The Gamal

by Ciarán Collins

  My visit to Dr Quinn today was different. He thinks I’m the best fella ever now. Instead of the office we walked around the grounds of the hospital for an hour. He was thanking me for engaging with the process as if I engaged with the process. He’s a fierce fan of the process like the hippy one in school long ago. And he was thanking me for trusting him as if I trusted him. And he was saying how he was amazed with the progress I was after making as if he knew the thoughts in my head.

  Afterwards I got the bus into the city centre for a walk around. Walked up towards St Francis church and I could see they’d balloons and bunting and signs and all kinds of shite up and when I got to the church I heard music so I went in. On the poster at the back of the church it said Cork Culture presents The Sirene Ensemble. Bit like Sinéad. The Sirene Ensemble. ‘Les Béatitudes’ was the one I heard cos I robbed a programme at the back of the church. Last song it was. I missed the rest but I heard this one. So I was happy I heard this one. Would have heard more if Dr Quinn shut his hole. This music made me sick. An old man came up to me outside the church telling me to move on and I told him to fuck off and I vomited again. He thought I was a bum. The bums hang around the churches in Cork for warmth. After I finished vomiting I hung around and watched these foreign ones packing up after. The singers. Then they went away in a van and two cars to some place else on their music travels that wasn’t Ireland and I suppose I half wished I was with them. Not sure why it made me think of Sinéad so much but it wasn’t the voices. Might have been the hairs on the back of my neck. Give you the creeps like a ghost story.

  ‘Les Béatitudes’ goes here. I dunno what language it was. There’s a million different ones on the internet. But it was one I didn’t understand the words of so you must write out one from a language you don’t know. Find it and listen to it. The words won’t distract you from the music too much cos you won’t know what they mean. Blessed are those who never met me.

  Voices. No instruments only voices. Plenty of them singing. Like your man that Sinéad liked. On the Holocaust memorial from the telly. Fat fella singing with a crowd around him. The others were dark-skinned and black-haired but this fella was the odd one out. This fella was pushed around on the playground. Fat pink head on him with funny teeth and goggly eyes. And gingery hair. A freckleface in a land of no freckles. He was up at the mic and the lads who might have bullied him were singing along with him. Or sounded like it was against him sometimes. Those were the best bits, Sinéad said. The pink head on the odd one out was gone purple by the end of it. Make you think of. Of nothing. Just listen like. Your fucking ears became your brain. Or your brain became your ears. Went on for the bones of fifteen minutes. I don’t know where the video of it is now. It’s not in the castle any more anyhow. But if you had it. If you had this video where James’ mother had the commemoration thing recorded, the picture would go to shit when you reached the odd one out singing. The tape was worn out. James just lied on the floor next to it and would rewind for Sinéad every time the odd one out came to the end of whatever strange cry of a song it was that he was singing. If I had to guess how many times we watched it over that Christmas holidays I’d say about one hundred and seventeen times. Sinéad knew the most of it anyhow by the end, whatever language it was.

  Makes me think of the Russian Creed too. That was a record. Big old crackly one. Must have been James’ father’s. Or maybe his grandfather’s. One time James had the wrong time for a match cos Dinky told him it was on at half seven but it was really on at half six. I knew it was half six it was on but I wanted to see what Dinky was up to cos I knew they wouldn’t play the match without James cos it was on in the local pitch. A stone’s throw from the castle. Dinky had been up the day before and thought they were bonkers listening to the Russian Creed up full blast over and over and over. So anyhow I could see them out the window of the library. The whole team was out on the pitch and they trying to shout for James but all that could be heard out over the eastern fall of the valley that evening was the Russian Creed. In the end they stopped shouting, just looked up at the castle to us between the kicks of the ball in the warm-up. It was the trainer that had to get James. The doorbell wasn’t heard so he came in the front door and up the stairs into us. The look on James’ face and the trainer’s face was the same. They were shocked. James turned off the music and the trainer goes,

  —What in the name of sweet suffering fuck are you up to James? You’ve a fucking match below now.

