Father Mac looked away. 'They've retired to a wee place called Derrygonnelly, just outside Enniskillen. It's a far cry from where my mother grew up.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, she's from the Markets originally - you know, real salt-of-the-earth working-class people - and my father's from farming people near Randallstown. He ended up with his own building company and it did really well - that's the business to be in, with all the houses and roads and hotels that get destroyed in this city every day by bombs or bullets or stones. We moved around Belfast a fair bit, then they settled on a house near the Malone Road and that's where we went to school.'
Fergal smiled. 'So youse are a bit posh, then, Father?'
'What? Posh? Not really. Well, my mother wouldn't thank you for saying it - but I suppose it's true to a degree. We ended up middle-class... Look, I promise we won't stay too long in their house, but I haven't seen them or my lovely sister since they collected me from the airport. Sure, it'll break up the journey.'
13
The weeks that followed felt like an eternity to Fergal. From the moment Noreen had heard about his audition, she had been especially restless during the night. She would yell out names that he'd never heard before or wail and cry like a hungry baby before she'd sink into anger, howling a stream of insults about him leaving her just like her bastard children. Fergal was confused. Only a few weeks earlier, she had encouraged him to get out of Belfast as soon as he could. He was smart enough to know, though, that her contradictory moods were heavily fuelled by the booze and chemicals fighting for control of her senses. All he could do to calm her was sit in their room in the half-light of the street lamp, and sing quietly:
I'll take you home again, Noreen,
Across the ocean wild and wide,
To where your heart has ever been,
Since you were first his bonny bride.
The roses all have left your cheek,
I’ve watched them fade away and die;
Your voice is sad whene'er you speak,
And tears bedim your loving eyes.
Oh, I will take you back, Noreen,
To where your heart will feel no pain,
And when the fields are fresh and green,
I'll take you to your home again.
Eventually she would drift into her broken self again, but not for long.
Fergal tried to concentrate as hard as he could on his exams. He had completed a good chunk of them and many subjects had coursework that was evaluated throughout the term, so there weren't too many written ones left - only English, Irish, religion and a baffling metalwork theory exam. Outside the metalwork exam room, someone offered Fergal a swig of vodka from a filthy bottle. Thinking that it was bound to be piss, he refused - luckily because the headmaster suddenly appeared and dragged the half-cut culprit to his office for a lashing with his leather strap. As if the exams weren't hard enough...
He noticed a difference in school, though. Some of the teachers stopped him and asked in a friendly way how the singing was going. Now that it was well known that Fergal and Father Mac were working together, lads who normally wouldn't have thought twice about covering him in phlegm and insults were more cautious; they stared at him, not sure what to do. Every now and then Fergal heard someone say, 'Here comes Priesty Hole' or 'Holy Joe!' but little by little they found smaller boys to pick on and began to ignore him altogether.
Fergal thought it was like Father Mac was his guardian angel. There wasn't a day that went by when he didn't think about him. Late at night, Father Mac was the only cast member in the little film that started up in his mind. He imagined what it would be like for the priest to hold him in his strong arms and kiss him gently around his neck. It was like a drug, helping him fall into a deep sleep even though Noreen had developed a snore like a whistling kettle.
He and Father Mac met as often as they could and went over the abbey's music with a fine-toothed comb. Although the rehearsals seemed to be going well, Fergal felt a definite change in the temperature between them. Any time he sat too close on the piano stool to check a bit of the melody, Father Mac would visibly flinch and shift to the edge. And when they were finished rehearsing for the night, Father Mac would say he was sorry he couldn't offer Fergal supper but he had an urgent house call.
One night, when Fergal attempted to hug him to say thanks, Father Mac backed away in obvious panic and offered him a handshake. He might as well have kicked him in the stomach. Fergal couldn't have hidden his hurt even if he'd wanted to.
