The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  I didn’t know what he meant, but he always laughed when he said it, so I laughed too.

  One morning, Matthew didn’t get up. When I knocked on his door to tell him I was ready to go swimming, there was no sound. I ran downstairs and checked in the study. Sometimes he went in there during the night and forgot about the time. But he wasn’t there. I ran back upstairs and knocked again. This time, there was a rustling sound. I pushed the door open. At first, I thought there was no-one in the room, but when I moved closer to the bed, I saw a bump under the white blanket. It was the same shape as the mountains in the atlas, the high ones that were covered in snow all year round. When I reached out to touch the bump, it moved. I crept around the side of the bed. Matthew’s head poked out of the blanket. His eyes were closed.

  “Matthew? Aren’t we going swimming?”

  He opened his eyes. It took him a long time.

  “Not today, little one.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. They were so hot they burned my skin, even though I was wearing my pyjamas.

  “Astrid, I’m going away for a little while. I have a fever and I need to go to a hospital in Dublin, where they can give me special medicine.”

  His voice sounded different; there was extra gravel in it. And he spoke so fast that the words ran into each other.

  “Could I come with you?”

  “Not this time.”

  My head spun. Matthew never went to Dublin without me.

  “Where will I go?”

  “You’re going to stay with Mrs O’Brien. I trust you’ll behave well for her.”

  I wanted to touch his face, but his hands were still on my shoulders and I couldn’t reach.

  “You must go now. The ambulance is coming. It’s just for a short while. You mustn’t worry.”

  My head cleared. Matthew never told lies. He was coming back. Nothing else mattered.

  Guides and Warriors

  As I opened the door of the bar, I was greeted by a blast of male laughter. The bar was long and spacious, with an L-shaped counter in the corner. A brown lamp hung from the ceiling, its light casting a soft glow. The bar was a woodland glade; its walls were lined with dark, burnished wood and my feet sank into a soft green carpet. The windows were obscured by thick curtains of a darker green. Wildlife congregated around several of the scrubbed tables; the Cabbage Patch Kids were joined by large, lumpen men with battered, lived-in faces and voices that rose to a dull roar. Glasses of beer the colour of sputum sat in front of them. The air was thick with testosterone.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” said Cliona. “Now we can begin.”

  There was a seat between her and Kim at a small table. I plonked Mia onto it and went to look for another seat. It was hard to spot a gap in the closed ranks. I went to a couch seat located as far as possible from Cliona’s table. It was upholstered in the same green as the carpet. There was a space on the edge of the seat, right beside Johno. The Fates were indeed kind. When I sat down, the seat sagged under my weight. Foam trailed along Johno’s upper lip. I fought the temptation to wipe it off with the tip of a finger, place the finger in his mouth.

  “No need to rebuke you for being late then,” I murmured.

  “Sure I’m always quick when there’s beer involved. One of the fellas brought me to me room and I just shoved me shite in the wardrobe and came straight down.”

  “You’re not sharing?”

  “No. All on me ownio. Lucky for the rest of yez, my farts are dire.”

  He chortled; the Greek Chorus joined in.

  “Weren’t you well able to find your own way down,” said one.

  “We’ve a grand room,”

  “Bigger than last year.”

  “Yeah, but still small enough to hear you snoring.”

  The sound of Cliona banging the table with a spoon cut through their laughter.

  “If I could just have your attention for a moment. I’d like to welcome all you Twilight Warriors to Mosenbach, for what I hope will be yet another resounding success for Sightskiers.”

  A sudden memory impaled me, of a pit-bull face below a headline which read ‘Cliona’s Crusade: blind athlete to climb four peaks in 24 hours for charity.’

  “What’s with the Twilight Warrior motif?” I hissed at Johno.

  “It’s what she calls us.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you know? We’re such brave little fighters,” he gurgled.

  I removed the napkin from a nearby knife and fork, snatched them up and turned them into fencer’s foils. Their clanking underpinned Cliona’s earnest account of the trip’s origins. I let my thigh rest against Johno’s; it was rock-hard. Even harder than Jazz’s. I imagined running my fingers up and down the length of it. Snatches of Cliona’s monologue punctured my reverie, ‘give something back... empowerment through skiing... helped me to accept my blindness.’ Her talk climaxed with a litany of sponsors and fundraisers.

  “Last of all, I want to thank my wonderful partner, Kim. Without him, I could never be the warrior I am today.”

  She raised their joined hands in a sort of victory salute.

  “She deserves a medal,” said Johno.

  “What on earth for?”

  “For bein such a brave little fighter.”

  We both sniggered. Cliona’s voice rose to a crescendo, “Remember, it doesn’t matter how often you fall, you can always get up again. At the end of the day, we’re here to enjoy ourselves and to grow from each other’s company.” No-one was allowed to challenge her position as Queen of Cabbage Patch Land.

  Everyone cheered. Didn’t know why; she was no Marcus Aurelius. My limbs became restless; her words induced a longing to escape. As she sat down, Kim put his arms around her and they began to whisper and fondle each other.