  James looked up and smiled and gave us two big thumbs up from the window of the car and the trainer speeding off down the drive. Sinéad put on the song once more before we left. She said it was intimacy. That music. That’s what she said about it. Intimacy. For the people singing it and hearing it. No going back after sharing something like that she said. Intimacy.

  The State’s Case

  Now, ladies and gentlemen I am invited to argue the case on behalf of the Irish state. But I’m not going to argue with you, ladies and gentlemen. What I’m going to do, in summing up, is discuss the reasonable conclusions which can be drawn from the evidence we have heard.

  Mr Cole’s summing-up was excellent, I’m sure you will all agree. A very skilled speech which opened up many possibilities – among them the possibility that his client, Denis Hennebry, may be innocent. My summing-up will be very different from Mr Cole’s. Mainly because my summing-up will not be based around conjecture and ‘what ifs’. No. My summing-up will be entirely based around fact. And what we call, in the very serious business of criminal law, hard evidence. Hard evidence and facts, ladies and gentlemen. Hard evidence and facts.

  Now I’m not sure if I have Mr Cole’s eloquence. I’m not sure if my voice is as pleasant to the ear of the listener. And as I listened to him carefully yesterday, and saw how attentively you listened to him ladies and gentlemen, I could not help but hope that I might have your attention in the same way – despite my . . . well, my less honed oratory skills and my gravelly voice . . . and my old suit . . . and my age.

  They say image is everything nowadays. If it is, I’m at a disadvantage. However, ladies and gentlemen, I believe that those who say image is everything are wrong. Justice, ladies and gentlemen, justice is everything. Image, varnish, gloss, depiction, portrayal, speculation, inference, assumption, guesswork, imagining, shot in the dark, conjecture, ‘what ifs’. They all come to nothing beside facts. Evidence and facts, ladies and gentlemen. Evidence and facts. Justice is everything. Evidence . . . and facts. The rest, ladies and gentlemen, is distraction. Skilful distraction. Cynical distraction. But the old school taught us that evidence and facts alone will bring us justice. My wife always tells me on my way out to a big court case, she says, ‘Justice is good and God is good.’ Justice. Facts and evidence. Evidence and facts. Don’t let your view be clouded by anything which is not evidence. Don’t let your view be clouded by anything which is not fact. Justice, ladies and gentlemen. May justice prevail.

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. In the science of medical diagnosis, doctors have a term for when you diagnose something quite common as something extremely rare and unusual. They call it a zebra. If something looks like a horse. Sounds like a horse. Feels like a horse. Acts like a horse. Then it’s probably a horse. Not a zebra. What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is the equivalent of the zebra diagnosis in the world of criminal law. But do not let this analogy deflect from the seriousness of this situation. This is a very calculated, sly and bold move by the defendant and his counsel to put doubt in your minds as to his guilt. Remember to always keep in your mind the key words for justice – evidence and facts.

  What exactly are they suggesting? Are they really suggesting that poor innocent, harmless, hapless Charlie McCarthy had entered into a pact with Sinéad and strangled her? Is this really plausible? In light of the physical forensic evidence? In light of the character witnesses that have spoken on Charlie’s behalf? Is this plausible? Is this a reasonable suggestion? The answer, of course, is no. We have heard many despi
cable things in this trial. But this, unfortunately, in this court case of law, is yet another abomination. A disgrace. Trying, in desperation, grasping at straws, a shot in the dark, trying, in one last throw of the dice to try and implicate poor harmless Charlie McCarthy in the murder, or so-called assisted suicide . . . of Sinéad Halloran is nothing short of scandalous.

