Carn

by Patrick McCabe

  He smiled and flicked away his cigarette. “These people don’t make mistakes Benny. He’s been checked and double-checked. That’s why we’ve waited.”

  He paused and said. “The profits from his shop go to the Orange Order.”

  “How did they find that out?”

  “I told you—he goes back a long way. He lived in places besides Carn you know. You wouldn’t catch him in this place unless there was money to be made. It’s not the first time.”

  They lapsed into silence and then the northman said, “It has to be Friday. Cooney’s throwing his party on Friday so there won’t be a stir out in the fields. There’s four other men in on this. Northmen. Belfast.” Benny nodded.

  “Right then. Youse know the terrority better than us. You’ll be able to keep your eyes open and give us more time. They’ll be staying in a house five miles from the town. I’ll let you know everything tomorrow.”

  The northman turned to go. “Anything you need to know you’ll know by tomorrow night. Come Saturday, we’ll have put an end to their little game once and for all.” He lifted the last crate onto the lorry and went inside.

  Benny stared down at the sleeping town. In the distance, beyond the railway, he could see the rolling outline of the Hairy Mountains. Despite himself, his body was cold with anxiety.

  These people don’t make mistakes.

  He hadn’t expected it to be someone like Hamilton. It had thrown him off-centre.

  But it was Hamilton.

  And he was in on it now.

  XVII

  If you don’t love it, leave it, let the song that ahm a-singin’ be a warnin’

  When you’re runnin’ down mah kahntaree you’re a walkin’on thu’ fightin’ side o’ me . . . .

  The Oklahoma Mountain Boys were in full swing and the music wafted out through the open upstairs windows of the Turnpike Inn. The lead singer wore a JR stetson and dark glasses, winking to the patrons as they filed in. The drummer chewed gum laconically, twirling his sticks in the air. The cymbals crashed as the song finished and the lead singer replaced the microphone.

  “Thank y’all ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you all here to the Turnpike Inn. I sure do hope you’re all gonna have a mighty fine time. Me and the boys here are gonna whip up some mighty tunes for y’all so don’t forget that the bar’s free so don’t waste no time get up there and git swillin’. We’d like to continue now with a li’l number called My Son calls another man Daddy.”

  The singer closed his eyes and his face contorted. A group of mature women turned away from the bar counter and lost themselves in the lyric of the song. They shook their heads sadly. Drinks sailed over the counter. The bikers gathered about the huge video screen which blasted out heavy metal rock music over the sound of the band. They mimed with invisible guitars. In a very short time the Turnpike Inn was packed to the door.

  There was barely room to breathe. The mature women cheered as the band finished their number. The caretaker of the factory took the stage with his accordeon and four Scots terriers which followed him everywhere. He tripped over a microphone cable and fell on top of his instrument. The dogs climbed on top of him, licking his face. The accordeon squeezed out a screeching discord. The whole pub cheered as he fell again in his efforts to right himself. The dogs barked about his legs. The singer clapped and urged all to join in the applause. “Fuck youse,” said the caretaker and began to search for the keys. He started up a rousing march medley in a variety of keys. At a table beside the stage, a young blonde girl sat on the knee of a forty-year-old man, tickling his ear. An assembly line worker stumbled against her and spilt drink over her white dress. She burst out laughing. He looked down at her, his eyes bloodshot and cooed into her face, “Let Me call you Sweetheart . . .” She spluttered into her hands. “She’s my cousin,” said the forty-year-old man. “She’s from England.”

  “I worked in England,” said the assembly line worker. “Do you know Hackney?”

  They couldn’t hear him over the din of the accordeon and the barking dogs.

  “Sit down there,” said the forty-year-old man, winking as he handed the blonde girl a cigarette.

  “I’m on holidays. I’m from England,” she said.

  “Hackney. Do you know Hackney?” he cried at the top of his voice.

  “I’m from Nottingham. My dad’s Irish.”