  “I’ve tears in me eyes,” said Johno, “tears of boredom.”

  I returned the knife and fork to their napkin. There were kinks in the napkin which refused to straighten. As I attempted to smooth them, I became aware of a presence beside me. I didn’t turn around; the task required my full attention. But then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A man was sitting on a chair beside me, a stocky creature whose face was almost obscured by a covering of reddish-brown hair. One of the friendly natives of the forest. His muscles threatened to burst out of his football shirt.

  “Astrid, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Martin.”

  He held out his hand and I submitted to another bone-crushing handshake. His hand was a slab of meat; pink and glistening. It swallowed mine.

  “You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sorry, it’s the accent. You can take the boy out of Blackpool… I’m your own personal guide.”

  Ah yes, the guides. A minor detail. Reckoned I could shake him off within two days.

  “Astrid. Haven’t heard that before. Where’s it come from then?”

  “It’s kind of Viking.”

  “Your parents Swedish or what?”

  “Something like that.” He was a subscriber to my Viking myth.

  “Saw you having fun with the stairs earlier. Would have helped you out, but you were nearly at the top. Anyway, my hands were full with the lads. Awful beasts, them spiral jobbies. Trip on them the whole time meself.”

  I stood up, knocking against his knee.

  “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to freshen up for the night’s festivities.”

  “Be seeing you later then,” he said.

  The undergrowth parted to reveal a flash of teeth.

  I lay on my bed, trying to orchestrate the next manoeuvre in my plan of attack. But I was unable to summon up the necessary energy. Instead, I stared at the ceiling
, counting the dark splodges on the wooden beams above my bed. Three on the first one, four on the second. The handle of Mia’s suitcase brushed against my waist. She spread a dress in front of her, running her fingers along the folds with delicate strokes, in case it might tear. The dried sweat under my arms formed sedimentary layers. Mia was talking; her words merged to form a gushing stream. I fought to keep my eyes open, but tiredness nailed them shut.

  It was dark. I looked around, fuddled to find myself confronted with white walls, rather than the faded floral wallpaper of my bedroom in Dublin. I rubbed the thick layers of sleep out of my eyes and sat up. The room was empty. I switched on the lamp by my bed and looked at my watch. 9.00pm. 8.00pm Irish time.

  Every Sunday, 8.00pm to 10.00pm, I morphed into DJ Ice White and broadcast my radio show, turning Jazz’s studio into my own lair. I kept the lights off, letting myself be guided by red numbers, waves of sound, the feel of the cross-fader, the blinking laptop screen. Unlike Jazz, I was a laptop girl all the way. Easier that way, less fiddling. Less room for error. Even though the show was pre-loaded, I still liked to be present, to supervise the show’s progress, to immerse myself in its soundscapes. And on the rare occasions when I received requests, I was able to respond in an instant. I sat in the big black swivel chair in front of the desk, my head bobbing up and down to the beats. My comfortable earmuff headphones enabled me to detect minute changes in rhythm.

  The show featured an eclectic range of deep and minimalist house, intelligent techno, trip-hop and electronica. The bleeping, boreal beats of Finland, Sweden and Iceland were my specialty. Thanks to the nights spent with my Viking book, the strange Nordic names tripped off my tongue with ease. Sometimes I visited warmer climes, where the beats were mellower, more full-bodied. I interspersed these electronic warblings with obscure factoids about the music and its creators; my voice weaved in and out of the beats. Most of the tracks were quite rare, sourced through hours of careful cybertrawling. In honour of my snow-capped location, that week’s edition of White Nights featured plenty of geyser-hot Icelandic electro.

  Jazz never came in during the show, but on occasion, the sound of his films leaked through the wall. Sometimes I kipped on his couch after the show finished, but more often that not, he walked me to the DART. On the way to the station, we made desultory conversation about our sets, or swopped views of current entries to the dance and electronica charts.

  We weren’t doing anything. Jenny just happened to stumble upon our little post-club ritual. I always stayed with Jazz when I didn’t score at the club, or my regulars were unavailable. We were in the studio, relaxing to mellow beats. Jazz was laying his set down for the following week. He liked to do it on Sundays while the previous set still filled his mind. He also liked to correct glitches that were inaudible to everyone else but him. And me. He was planning one of his retro nights for the following week, a homage to acid house. Not my preference, but I figured he was allowed a rare moment of self-indulgence. Besides, the punters flocked to the retro nights, which meant more random ballers for me.

  “Time to blow the dust off your Roland,” I said.

  Jazz lifted his vintage drum machine out of its hiding place under the sound-desk and hooked it up. He relished an excuse to play with it. We lined the beats up in logical sequence; so he could navigate them as if they were points on a map. Our movements were swift and silent; I anticipated Jazz’s every move. We were both still in our kaks, though Jazz was due to go to an afternoon screening at the IFI with Jenny, who shared Jazz’s taste for obscure Japanese films. I was wearing an extra long Prism T-shirt which skimmed the tops of my thighs. Jazz was in his boxers. My laptop was balanced on my knees. I pressed my face close to the screen and attempted to click on my selected track, but the mouse kept dancing out of reach.

