeing James gone and going into the dorm to get him and seeing him gone again and his head exploding with rage. We sat around the gas ring of fire, duvets and sleeping bags over us.

  —Thank fuck it’s not raining.

  —Chalk it down.

  —We wouldn’t have come out anyway if ’twas raining.

  —Someone’s watching out for us.

  —God maybe. Maybe he wants us to have a great fucking night here on our last night on Cape Clear. Maybe he kept the airí asleep when we escaped.

  —Getting cold now it is.

  —That’s why God invented fire.

  —Let’s find some wood.

  —The fire would be seen.

  —Sure let’s face it, if they find out we’re missing this will be the first place they’ll look anyway.

  —There’s shag-all fire wood around anyway sure.

  —There’s the palm trees down the valley.

  —You get them so.

&nbs
p; I got them with James and the Dub. Two armfuls of palm branches and one whole palm tree that the Dub pulled clean out of the sandy earth. Fell back on his backside with the tree up on top of him. Pissed themselves laughing with the mad night sea air in their lungs. Different to the air we’d be breathing if we were asleep in bed where we were supposed to be. Sweeter isn’t it? Everyone helped break up the tree and the branches for the fire. The seven of us sat around. Two half moons. Myself, Sinéad and James on the north side, looking south at the ocean. The rest more or less facing us, with their backs to the Atlantic. The fire crackled and cracked and hissed and sparked same as a jazz drummer competing with the human voice of our talk. Fits and starts. Sinéad liked random drumming like that. Like sparks from the fire, she said. Best thing was I was near Sinéad and I could see the tiny tiny image of the fire reflecting in her eyes and the warm colour of it on her face.

  Mostly talking it was. There was a second round of tea made. Then the Dub suggested a party piece from everyone, as long as he himself was allowed to go first. Dubs are different.

  He sang ‘Boolavogue’. Never heard a Dublin accent singing it before. He was brutal but the accent made it nice. Bew-la-vowg was how he said the word. Sang it. He said he learned it off his grandfather. His grandfather was a Wexford man. He taught James the words of it.

  And he taught James one called ‘The Ould Triangle’ too about a fella in prison in Dublin thinking of women. The other girl, Michelle, after a load of coaxing said an ancient poem-prayer that we’d learned in class. ‘Gile Mo Chroí.’ Means light of my heart. The next time I heard it was at a funeral.

  Sinéad then sang ‘Táimse im Chodladh.’

  No one could remember what the words mean but it didn’t matter. The tune of it with Sinéad’s voice and the sea and moon is what mattered. I didn’t sing anything, and they didn’t push me to either. James recited that thing he used to often be spouting, even in class before the teacher would come in, or walking along the street. You can write a few verses cos that’s all James ever said. It’s called ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’.

  Henry recited some poem he’d learned in school called ‘Mid Term Break’.