  Let us now examine the facts and the evidence that Denis Hennebry’s counsel have put forward to support this silly notion. Well, what have we got? Nothing. Not a thing. Not a single fact. Not a single iota of evidence to back up this so-called theory. But theory is too good a word. It’s fantasy. It’s a big elaborate parcel with absolutely nothing in it. All the fancy language and ideas in the world won’t deflect us. No evidence. No facts. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  I implore you to respect our legal system as much as I do and banish such an outlandish and ridiculous thought from your minds. Evidence and facts, ladies and gentlemen. And excuse me if I appear angry. My profession are trained and expected not to let emotion govern our thoughts and words in the courts of law. Today . . . for the first time in my long professional life . . . I find it very difficult to control my fury. My anger. My outrage at this cynical, unjust and despicable ploy by Denis Hennebry and his counsel. Let us do a good job, for God’s sake and for goodness’ sake, for society’s sake, for all our sakes, for Sinéad Halloran’s sake. We are all part of the Irish justice system today. I implore you to make a judgement which is morally correct. I implore you not to be distracted from the issues at hand. The guilt or innocence of one Denis Hennebry. That’s what the issue is here. Let us call it as it is. A horse looks like a horse. Fact. A horse sounds like a horse. Fact. A horse behaves like a horse. Fact. Ladies and gentlemen, a horse is not a zebra. A horse . . . is . . . of course . . . a horse. May justice be served. Evidence and fact. Evidence and fact. Everything else is froth. We’ll forget about fancy talk and ridiculous notions. The facts and the evidence are everything. Evidence and fact. Justice is justice. Rape is rape. Murder is murder. Evil is evil. Guilt is guilt.

  That was the day before yesterday I wrote that. But yesterday something kind of weird happened to me. A three year-old-girl made me cry. Emily. My sister and her two children are staying here this weekend cos my sister’s husband is away for the weekend with work. Anyhow they were giving Emily a bath. The bathroom is next to my room and I heard her singing with her own mother and my mother and she splashing around in the bath.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Once I caught a fish alive.

  Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  Then I let him go again.

  Why did you let him go?

  Because he bit my finger so.

  Which finger did he bite?

  The little one upon the right.

  I didn’t get the shakes or go numb or nearly vomit like the other times I hear music. I just cried and cried and cried. And I didn’t want to block my ears or stop the music. I wanted her to keep singing. And she did cos it was the only song she knew. And I cried and cried and cried, just lying on my bed listening to her beautiful little voice singing the song all clueless and happy and the random sounds of her splashes and my sister and mother saying kind happy things to her and her laughing and them laughing and then she singing away again and they joining in for bits when she’d forget the words. I went out then and I walked to Newport and back again. Eighteen miles altogether. And last night I slept. Without tablets. For the first time in a long time I slept at night and when the morning came I got up.

  I bought matches again. Does a song stop being a song if it’s never sung again? If anyone who ever heard it or played it or sang it or hummed it is dead? Does the tune of it go some place? Anyhow it wouldn’t be right for people to have Sinéad and James’ tunes cos it’s the selfsame people killed them. We don’t deserve them isn’t it? The tapes melted and the pages burned away. If I make money with my book I might go away to America. I might find someone else with the music in them only this time I’ll mind them better isn’t it? I keep it in my bedroom. The map I got off Sinéad long ago. That she sent me in the post. I have it in my hand now. I just put it back in the drawer where it’s been all the time.

  My bedroom is my world now a long time. I know sometimes and I up in my room what people are thinking. I see them walking up the road and look in at the house for a minute and wonder which room is mine and they just look on up the hill then and keep walking. But I know. I know they still wonder was it me. They don’t look in at the house and wonder when they’re on their way down to the village at all. Only when they’re coming back up from it cos they’ve their business done in the village and have nothing else to be thinking about only me and if I did it. Struggling up the hill with their tired legs and their heavy thoughts. Sad puzzled brains on them. You’d like to make them happy but there is no way. Only another hill after that one. And another puzzle to keep them sad isn’t it? But Sinéad could have made them happy. Of all the distractions I ever seen, Sinéad was the best. She said one time that music was like the way life was supposed to be. Like when you knew the song. You knew what was coming always and you were never disappointed. But in life you had to do whatever you figured was best and then just hope.