  “So you’re his cousin. I say, have you any more cousins like that?”

  She laughed and threw her head back. Her skirt rode up over her thigh. He squeezed it firmly.

  “Oh no. She’s the best cousin I have.”

  Up on the stage the accordeon player was lying on his back and the dogs were lapping up the pools of spilt drink around him. The members of the band lifted him up and eased him off. The dogs bit at their legs angrily. “And now we’d like to ask Mrs Donoghue to give us a verse of a song,” announced the singer.

  The mature women at the bar clapped and cheered as one of their number blushed and was ushered reluctantly down the length of the bar. The racket died down and she began. As I was slowly passing, an orphange one day, I stopped just for a minute, to see the children play . . .

  The women went quiet. The men momentarily followed suit but then went back to their arguments with renewed vigour. The television was turned up full for the results of a football match. The heavy metal guitars screeched. The assembly line worker said to the blonde girl, “You’ll have a double vodka. You will. Aren’t you on holidays?” She fell back into his waiting arms.

  “This is the best night we ever had in Carn. I’m having four brandies next round.”

  “Get them off you,” shouted the bikers at the singer.

  She wiggled her ample hips.

  Sadie had just got the kids to bed and was settling down in the armchair to watch television when Una arrived.

  She had her kid sister with her.

  “Well Sadie,” she said, “just thought we’d surprise you.”

  Sadie made a cup of tea as Una explained that her husband had gone to Dublin to visit his brother in hospital. “Make you sick. We were going to the party in the Turnpike tonight. Wouldn’t happen any other time. Are you going?”

  Sadie hadn’t heard anything about it. “No,” she said. “Benny never mentioned anything about a party. He’s working late at the factory tonight. He’s on the nightshift.”

  “Nightshift? What about the do?”

  Sadie shrugged her shoulders. “Benny wouldn’t be keen on that. Not after Joe and everything.”

  They sat in silence watching the television. Then Una said to her sister, “Go on up and see how the kids are, will you?” The young girl left. Una reached in her handbag and took out a noggin of brandy. “I brought you a present Sadie. Get a couple of glasses there.”

  She filled the glasses to the brim. “Cheers,” she said.

  “Cheers,” said Sadie, taken aback by this unexpected display of exuberance.

  “When I was coming down the place was wild. You could hear the music from our house. They’ve a free bar you know.” She thought about it for a moment and then said, “Sadie—would you like to go up to it?”

  Sadie replied, “How can I? Tara was like a weasel all day.”

  “Can’t you let her babysit? She was due to mind ours but my mother’s with them so she’s free. Come on Sadie—once in your life.”

  Sadie drank. “Are you sure? She wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Just slip her a few quid. Come on Sadie—Jesus when do we ever get the chance to go out. Stuck in from morning to night. We’d be stupid to let it pass us by.”

  Sadie held back and almost declined. She looked at Una’s eager face.

  “Why should we let it pass us by?”

  She looked down at her slippered feet. At the kitchen in disarray. The flickering screen. “Okay. Just wait till I get changed,” she said.

  She dabbed perfume behind her ears. The brandy went through her, filled her with anticipation. Before she we
nt downstairs, she checked the children again.

  “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” she said to Una’s sister.

  “Of course she will,” said Una, “doesn’t she mind ours? Come on. That’s a fantastic dress Sadie. Jesus you look smashing.”

  They closed the door behind them and set off for the Turnpike Inn.

  The tepid air of the bar hit them in the face as soon as they opened the door. The drinkers were six-deep at the bar struggling to be heard over the noise. “Last orders now, you pay from now on,” cried the barman. “A treble whiskey and five pints of lager,” cried a voice in the wilderness. The band were well down one of the spot prizes which they had clandestinely awarded to themselves and were playing in a variety of different keys. The lead singer burst into laughter at incongruous moments and the others discarded their instruments helplessly. The lyrics of songs were interchanged at random. The accordeon player’s dogs wandered around in search of their slumbering master and stray pools of spilt alcohol. Gonna get mah motorsickle and head out out on the road, screamed the vast image of the heavy metal rocker on the video. The bikers passed a joint from hand to hand and horseplayed on the tables. They climbed on each other’s backs. The blonde English girl was crying and laughing at the same time as she crawled under the table searching for her contact lenses. The two men were clinging to each other like lovers, pledging lifelong friendship. “You’re one of the best, one of the best.” “And so are you, so are you.”