As he walked down the Falls Road, Fergal was miserable. He wondered what it was about him that made people reject him. The window of a furniture shop proudly displayed an enormous mirror that had been rescued from an old house. Fergal stared into the glass and asked his reflection, What is it? Am I that ugly? Is that what it is? Am I really a freak of nature, like my brothers say? Was Father Mac just taking pity on me or something?
Fergal's eyes filled up as he walked on, not waiting for the mirror to answer. He thought about every member of his family,' and how they couldn't wait to be rid of him. He knew the Flynn house was happier since he'd moved to Noreen's. John took every opportunity to tell him how, now that he was gone, the funny smell was too. And that very morning, Noreen had yelled at him to fuck off and never come back.
He slipped down a side street to avoid a load of skinheads and their equally scary girlfriends, drinking their carry-out on the steps of the funeral parlour. I'm not the only reason Ma works so hard and Da is so bad-tempered, he thought to the burnt-out house at the corner of Iris Street. Jesus, I can’t help it if I'm no good at hurling. Surely there's more to life than chasing a ball around a field with sticks... I just wish... I wish I wasn't here.
An ambulance raced past him, and he threw it a dirty look. You can go and fuck yourself if you think I'm going to harmonise with you.
Fergal knew he didn't want to go straight back to Noreen's, but where else could he go? Definitely not Walker Street, but where? He turned back and walked in the opposite direction, even though he knew it was dangerous at night. He kept off the main Falls Road as much as he could, passing wall after graffiti-covered wall: 'The IRA Have Had Their Weetabix!' 'Maggie Thatcher, Job Snatcher!' 'Only Our Rivers Run Free!'
Fergal reached Castle Street and the beginning of the city centre. He felt terrified and excited all at once, and his heart beat in time with every step. He was amazed at how empty the town was now that all the shops were shut and dark - it was like someone had dropped an atom bomb and wiped out everybody except him. Several bars had been bombed out the week before, so Belfast's social life had taken another serious beating and no one ventured far from their area after dark. He'd forgotten there was an army barracks at the corner, but no one challenged him from the lookout box high above the barbed wire. When he saw a poster advertising a gig, he remembered hearing about late-night clashes between skinhead and mod gangs near the back of City Hall. He was more and more scared, but he was drawn towards the docks and the fresher air. He remembered how his mother sometimes cursed her sisters for escaping to London and meeting rich men and becoming 'fucking snobby whores'.
Fergal decided that that was what he was going to do. Fuck his exams, fuck his audition, fuck everybody! He was going to go to the docks and get a lorry driver to let him come to England with him. Maybe he could look up one of his aunts or get a job or... something.
~
After Fergal left, Father Mac took his supper out of the fridge and pushed it around the plate, far too consumed with guilt to manage more than a few half-hearted bites. He felt awful.
He looked over at the piano stool where they had spent the evening rehearsing, and he closed his eyes as he remembered the look on Fergal's face when he had recoiled from his attempt to hug him. Father Mac looked at the crucifix as if it might tell him what to do, but it just hung there, hogging all the pain as usual.
He decided to take a bath, to try and relax. But no sooner had he undressed and immersed hi
mself in the hot water than his thoughts were once again hijacked by Fergal. He wondered what Fergal was doing at that very moment, and then - before he could stop himself - what he might look like completely naked. He inhaled wearily and ducked under the water for as long as he could hold his breath, just to leave the world behind for a few seconds. At last he sat up again, his hair flat and perfectly parted in the middle.
Even in the bathroom there were holy pictures hanging on the white walls above the towels. Father Mac settled on the one of Christ being taken by the guards in the Garden of Gethsemane. Knowing the house was long free of Mrs Mooney's ears, he talked aloud to the framed Son of God, 'Heavenly Father, here I lie - in the bath of all places - trying my best to be clean in spirit as well as in body. I feel like I'm trapped in the clutches of something unbearable. Did you see poor Fergal's face when he left this evening? It took all my strength not to go after him. I really thought that setting a clearer boundary would make me feel better, but I feel worse. Why? It's not like anything has happened. For the first time in my life I feel lonely - I mean, really lonely. I look forward to Fergal arriving like a child waiting for the summer holidays or Santa or something. I know it's stupid and it's wrong, but I can't... I just don't seem able to stop thinking about him - his voice, his eyes, the way he trusts me... or, at least, the way he used to trust me. I'm sure he's guessed I've been lying to him. He's not stupid. Oh, dear God and his Holy Mother, why is this so hard?'