  And this is where we are now isn’t it?

  Cos long long long long long long ago some place on Earth small fires started to appear speckled around the land in the evening time. If there was a God maybe he’d have thought he seen somewhere on the dark side of this one planet, a light shining in the dark. A glow. Where there should have been no light at all, only darkness and he goes,

  —What the fuck?

  And he goes for a closer look and seen that there is life and he seen these strange two-legged animals all sitting around this fire and noises coming from their mouths at each other and they passing bits of burned animal around and eating it.

  Then he seen them say.

  He seen them say words. And the words were all different and they were for all the different things around this animal. And they all came to know the different words for all the different things.

  Then he seen them using these words for imaginings and for no reason except to pass the night away and they sitting around this fire.

  He seen them laugh and gasp and look at each other and shake their heads in awe and wonder.

  He seen them cry.

  He seen them draw on the walls of rocks and caves. Images of each other and images of other creatures and images of strange designs of their own conjuring.

  He seen them then and they making sounds. And the sounds were soundings into the space they had and the time they had. Exploring the world unseen isn’t it? Inside themselves and outside themselves. Together and alone.

  He seen them listen.

  He seen them dance.

  He seen them looking into the night’s sky and wonder.

  He seen them maybe and he felt lonely maybe not being with them and maybe he seen himself and how he was like them and he wondered then maybe was he only an imagining of theirs. And maybe he thought if he really was a god of theirs he would die for them so awesome and beautiful were they and all the things he seen them do.

  I can hear the baby crying down stairs now and it made me remember something Sinéad said about the way Bob Dylan played guitar on his song ‘I Was Young When I Left Home’. Said it was soothing cos it was like a baby crying. I won’t leave space for the words of it. You’ll just have to listen to the song cos that’s what I’m going doing now.

  When I’d the song on that time I looked out my bedroom window and they were leaving and Emily had on a little red coat and I cried for a small bit.

  My father just shouted up at me now was I going to the match. I said,

  —I’ll be down now.

  —Hurry up, he said.

  Anyhow I’ve 114,124 words done so that’s the end of my book.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my wonderful, supportive and encouraging wife, San
dra, who was first to read The Gamal in its becoming. Thank you to my amazing, darling daughter, Róisín, who enriches our lives immeasurably. To my outstanding and selfless parents, Seán and Mary, to my brothers and sisters, relatives, colleagues and friends, thank you all for your support and friendship.

  I’d like to thank my agent Jamie Coleman of Toby Eady Associates, for seeing what I was trying to achieve from day one and for seeing me through the first few drafts. Thank you to my excellent editor at Bloomsbury, Helen Garnons-Williams. Thank you very much Erica Jarnes, Ellen Williams, Audrey Cotterell, Anna Simpson and Oliver Holder-Rea and all at Bloomsbury who had an input. Thank you to Nancy Miller and Lea Beresford at Bloomsbury USA for helping to bring the book across the water and to Birgit Schmitz for bringing The Gamal to German readers. I’m also very grateful to jacket designer Greg Heinimann for creating such an attractive-looking cover.

  I appreciate the helpfulness of the information desk staff at the Central Criminal Court, Dublin. I found Michael Sheridan’s book on crime scene investigation in Ireland, Bloody Evidence – CSI: Tracking the Killers (Mentor, 2006), extremely useful. Another invaluable book I picked up was Psychiatry in Medical Practice –Third Edition by David Goldberg, Linda Gask and Richard Morriss (Routledge, 2008).

  A Note on the Author

  Ciarán Collins was born in County Cork in 1977. He teaches English and Irish in a school in West Cork. The Gamal is his first novel.

  First published in Great Britain 2013

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © 2013 by Ciarán Collins

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise