Open-handed

by Chris Binchy

They got out at the entrance to an estate of solid-looking semi-detached red-brick family homes, with small patches of grass in front, each of which, he thought, had no greater ambition than to look exactly like the one next door.

  ‘Stepford,’ Marcin said. ‘You live in Stepford.’

  ‘It’s left, then right, then left, then right from the bus-stop,’ Artur told him. ‘That’s the easiest way to remember. The opposite for getting out.’

  ‘That’s the easiest way to remember?’

  ‘It works for me. Until I learned that, I spent days just walking around this stupid estate trying to figure out how the numbers went.’

  ‘And how do they go?’

  ‘Not the way you’d think.’

  They arrived into the house, dropped their bags in a bare, tiled hall, then turned into an empty living room that smelled of stale smoke, damp clothes and maybe feet. There was a plasma TV, two couches in some kind of black vinyl and a coffee-table covered with cans and an overflowing ashtray.

  ‘Drink?’ Artur said.

  ‘Do you not need to sleep?’

  ‘I’ll sleep in a while.’

  ‘Okay, then. Great.’

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do for work?’ Artur called from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m going to get my CV into a few places to see if I can get on a dig or something for starters.’

  Artur came and handed him a beer. He looked at him, smiling. ‘Right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because I may as well try to get a job doing what I want to do.’

  ‘Okay.’ He was still smiling.

  ‘If you don’t either tell me what your point is or take that look off your face, I’m going to have to hit you.’

  ‘I can ask if there’s anything going in the hotel, if you want. They’re always looking for people.’

  ‘How do you know? I thought you’d only just started.’

  ‘Because apparently they’re always looking for people,’ Artur said. ‘That’s what I’m told. It’s the word on the street. They were looking for a recent graduate with a degree in archaeology last week.’

  Marcin laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re going to get him to dig through the foundations of the place, right down to the core of the Earth to see if he can find his balls.’

  There was a banging noise and the house shook as somebody came downstairs. One guy appeared in the kitchen, then another came into the living room. Monsters, both of them. ‘This is Marcin,’ Artur said. ‘He’s just arrived.’

  ‘Andrzej,’ the first one said, standing above Marcin and holding out his hand. He looked about seven feet tall from where Marcin was sitting. Shaved head, wide shoulders, ex-army vibe. Marcin shook his big, leathery paw. The other guy stood behind him. Marcin stood to shake his hand.

  ‘Basil,’ the guy said. Only slightly smaller, cropped dark hair, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his arms. He had a scar that ran from his hairline down his temple and finished under his left ear, some of which was missing. Marcin stared a second too long.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Basil asked, staring back.

  Get this wrong, Marcin thought, and Artur will be giving those ridiculous directions to an ambulance crew in about twenty seconds. ‘What happened?’ he said, honesty seeming like some sort of policy.

  Basil grinned. ‘My parachute didn’t open.’

  ‘Right,’ Marcin said. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You should see the other guy,’ Andrzej said, and they all laughed together – Artur, Basil, Andrzej and Marcin – as if it was the cleverest joke in the world.

  ‘Drink?’ Artur said.

  ‘Nah,’ Basil said. ‘You night-shift boys have it handy. Drinking all day. Some of us have to go to work.’

  ‘Yeah, but I work when you’re drinking.’

  ‘Work, my hole,’ Andrzej said.

  ‘What do you do?’ Marcin asked.

  ‘Sites. Labouring.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s a pure cunt,’ Andrzej said, and Marcin laughed for a second, then stopped. His laugh had sounded very loud.

  ‘Got to go,’ Basil said. ‘See you later. Are you staying here?’ he asked Marcin, who looked at Artur.

  Artur nodded. ‘For a while, yeah,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him about the bog,’ Basil said. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Take care,’ Marcin called.

  The door slammed and then slammed again. There were ten seconds of silence.

  ‘Okay,’ Marcin said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who are those guys?’

  ‘They live here.’

  ‘Yeah, but where did you get them?’

  ‘They’re friends of Zak’s.’

  ‘Who’s Zak?’

  ‘A fellow I used to work with. He’s at home at the moment. He’ll be back next week. He’s a great guy.’

  ‘Is he like them?’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘I don’t know. They might kill us.’

  ‘Just because they didn’t do degrees in Sanskrit or whatever doesn’t make them criminals.’

  ‘What happened to that guy’s face?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What were we laughing at?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘Seemed like the better option.’

  ‘I’ll give you that.’

  Marcin sat back down and drank from his bottle. He discovered he was panting slightly, as if he’d just run upstairs. Artur yawned and stretched, then went into the kitchen and started looking through a drawer. ‘Why don’t we have a little spliff to relax ourselves?’

  Okay.’ It would be a long time before Marcin could relax. ‘What’s wrong with the toilet?’ he asked then.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Artur said, coming back in with a lump of hash the size of a golf ball and a pack of jumbo papers. ‘That’s complicated.’

  12

  Sylvester sat in the back. His mouth was dry with a dusty stickiness that made him lust for something. Beer. Gin and tonic. White wine. The cut and then the glow of it. He pined for drink. ‘Do you know what I’d like?’ he said into the mirror.