  “Come back, for fucksake,” I muttered.

  “Huh?” Jazz muttered, turning around.

  I clicked on the screen a few times, and then looked up.

  “Check your email,” I said. “There’s a gem waiting for you.”

  It was a warped yet fabulous reinterpretation of an acid-house standard that I knew was a favourite of Jazz’s. Jazz cranked up the volume and adopted his default listening pose, pressing his knuckles into his cheeks.

  “Where did you find that?”

  The awe in his voice was gratifying.

  “One of my cybertrawls. Am I good to you, or am I good to you?”

  We high-fived, our classic ritual whenever either of us pulled off a major DJ coup. As the first verse played itself out, I faded up Jazz’s next track.

  “There’s a couple of places you could loop this in. Like here, where it slows.”

  Jazz liked to punctuate one tune with tantalising hints of another. A standard DJ trick, but he pulled it off with finesse. And a little help from me.

  “Oh yeah,” said Jazz. “That’ll go down well. Cool.”

  He removed a CD from its case.

  “Better give this a whirl,” he said, sighing. “Can’t believe I got lumbered with it.”

  The cover had the garish, try-hard veneer of a demo.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Glenn’s cousin’s, so he’ll be on to me.”

  Glenn managed the sound studio where Jazz worked: he knew Jazz was a soft touch for DJ wannabes.

  “Some 15-year-old fuckwit with his first set of decks?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jazz loaded it onto his computer. The speakers squealed.

  “Must be feedback,” I said.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Jazz’s mouth was set in a grim line. When it came to sound, purity was his mantra. The record descended into sonic chaos. Swirling guitar chords clashed with a thick layer of breaks, creating an oil-on-water effect which was exacerbated by the rodent-like quality of the vocals. Jazz’s hands turned into fists. I stood behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders, massaging away the knots from the previous night.

  “That’s quite a mash-up,” I said diplomatically.

  “More like a train wreck.”

  “No, it’s the aural equivalent of regurgitated meat.”

  The mellow beats of Jazz’s laughter filled the studio. I enjoyed making him laugh; it was a rare privilege.

  “Let me add something to the mix,” I said.

  I loaded up an extra-deep number which I planned to play later. The dark-caramel voice offset the hamster vocals.

  “That’s an improvement,” Jazz said, grinning.

  My hand brushed against his as I adjusted the cross-fader. The downy hairs on his arm stood to attention.

  “Let’s do the ultimate test,” I said. “Play it backwards.”

  Trashing Jazz’s demos was one of our favourite games. Jazz adjusted the settings and the hamsters began their chorus again.

  “Tell me this; how is it possible that it sounds exactly the same now as it did on the first play? That breaks numerous scientific laws,” I stated.

  “Yeah, well, the punters love this kind of Scooter crap.”

  “In that case,” I said, holding the CD aloft, “it must go in the bag for next week.”

  “No way,” Jazz mock-growled.

  He made a grab for the CD, but I danced away. As I attempted to insert it into his CD case, he pinned me against the wall. We tussled and I broke away, still clutching the CD. I made for the door, but my path was blocked by a hard object which moved as I made contact with it. There was a smothered squeal. The laughter died on our lips. Jenny stood in the doorframe, rubbing herself as if inflicted with a mortal wound. I developed a sudden urge to use the bathroom, but Jenny was still blocking the entrance, so I was forced to nudge past her. Their voices leaked under the bathroom door.

  “Oh God, Jenny, I can’t believe it slipped my mind,” Jazz said. “We were just listenin
g to some demos and lost track of time.”

  “You were supposed to meet me there twenty minutes ago. We won’t have time for food now.”

  “Look, we can still make it for the movie. I’ll take the car. I just need to throw on some clothes.”

  Jazz was in the bedroom now. Jenny and I jostled for space at his bedroom door. My shoulder brushed against her temple. I always towered over Jazz’s girlfriends; he suffered from a severe dose of small-man syndrome. He pulled a pair of chinos and a T-shirt out of his wardrobe and hopped on one leg as he struggled to put the chinos on.

  “Let me get dressed,” he grunted. “I’ll be out in a minute, I promise.”

  “Naughty boy, Geoffrey.”

  I wagged my finger at Jazz, making no attempt to disguise my mirth.

  “I’ll make myself scarce; leave you two to your domestic.”

  I retrieved my own clothes in the studio, then went to the kitchen. Jenny lingered in the corridor, twisting her hands, a soul trapped in Hades. At last, Jazz came out. Without a word, Jenny followed him out of the apartment. The door slammed behind them. By now, I was beginning to feel peckish, so I decided to indulge in one of my favourite post-club delicacies; cold baked beans eaten straight from the tin.

  After that, I put the final touches to my set, evening out peaks and troughs, cruising on waves of sound. Through the beats, I heard a key in the lock, then the sound of the studio door being pushed open. I looked up to find Jazz leaning against the doorframe, panting.

  “Wow. That was a short film.”

  “You’re still here?”

  He sounded punch-drunk.