by David Park
*
The drive down to and along the Newtownards Road only takes a short while. The other cars on the roads are mostly taxis but even this late, the streets are not empty. As he turns off the main road and enters the knotted tangle of streets where he grew up, a group of youths stands on a street corner and passes round a cider bottle. One of them looks no older than Tom. They look at the car as he passes but he doesn’t look back. He knows the language, the way to be and look, the names to know in these streets he grew up in, but he’s been away a long time and with younger ones there is still the danger of being thought a stranger. Using his elbow he softly locks the doors as he watches them in his rear-view mirror, thinks they’re probably the kids of the guys he used to run with and is glad he made it out, gave his own kids the chance of something better.
He’s never seen so many flags, not even in the heart of the Troubles. They’re on every pole and post, turf-markers in the new wars. Dogs pissing out their territory. But everywhere he looks, despite the redeveloped houses and the walkways, there is only deterioration and decay and part of him wants to tell every flag-waver that they’re fighting the wrong bloody war, that they should be making something better for their kids. Kids like these two who wheel a shopping trolley loaded with bits of metal. They pass in front of the car and he stops for them and winds down the window.
‘Hey lads, see an old woman walkin’ about anywhere?’ he asks.
‘An old woman? Hey mister, are you a perv?’ one of the boys says, coming closer to the car and staring in.
‘It’s my fuckin’ ma, son,’ he says, staring the kid in the eye, leaning towards him. ‘She’s losing the plot, wanders off.’ He never takes his eyes off the kid, lets him see he’s clocking him, weighing him up. That if he has to, he’ll know him again.
‘There was a woman down near the factory, maybe that’s her,’ the other boy says. ‘Do you want us to help you find her?’
‘Naw, you’re all right. I’ll go down and look.’
‘If you pay us we’ll help you,’ the first one says. His eyes are narrow with suspicion but wide for the possibility of opportunity.
‘You’re all right, son, but I appreciate the offer.’ Then, pointing to the trolley, he says, ‘You should get that lot stored before anyone realises it’s missing.’
‘It’s only scrap no one wants/ the boy answers. His voice is defiant, almost eager for an argument.
‘That’s right. Good luck to you.’ As he drives off, he sees the boy throw back his head and spit on the back glass of the car. He turns down the next street, slows as he passes his mother’s house with its lights on and then heads round to the old factory. She’s standing there in her coat with a shopping bag as if she’s waiting for a bus to come and take her somewhere. The air is cold against his face as he gets out of the car. He’s too tired for a big effort, for some elaborate pretence.
‘Let’s go, Mum,’ he says, taking her bag from her and leading her towards the car. ‘Let’s get you home and into your bed.’ She looks at him and he doesn’t know if she recognises him or not, but she suddenly asks, ‘What time is it, Martin?’ When he tells her, it doesn’t seem to register but after a few moments she starts to rummage in her bag until she finds her purse. She hands him a five-pound note.
‘I forgot it was your birthday. Buy yourself something.’ He doesn’t tell her that it’s not his birthday but thanks her and takes the money. ‘I’ve never forgotten before. I must be gettin’ old,’ she says, carefully shutting the purse and dropping it back into her bag.
When they reach her house she makes no effort to get out of the car. Pat is there now and opens the door and helps her out. Together they get her in and he waits downstairs as she gets his mother into bed, sitting in the living room and listening as Pat gently scolds and encourages her, calming and reassuring her. Talking to her like a mother. When she comes down he thanks her and gives her ten pounds. She won’t take it but he insists until she reluctantly accepts.
‘That’s the third time this month she’s done this,’ she says. ‘I think you’re going to have to speak to the doctor again, see if there’s anything he can give to settle her at night. If she keeps doing this she’ll get run over or something.’
‘I’il get Alison to ring him in the morning. We can’t go on like this. I’ll stay a while until I’m sure she’s over.’ He lets Pat out, watches as she walks across the road to her house, then slumps back into the chair. He doesn’t want to sit there, to be inside the house at all, but tells himself he has to, that maybe it won’t be for much longer. If his mother doesn’t leave, then the redeveloper’s demolition ball will flatten it soon. Good fucking riddance, he thinks, the sooner the better, and part of him curses Rob who’s never set foot in the house since the day he left it, who pulled the shutter down and never so much as lifts the phone to speak to her. But another part envies him, wishes he had done the same so that he wouldn’t be sitting here in this place he doesn’t want to be, where every piece of furniture, every smell and shadow, force memories on him he doesn’t want to own. He reminds himself that he owes her nothing, not even a phone call but he knows it’s not as simple as that and tries to cool his resentment by telling himself that she must have been a victim too. That she probably had as much fear as them. That she wasn’t strong enough. But there are other voices in his head and they say that she should have done something, told someone, stuffed their possessions in cases and run off with them if that was the only way.