  ‘I do,’ Dessie said. ‘I really do.’ They travelled on in silence, lost in the same thought.

  Sylvester sighed. Rolled his shoulders. As they pulled up in front of the house he sat forward to look out of the window. ‘How long have they been waiting? What time is it now?’

  ‘Half six.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  ‘Relax. He’s still here. See him?’

  ‘She’s going to go ballistic. After this is done.’

  ‘She’ll be all right. She looks okay.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s not.’

  Helen was standing in front of the house, talking to a man with a camera. As Dessie and Sylvester watched, she looked over and saw the car. Sylvester raised a hand and she turned back to continue with her smiling, light conversation. The dutiful wife for everybody but him. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said to Dessie.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thanks for today.’

  Dessie shifted around and eyeballed him over his shoulder. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Thanks. For your work today.’

  ‘I never knew you noticed.’

  ‘You know I appreciate you.’

  ‘I most certainly do not.’

  ‘Well, you can’t take offence at me thanking you.’

  ‘It just brings into relief all those other times,’ Dessie said. ‘The long, lonely drives home without a kind word…’

  ‘Oh, to hell with you, then.’

  If he could have delayed any longer, if there was anything else he could have said to Dessie, he would have. Another jokey little circuit to hold himself until he was ready. But there was nothing. Empty head. The knowledge that Helen would be unhappy with him. That was all.

  He walked across the lawn towards Helen a
nd the photographer. A steamy, still evening, a light hint of barbecue in the air, the suggestion of other people’s evenings being enjoyed. Daniel and Jessica were sitting together on the porch, he saw now. He smiled first at the photographer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Michael, isn’t it?’ He came to him with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Hello,’ the photographer said. A brief, weak, damp handshake. He flashed an unsmiling glance at Sylvester’s face before turning away.

  ‘I couldn’t get out of a meeting. I’m very sorry. Has Helen been looking after you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, she’s been very good to me.’

  ‘Michael’s been here almost an hour,’ Helen said. ‘He’s got to get out to Bray after this.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. What’s in Bray?’

  ‘My house.’ He shrugged. ‘This is my last job. Not a problem. Can’t be helped. Where do you want to do this, anyway?’

  ‘Maybe in front of the house. What do you think?’ He turned to Helen.

  ‘Whatever you want. It’s your thing.’

  ‘I’ll get myself set up and you can decide between yourselves how you do it.’

  ‘Thank you, Michael,’ Sylvester said. ‘Are the kids ready?’ he asked Helen then.

  ‘Why don’t you find out for yourself?’ It was too sharp. She had walked away before he could say anything else. He went over to the children. ‘Will you go up and put on a shirt, Daniel?’

  ‘A shirt?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Sylvester asked. These muttered half-statements of rebellion would some day, he thought, lead to the death of one of them.

  ‘It’s, like, thirty degrees. I’m sweating already.’

  ‘Just do it. Go on. Like a good lad.’ Sylvester had come to recognize the inability of a privileged child to visualize the reality of other people’s existence. The fear and boredom and compromise of a poorer life. If he understood how close they all were to it, Daniel would see that it was worth putting on a shirt to stand in front of this house, smile and not flinch or squirm when his father’s arm came around him. Most people didn’t go to fee-paying schools, didn’t speak with the bored American accent and cadences that Daniel and his friends had picked up from somewhere. Who knew? Maybe all of this would signify enough in the future to ease his passage through life. Maybe not understanding what it was like for everyone else was a part of privilege. Better not knowing, Sylvester thought then. He’d surely find out in time.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, looking down at Jessica.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Had a good day?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Went to the beach for a while with Jenny.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘A bit, yeah.’

  Sylvester sat beside her on the porch step. Helen was talking to the photographer about his lens, a short, fat, pug-nosed thing that, from here, didn’t look as impressive as Sylvester would have expected.

  ‘How was your day?’ Jessica asked him.

  ‘It was fine.’ Silence for a moment. ‘It’s nice to be asked,’ he said.

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I met a man who maybe wants to do something in Croatia.’

  ‘I thought it was the Czech Republic.’

  ‘Well, it is normally. But Marek might be able to set something up. Between us we should be able to do it. Anyway. If it works it will be good.’

  ‘Is it going to take long?’

  ‘I don’t know. It might. A couple of months, maybe.’

  ‘No. This. This now.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. No. It shouldn’t. Why? Do you have something to do?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. She yawned and stretched, then stood and walked slowly towards the photographer and Helen. Sylvester saw now that Michael was young, early twenties maybe, and good-looking in a pretty way. Jessica stood beside Helen and listened to them talk.

  ‘Daniel.’ Sylvester shouted it and his voice echoed across the houses down towards the sea.

  ‘God almighty,’ Helen said. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘It doesn’t take five minutes to put on a bloody shirt.’ He stood and walked into the hall. He called Daniel again, and when no answer came he went upstairs to his son’s room. ‘What are you doing?’ he said on the landing.

  ‘I’m putting on the shirt like you told me.’