He let the last word hang in the steam-filled bathroom. As he turned away from the holy pictures, he realised he was getting bigger under the water. He couldn't help putting a hand on his erection. He tried to think of anyone except Fergal. But, no matter who entered his head, the image always changed into Fergal within seconds.
Then he had a thought Maybe if... no, he couldn't. But maybe if he had sex with someone else, it would take his mind off Fergal? But who? And where was he going to meet him? Then he remembered hearing a man's confession, a few weeks before - a man who wasn't from St Bridget's parish. He'd confessed that he sometimes visited the ancient public toilets near the ferry car park, down by the old docks - a place where all sorts of men, including married ones, met in secret for sex.
Father Mac got out of the bath and dried his body roughly with the worst towel he could find, as a kind of punishment for such ridiculous thoughts. He definitely wasn't going to sink that low.
But, no matter which way he lay in bed, there was no chance he was going to be able to sleep, and he knew it. He got up and poured himself a large whiskey in the parlour, but could only manage a few sips before he got angry with himself. Oh, so now you're going to become an alcoholic? That's just brilliant!
He smoked cigarette after cigarette and flicked on the TV, but there was nothing on that could hold his concentration. Just as he was about to go back to bed, the phone rang and he was called out to give the last rites to a pensioner. For the first time ever, he was glad of the distraction.
~
The Albert Clock, Belfast's answer to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, told Fergal it wasn't far from midnight. He'd thought it was later. There were three women huddled at the base of the dock, sharing a cigarette. When they saw him coming, they started straightening their mini-skirts and fixing their hair with their fingers. One of them even took a fork out of her bag and combed her hair, puffing it as big as she could get the over-bleached wisps to go. They had so much make-up on that they looked like pantomime dames. When Fergal got close enough, they asked him for a cigarette.
'Sorry, I don't smoke.'
'You look lonely, love - are you lonely? Would you not like a bit of company, a big handsome fella like yourself? Jesus, your eyes are gorgeous, love, but you look awful sad. Would you like a bit of cheering up?'
'No, no, I'm fine - it's just... Can I ask youse something?'
'Aye, why not? Sure, we're not exactly run off our stilettos, are we, love? What is it?'
'Urn... which way is it to where the lorries are parked?'
'What? What the fuck do you want to know that for? Here, are you trying to steal our trade? Do you hear that, girls? Mr fucking Faggot is trying to move in on our trade.'
Fergal nearly passed out as he realised why the women were standing around reapplying their lipstick at this time of night. 'No - Jesus, no! Youse don't understand. I'm just trying to get to England, that's all. Jesus, I'm sorry I bothered youse.'
He moved off as fast as he could. The women forgot all about him as a posh car pulled up beside them, pretending to be lost, and picked up the youngest one.
Fergal kept going until, completely by accident, he saw a sign for the ferry, and then spotted the lorry park. There was a wee chip van parked near the entrance and a few drivers were eating burgers and chip sandwiches and getting their flasks filled with soup. He watched them from across the road with his heart almost flying out of him.
The Albert Clock sounded midnight and Noreen's face floated in front of him in the night sky. Sure, there's nothing here but heartache, son, and more to come... He thought about his grandfather, his namesake, and he pushed his hands deeper into his pockets as he asked the man he'd never met what to do. The only reply was the distant cry of seagulls fighting to get at the fish that the ferry, turning m the harbour, brought closer to the surface. He wondered if his grandfather had ever stood where he was standing at that moment. What had he been like at seventeen? According to Noreen, Belfast had been a very different place then, friendlier and safer.
