He still scares me, a little. I suppose he always will even after he’s dead. But I am not going to weaken, no way, and suddenly something weird happens. The old man weakens himself.
‘Justin? Come on now. Put it down and I’ll explain. It’s all for your own good. I promise. Good boy. Your mother and I love you, you know. Really.’
Jesus effing Christ, he’s scared, he’s actually scared. I’ve got you, you bastard! Now you know what it feels like, to feel like me. Now I know what it feels like to be in charge. Good God, it’s better than sex. Not that I’ve ever had any. But he’s too bloody late with his pleading and he probably doesn’t mean it so I just stare straight at him, all cold like, and I pull the gun closer to my shoulder, tucking it in just like he taught me himself, relax my arms, take aim right at the centre of his chest, and begin to squeeze the trigger of the first barrel.
*
The American newscaster is flummoxed. ‘It, it, ap … it appears that something has happened in the motorcade route. Something, I repeat, has happened in the motorcade route. There’s numerous people running up the hill alongside Elm Street, there, by the Simmons Freeway. Stand by, just a moment, please. Something has happened in the motorcade route. Stand by, please.’
Twenty
It is a good deed to forget a poor joke.
Brendan Behan
Friday, 22 November 1963
I’ve got all the kit, brushes and oils and rags and I break the gun into its three parts and start to clean it. The old man always said that my professional attitude, with my gun handling that is, will stand me in good stead. He’s right. I always feel better when I do it properly. It’s cold out here out by the back steps but I don’t mind as I’m a bit hot after all the excitement. I just keep thinking about how, because I didn’t chicken out, I’ve had the best day of my life. Honest. With the ructions going on, nobody seems to have noticed I’m here at all.
And look! There’s Mary the new girl with her tiny boobs and she’s heading back across the yard towards the house leading Danny and Paddy Kelly and a couple of the other lads and she’s talking ten to the dozen.
‘Bridget told me, so she did. That’s who. Bridget. I was turning down beds. She came running in yelling her lungs out, “You won’t believe what just happened in America!” Scared the living daylights out of me.’
They rush past me like the north wind without so much as a glance.
But then Donal appears and he’s not moving fast, not even with all the drama. He’s from Kerry after all. Donal stops and looks at me. ‘Is he dead?’ asks Donal, all serious.
‘I should fecking hope so,’ replies I. ‘Jesus.’
‘That is a terrible thing to say.’
‘You’re being very pass-remarkable, Mr Sheridan. He’s hardly a great loss now, is he?’
‘May the Good Lord forgive you,’ says Donal as he takes off his hat, crosses himself, and walks inside.
So I carry on and wrap the oiled rag onto the long brush and I’m about to shove it into the left barrel, up its hole, when who should pop her head round the corner all amazed and flushed is Bridget and her lovely breasts. ‘Thank Heavens. You’re safe, pet.’
‘Oh Bridget, Bridget, Bridget. I missed you Bridge and those lovely bubbly doops.’
I did, really I did. Especially now Annie’s had enough of me and can’t be bothered to write.
‘Bubbly doops? What in God’s name are bubbly doops?’
She’s staring at me like I’m ready for the loony bin at Newtownmountkennedy.
‘Justin? Did the boss man see you?’
‘He sure did, petal.’
‘And?’
‘He was a bit sad.’
‘You’re codding?’
‘But then it’s not really good to show one’s feelings is it, old girl,’ I ask in my best English accent, the one I learnt at school.
‘Justin, love? What are you on about?’
That fecker Donal, popping his head out the back door, interrupts our lovely conversation.
‘Bridget? Hurry! It’s on.’ Bridget rushes inside. Ah well. That’s life.
I just carry on cleaning my gun and start singing to myself, all soft like. ‘It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want, cry if I want to. You would cry too, if it happened to you. Do, do, do, do, do.’
*
In the kitchen at The Hall, twenty-five staff, all estate workers, crowd close, listening, on the edge of their seats. The Radio Éireann news journalist speaks through the wireless down a telephone line from America.
‘Here in New York, everybody seems to be stunned and shocked by the terrible news, news that flashed across the United States just over an hour ago.’
On the avenue the Jaguar rests, engine still purring, headlights still on. The car’s wireless is turned up very loud as the Radio Éireann journalist continues.
‘First, the news that an assassination attempt had been made on president Kennedy in that motorcade that we got to know so well in Ireland during the summer, as that motorcade was speeding through Dallas, Texas.’
Inside the car, Lady Helen Montague listens intently, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Then, followed an hour of utter confusion with reports that the president was dead … the president was alive … And then, thirty-five minutes after he had been removed from the scene of the shooting to the hospital …’
Bobby Montague, sobbing, is slumped on the ground in the middle of the avenue, in the car’s bright headlights, covered in blood, cradling the limp corpse of his adored Cromwell.
From the car radio, the broadcast continues.
‘… the news came through that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy … was dead.’
Copyright
First published 2010 by
THE LILLIPUT PRESS
62–63 Sitric Road, Arbour Hill Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
Copyright © Mark Macauley, 2010
ISBN 978 1 84351 167 0 (print)
ISBN 978 1 84351 239 4 (ebook)
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
A CIP record for this title is available from The British Library.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from An Chomhairle Ealaíon / The Arts Council of Ireland.
Set in 11 pt on 15 pt Sabon by Marsha Swan
Printed in Ireland by ColourBooks of Dublin
The House of Slamming Doors Page 15