  The English girl stood forlornly in the middle of the floor. “I can’t find them,” she sobbed. “And look at my dress. My dress is ruined.” Her white dress was stained with Guinness and cigarette ash.

  “Come over here cousin and get this down you. You won’t know yourself then.” He held up a replenished glass of spirits and threw back his head, rocking with laughter. His companion shook his head and wept. “You’re one of the finniest men in this town. Come on over here cousin.”

  The English girl sat on his knee with her wet hair falling down on her face. She chewed her nail and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Beneath the television a group of football supporters waved scarves and held pint glasses aloft. On the television screen above them, the prime minister adjusted his spectacles and, reading from a script, morosely confirmed that every man woman and child in the Republic of Ireland owed ten thousand pounds each.

  The caretaker sat between two of the mature women. His limbs flopped about him heavily and he tried to focus his eyes. One of the women felt inside his open shirt. “It must be hard for you. Cooney is too bloody cute.”

  “Hard is right,” sniggered her companion. “Hard in all the right places.”

  The other woman laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Buy me a little half-one. Will you?”

  “This place is mad,” said Una Lacey. “I never seen it like this.”

  “Two double brandies,” called the barman.

  Una paid for the drinks and they sat down. Sadie was taken aback by the cacophony of the bar so she drank quickly to steady her nerves. The mature woman was now on the stage bumping and grinding to the sound of hissing cymbals.

  She raised her dress above her knee slowly and dropped it again. The whole bar squealed with delight. The drummer pounded. Sweat rolled down his cheeks. “The minute you walked in the joint . . .” sang the woman. The guitarist made lewd gestures with his right arm. She rotated her backside. Hats flew in the air. Her dress fell off her shoulder. The footballers cried, Irriwaddy Irriwaddy Yip Yip Yip! It fell in a crumpled heap on the floor. At the counter her husband fumed with rage and shame.

  “Jesus Mary and Joseph, she must be out of her brain,” said Una. Sadie ordered two more brandies. “You’re getting through these Sadie. Fair play to you. We should go out more often.”

  “What would Blast Morgan have to say about this?” she laughed, the warmth of the brandy coursing through her.

  More more more more more more more more

  The crowd was in hysterics. Fired by their enthusiasm, the woman called for a friend to join her. They bumped and grinded together, shaking their breasts at the men under the stage.

  The bikers took over the bar and began to serve drinks free. “Everything on Jame Gooney. Right—who’s first?”

  A pint glass came out of nowhere and splintered against Davy Crockett’s coonskin cap.

  “Fuck Cooney!” cried someone. “Don’t mention Cooney—that’s what I think of James Cooney!”

  The drummer’s knuckles bled. The dogs licked the paralytic body of their accordeon-playing master under a table. Some of the normally less extrovert workers had now joined the bikers, who looked on mirthfully as they struggled without success to inhale the marijuana. The primary school teacher leaned over to a former pupil explaining the complexities of the political situation to him. He listened respectfully but didn’t hear a word the schoolmaster said.

  An argument started up among the footballers. What had caused it? Why had Carn Rovers not had a victory in fifteen successive matches? The rapid decline in the club’s fortunes had continued unabated in the past year and thrown the ranks into utter confusion. And now, as had become common in the bars and other public places, friends who had once been unquestioningly loyal to the club, argued bitterly among themselves. But even those who had been with the club from the early days could not ignore what was now in most people’s minds—it was the mismanagement and bad decision-making of Pat Lacey that had been responsible for many of the defeats and the continuing low morale. He had lost his touch, they whispered and ought to be fired. It was sad but it was true. They sought for evidence of loyalty to him in order to lay the brunt of their recriminations on the backs of his supporters. But there were none to be found and they only succeeded in covering the same old sour ground again. In the end, like battle-weary soldiers, they linked arms reluctantly and began to sing. Carn Rovers Carn Rovers we’re the best team in the land . . .