  ‘What’s the delay?’

  ‘I had to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘Come on now. This photographer guy has to go.’ Daniel emerged from his room, wearing a yellow striped T-shirt.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ Sylvester said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is important. Put a proper shirt on.’

  Daniel walked back into his room. ‘It’s not important to me,’ he said from there.

  ‘If you want me to hear these things, say them to me. If you don’t then keep them to yourself,’ Sylvester said. ‘We’ll be outside waiting for you. Hurry up.’

  Outside in the heat Helen and Jessica were standing with the photographer. They watched Sylvester in silence as he came to them.

  ‘He’s on his way. So, how’s this going to work, Michael?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the photographer said. ‘You said it’s for a website, is it? What kind of thing did you have in mind?’

  ‘A family shot. Something that makes me look like a happy, trustworthy person.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s why I called in the professionals.’ Sylvester laughed, nervous and high-pitched. He regretted it. ‘Come on,’ he said then. ‘You’re the photographer. How do you do this sort of thing? What’s your style?’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’d be inclined to take shots of the four of you together. Like, if you wanted to sit on the steps there in a line and chat away, just be normal and relaxed, I can move around you and hopefully you’ll forget about me. That’s the way I’d do it. Doesn’t suit everyone.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ Sylvester said. Daniel was down now in an unironed white shirt buttoned up to his neck. ‘We can be normal, can’t we?’

  ‘Together?’ Daniel asked.

  The four of them sat on the step. Daniel, Sylvester, Helen, Jessica.

  ‘What now?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Just relax. Talk to each other,’ the photographer said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever you think.’

  ‘This is stupid,’ Daniel said to Sylvester.

  ‘I know, but go with it,’ Sylvester said, leaning in to him, pushing him with his shoulder until the boy had to put his hand on the ground to stop himself falling.

  ‘You’ve got heavier,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Better to push you around.’ Sylvester could forget everything in one moment of happiness. Believe in its power to transform. He turned to Helen. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sorry I was late.’

  ‘And last night as well.’ Her face was in a loose smile; she was always aware that the camera was there. The photographer was off on the grass, shooting from mid-range. ‘Where were you?’ she asked. ‘It was after three.’

  ‘It was dinner with O’Donnell. There were a couple of English guys over. They were drinking until then.’

  ‘Were you drinking?’

  He turned briefly to her, his face six inches from hers. ‘Of course not. Why would you even ask me that?’

  ‘It’s just these nights are getting a bit frequent.’

  A little exasperated puff. ‘This is my business. I have to do these things. You know that. Do you think I want to be out until three, getting up at half six?’

  In the still solidity of the evening they could hear the shutter closing and opening over and over. ‘Okay,’ the photographer said at last. ‘That should do.’

  Sylvester stood and walked over to him. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Grand, I think. Do you want to have a look?
’

  Sylvester leaned over his shoulder as the photographer scrolled through the shots. There they were. The four of them. His family. Jerky movement from shot to shot, like an old film. Smiles rising and fading away. Looks into distance and at the ground and occasionally at each other. The final photos, the ones where they were all looking at the camera, were no good. The children appeared unhappy, and Sylvester and Helen were tense beside each other, the angle wrong between them.

  ‘Right,’ Sylvester said. ‘Do you know what?’

  ‘Will we just do a posed one in front of the house?’ the photographer said.

  ‘Yeah. Is that okay?’

  ‘Fine, yeah.’

  ‘Folks,’ Sylvester said to the others, ‘just one more.’

  They stood in a row, arms around each other, Daniel’s shirt open now at the neck. They smiled and smiled and smiled again, and finally, after one last shot, it was done. The children were in the house by the time Sylvester was able to check the shots.

  ‘So thanks for that,’ Sylvester said, as he walked with the photographer across the garden to his car.

  ‘No problem. I’ll send the contact sheets on to you and you can decide which one you want to use.’

  ‘And sorry again for keeping you.’ He shook the man’s hand, then held out a fifty, rolled up like a cigarette. ‘That’s for you.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ the photographer said, taken aback. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I know, but I delayed you. Buy yourself a bottle of wine or something.’

  ‘Really. Thanks, but it’s okay. I get paid well enough.’

  ‘I know that,’ Sylvester said. ‘I’m paying your company. But this is for you.’ The tone was harder now. No messing. Two men doing business. ‘Come on.’

  The photographer laughed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Good man.’ He stood back as the photographer got into the car. Rapped on the roof before walking up towards the house. Michael watched him as he went, moving slowly, hands in his pockets. Sylvester turned as if he knew he was being observed and gave one tidy, professional wave before heading back inside to whatever was waiting for him there.

  13

  Victor knew them as they arrived, this crowd from a place on South William Street who came in after work mid-week, still in the black uniform with all the tightness. He would smile and nod and say encouraging things as they passed to let them know they were welcome. It meant that when the time came for them to leave they didn’t mess around. They were easy anyway. Maybe just the one or two drinks. Maybe the start of an all-nighter that would end in someone’s apartment later. For Victor and the others it was a chance to pick up on any parties that might be happening.