A car stutters past outside. The whole house seems to creak and shiver a little before it settles again. The pavement is just outside the window – any passer-by can look through the window – there are houses on either side of their walls. Across the entry another house looks into theirs. How can no one know? How can it be a secret? Maybe no one gives a shit about anyone else, everyone minding their own business and trying to think the best because it’s always easier. And his father is a popular man with the world, always full of jokes, always good for a laugh, and it’s important to him that he’s liked, that he’s a good father, so there are lots of staged performances and public parading of family. Everyone well turned-out and happy. How he would have worshipped Rachel’s stars, how he would have used them to lift himself up and be the talk of the road.
He pushes his back against the chair, listens to the sudden heaviness of his breath, which sounds as if he’s just run a race, and tries to calm himself with the knowledge that he never got his hands on them, never so much as saw his grandchildren before he died. It is the only justice that he can find, the only spark of comfort he can ignite from the welter of sensations that stream about him. He knows he has to go, has to get out of the house and climbing the stairs he stands at the doorway of his mother’s bedroom but doesn’t go in. For a few moments he stands motionless, listens to the fluted rise and fall of her broken breathing, then goes back down the stairs, trying not to touch anything with his hands. As he opens the front door he remembers the five-pound note and goes back just long enough to set it on the mantlepiece under the foot of the clock.
Chapter 3
It’s all been arranged by Alison. He’s taking Tom to the Odyssey arena to see the Belfast Giants play ice hockey. She’s got the tickets, and it’s to be his big chance to talk to Tom, to try to get through to him. She’s going to sit with his mother and they’ll pick her up on the way back. Even Rachel’s going out. Out with girls from school to celebrate someone’s birthday. When he tells Tom about the ice hockey he isn’t negative, for a few moments seems mildly interested.
After dropping Alison off, he wonders if it’s the time to start the talk but he’s not sure of the best way to begin and so he decides to leave it until just before the game – when they’re sitting with nothing else to do and the start of the game can bring a natural end to the conversation because as yet he doesn’t know what his conclusion will be. They drive over the Queen’s Bridge and suddenly the city he thinks he knows feels dizzy, pumped up on its own adrenalin
e, straining and breaking away from what anchors it in his memory. Everywhere he looks there is new building, a new skyline of hotels and offices and here, by the river which his childhood associates with piles of rusting scrap metal and the army of shipyard workers, are new apartments tracing the dark snake of the water. In between the buildings, the city is decked in bright necklaces of neon. He can’t take his eyes from its strangeness and is glad when the increasing flow of traffic forces him to slow almost to a crawl.
He opens the window of the car to let the faint odour of Tom escape and the night air that rushes in feels sparked and stretched, ready to ignite into something that is new to him and about which he is uncertain. Crowds of people stream past, some of them wear ice-hockey shirts. Everyone looks at ease, there is no current of menace and he tells himself to relax. Soon they get funnelled into a giant car park and then into the arena itself and everywhere are families and groups of people who look as if they know what they’re doing, as if it’s normal to be going to ice hockey in Belfast on a Saturday night. He tries to blend in, to appear as if he too is knowledgeable and is part of what’s happening. Before they find their seats, Tom leaves his side and comes back with two large Cokes and two large packets of M&M’s. As he hands him one of each, it’s clear that this is the bribe for allowing him to consume what he wants. It’s not a good start but then here everything is bigger than he imagined it – the stadium, the crowds, the merchandising, the whole scale of it.
‘What do you think, Tom?’ he asks.
‘It’s all right,’ Tom says before he covers the lower half of his face with the carton.
‘Are you going to drink that all now or save some for later?’ he asks.
‘Don’t know,’ he answers. ‘Don’t want to let it go flat.’
How to start? What to say? A machine rollers the ice, following the pattern of a man cutting grass. ‘It’s not like going down to see the Glens, is it?’ Tom shakes his head and opens the packet of sweets. ‘Tom, I don’t think you should eat those.’
‘Why not?’ he asks, looking at the packet as if there might be something wrong with it.
‘Because your mum and me are worried about you, about the weight you’re putting on. It’s not good for your health.’
‘I’m hungry,’ he says, holding up one of the sweets between his finger and thumb as if it’s a precious stone he’s studying. He throws it to the back of his throat, his head jerking suddenly upwards like a seal swallowing a fish.
‘You only think you’re hungry,’ he tells his son, unsure of whether he’s talking sense or not. ‘And we need to get some exercise going, burn off some of that stuff.’ He gently pokes his son in the side with his elbow but feels him squirm away with resentment and regrets having done it. ‘Does anyone ever say anything to you about it in the school?’ There is no answer. ‘Maybe we could do something together – what about swimming? Or I could fix up your old bike, find one myself and we could go for some rides at the weekend.’ No answer. He knows he’ll have to try a different angle.
‘Sometimes my father narked on at me when I was your age. I used to hate it, so I don’t want to do that, Tom. I hope you understand, son, that I’m only talking to you because we care about you and want you to be happy and healthy?’ While he’s talking someone walks to the middle of the ice, his leg movements heavy as if he’s walking through water. He’s the MC and he starts to wind up the crowd and pop music rumbles through the arena, galvanising and stirring the atmosphere. He goes on trying to talk to Tom but he’s struggling for the right things to say, to find any point of connection, even some precarious little handhold which will allow him to cling to the face of his son’s indifference.