  A pint of beer dripped down John F. Kennedy’s smiling face. The video screen went blank and when the picture returned a crazed youth in an asbestos suit was setting a series of young women alight. He met them in singles bars, lured them to his home and burnt them alive. They turned from the woman on the stage and gave their attention to this for a while. They stared open-mouthed as he applied his flame thrower to the feet of a trussed-up girl.

  “What do you think of that master?” cried one of the footballers to the teacher.

  “Shut up or he’ll send you to the priest.”

  “To Father Tom? He’s too busy giving it to his housekeeper!”

  “Tell us about Patrick Pearse and De Valera master, like you used to. What are they up to these days?”

  “Waving their dicks for Ireland master!”

  They cheered as the schoolmaster, at a loss for words, put on his coat and fumbled his way past them out into the street.

  Feedback from the speakers whistled as the mature woman made her way back to her seat. The band struck up again, and exhorted all to join in this time. The crowd clapped along, belting out the chorus with gusto.

  We’re on the one road sharing the one load

  We’re on the road to God know’s where

  We’re on the one road sharing the one load

  But we’re together now who cares?

  Northmen southmen comrades all

  Dublin Belfast Cork and Donegal

  We’re on the one road singing along

  Singing a soldier’s song.

  The footballers chanted, Here We Go Here We Go . . .

  “Got my motorsickle outside and I’m heading out on the road!” sang the bikers.

  The songs collided with each other and made no sense. But no one was about to give an inch and with each new verse they hurled themselves further into the chaos.

  Una and Sadie were far gone. They put their arms around one another and said that they were best friends, always had been. We go back years, they said to one another. Una leaned over to a teenage girl sitting b
eside them and said, “When we were your age, we were wild. The things we used to get up to. We didn’t give a damn. Did we Sadie?”

  “Una was the first girl in Carn to wear a mini . . .”

  The teenage girl looked blankly at them.

  Una went to the bar and ordered two more drinks. When she came back she found Sadie deep in conversation with a man whose face she recognised. “Una—do you remember Don? He used to work in Poultry Products? Don—you remember Una.”

  “Hi.”

  She sat with the drinks.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you sitting there. Sadie Rooney—it seems so long ago now . . .” said Don.

  “I barely recognised you Don. The tan,” Sadie said.

  “Yeah. I’m gone a long time. I never expected to see you here. It’s not always like this, is it? Or maybe I’ve been away too long . . .” He gestured with his head at the disarray behind him.

  “Where are you now Don?” asked Una, moulding her words carefully to offset the effect of the alcohol.

  “Aussie. We’re in Sydney. This is my first trip home. I brought a mate with me. Here he comes. I’ve been telling him all about the place. But he never expected this.”

  The Australian sat down and placed the drinks on the table.

  “Here are two friends of mine from the old days. Two Elvis fans.”

  “Hi. I’m Paul.”

  “Well Sadie—how have you been? You know Paul—this girl—could she sing Elvis—we used to go out to the Hairy Mountains, a gang of us—we were only kids. Jesus—she could do an Elvis impersonation—eh Sadie?”

  Sadie reddened. “Oh I don’t know about that . . .”

  “So what’s been happening around Carn then—apart from these lunatics . . .”

  Una started the ball rolling and Sadie got into the swing of things. The Australian insisted on buying all the drink. The table filled up with glasses. “Any fan of The King is okay by me,” he said.

  “Bebopalula she’s my baby,” sang Sadie.

  “Never mind us, we’re well on,” said Una.