He felt some coins that had fallen into the lining of his coat. He decided to go over to the chip van, buy a cup of tea and maybe try and get talking to one of the drivers.
The lorry drivers were like no one Fergal had ever seen. They were either hugely tall, as wide as buses, or both, and four out of the five of them were wearing the dirtiest jumpers he'd ever seen - and that was saying something. The biggest man suddenly introduced himself as 'Derek from Doncaster' and bit into a double fried-egg sandwich. The yolks burst out of the bread like giant pimples, all down the front of his red pullover, but he didn't seem to care.
Still chewing on the fatty mush, Derek asked, 'You going on the ferry?'
Fergal stammered a bit and then lied. 'I - well, I was supposed to, but... but I've lost my ticket. I can't afford to buy another one.'
The other drivers had moved off for a smoke. 'What you going to do?' Derek asked.
'Well, I was hoping, maybe... ah... maybe somebody could give me a lift?'
'What, for free? You get nowt for free in this life, lad.'
'But I don't have any money, and I need to get to England to visit my... my sick uncle.'
'Your sick uncle, eh?'
'Yeah. Please - I've been walking around for ages. Maybe I could help you with the lorry - you know, help you clean it or something? Please, Mister. I'll... I'll do anything...'
Derek looked him up and down. 'Anything? You sure about that, lad?'
'Yeah, I'm sure. Like I said, I have to get there.'
'How old are you, lad?'
'I'm twenty-one. Why?'
'Oh, no reason - just wondering... So you'd be up for a bit of, you know, fun - in the lorry, like?'
Fergal realised fully what he meant by 'fun' and panicked inwardly. Fergal Flynn, what are you doing? He could be a killer -people get murdered all the time - once you get into the lorry you won't be able to get out... What if he has a knife? Oh, God, he's so disgusting, and the state of his jumper - if his clothes are that dirty, what must his body be like? He's waiting on an answer... Maybe it won't be that bad. Oh, Jesus, I'm going to have to do it or I'll never get out of here.
Fergal dropped his eyes. 'Well - maybe... yeah...'
'How big are you?'
'I don't know - about five foot eleven, maybe?'
Derek laughed and dropped his gaze to Fergal's crotch. 'No, lad, I mean how big are you - you know, downstairs?'
Fergal went bright red. 'I - I don't know - never measured it...'
'Well, I'd want a lo
ok at the goods before I agree to carry them.'
'What? Where? If you think I'm getting it out here, then—'
'Calm down, lad, calm down. There's a public toilet, just down the road there, where I've had a bit of fun from time to time. Meet me there in five minutes.'
'Ah, I'm not sure - I've never—'
'Well, looks like I'll be travelling back to England by myself, then.'
'No! Look... OK... you're sure it's safe?'
'Oh, aye, lad. There's hardly anyone about at this time, and if they are, they're there for the same reason as us. You can always say you were having a piss.'
'Right.'
Fergal's heart felt like it was beating on the outside of his body. The lorry driver moved off, and he waited until he saw him slip into the public toilet. Then he took a deep breath and followed him.
~
Administering the last rites always made Father Mac feel sad, but that night he was especially unnerved. The pensioner he was visiting had no family left. He'd lived alone for years and he'd finally become housebound, reliant on the thrice-weekly visits from his home help and the occasional kindness of a neighbour. Father Mac did the best that he could, but the old man was adamant that, with so much evil in the world, there could be no such thing as God, and that the priest was wasting his breath with his 'empty oul' prayers'.
When the ambulance came to relieve the house of its occupant for the final time, Father Mac got back into his car, loosened his white collar, then took it off altogether and threw it into the glove compartment. He felt depressed as he wondered how he would end his own days. When he reached St Bridget's, he slowed down to turn, but something made him change his mind. He drove on, out to the Falls Road and turned left towards the town centre. Asleep, the city looked as innocent as any child tucked up in bed.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 10