‘So PlayStation Two is supposed to be good? Costs a fortune though, doesn’t it?’ Tom’s answer gets lost in the roar of the crowd and then they have to do Mexican waves. To be like everybody else they have to do it and all around them are people waving their arms like an act of fervent supplication. It’s one of the most embarrassing things he’s ever done in public but they can’t break the wave, can’t have everyone else looking at them. Even Tom lets his arms rise and fall limply. ‘Look, maybe if we make a plan – nothing too drastic – then we could think of getting you a Playstation next Christmas. You’d have to stick to it this time, though.’ They both have to throw their arms up again as the wave reverses direction. ‘Just cutting down on things that are really bad for you. And Tom, there’s one thing that I’ve never really said before.’ Tom looks at him for the first time. His eyes are suspicious behind his finger-printed lenses. It looks as if he’s finally going to say something but now they’re playing YMCA and everyone is doing the actions and singing; so whatever was going to be said slips away as the packed arena shapes letters with their hands and arms and the swelling chorus of voices drowns out his own faltering words. From the tiers of seats across the rink it looks as if people are signalling to them, a kind of semaphore and diffidently and slowly, and a few seconds out of sync, Tom tries to copy the way they form the letters, before finally he gives up, slumps back into his seat and waits for the game to start.
*
He cradles the carton to his mouth, feels the bubbles break against his closed lips. Does anyone ever say anything to him at school? Not really, just every single day and every single period and every moment between periods. And on the bus before school and at lunchtime and in his head first thing in the morning as he wakes up, even before he’s got his eyes open. Because even when they don’t say anything he hears the echoes of what they’ve said before and the echoes feel trapped inside some cave from which they can never escape. He opens his lips and rolls some of the Coke round his mouth like a boxer between rounds, before he swallows and licks the remaining flavour off his lips. Do they ever say anything in school? This is what they say. These are some of his names: Fat Boy, Fats, Blubber, Tits, Piggy, Flubber, Porky Pie, Monster Mash, The Incredible Bulk, Bouncy Castle, Tommy Tucker, Fatboy Slim, Roly Poly, Cheesy, Little Mo. Sometimes when the teacher calls the roll he is surprised to hear his real name used, almost as if he has forgotten what his real name is.
And his names stretch to eternity because every day there is a new one added to the list, usually by a kid who wants to please, so they think up something funny and clever and present it to Chapman and the others like a little gift, a ticket of admission. And if they’re lucky and it makes Chapman, Rollo and Leechy laugh, then they might get brought into the club. Sometimes he laughs at the names himself because it’s better that he’s part of the joke and his laughter helps bring him a little closer to the circle; the worst thing you can be is someone who can’t take a joke. And there is another reason: because to show a weakness, a particular point of pain, is only to invite more of the same, like a hammer beating down again and again on a nail until its head is buried deeply in the wood.
He doesn’t like sport but this one holds his interest. It stops and starts so he hasn’t time to get bored and everyone who plays the game is bulked up, twice their normal size but they skate over the ice like they’re inflated only with the lightness of air and they can turn and twist as if they’re carried on the currents of their own desire. Maybe he could play this game and he imagines slamming Chapman against the boards, trapping him between them and the great unstoppable rush of his weight. Sees him squashed and flattened with the air whistling out of him. His tiger eyes staring down at his crumpled heap. Suffer! Suffer! Pounding his head with the stick, the blade slicing through his helmet like a cleaver. Suffer! Suffer! Shit your pants, Chapman! Your ma’s a whore, Chapman! Out on the ice two players start to fight, sticks thrown away, arms flailing, then locking like stags to push and shove. It’s the biggest cheer of the evening and then it’s over and they’re sent to the sin bin. A few rows in front he can see someone with a hot dog, smell the onions. If you’re the goalkeeper you have to be big – the bigger the better – because that means there’s less goal visible and the goalkeeper doesn’t even have to move much. He could be
the goalkeeper, bulk himself out to fill all the available space. Catch the puck in the folds of his stomach.
*
In the car she asks them how it was, tries to gauge from their posture, the angle of their heads how things went. ‘It’s the end of the Troubles,’ Martin says. ‘They’ve finally cracked it because there’s no Catholics or Protestants any more. Everyone’s American. It’s the end of sectarianism.’ She doesn’t understand so she asks Tom if he enjoyed himself but he says only that it was OK. The collar of his shirt is starting to fray. And she’s going to have to throw out his trainers, replace them with something else. They’re already gone far past Odor-Eaters and she thinks that if she is to put them in the washing machine again, they’ll probably fall apart like papier mâché. Maybe at the weekend she’ll take him down to Dunne’s and get a cheap pair and if he starts to turn his nose up and talk of brand names she’ll just have to tell him that they’re not made of money, that you can only have what you’ve worked for.
While they squabble again over Tom’s choice of radio station she thinks that just once in life it would be nice to have something good happen to you that you hadn’t had to work for. Something that just fell into your lap. Something like luck. She remembers the lottery ticket behind the clock and wonders if it’s her turn to be chosen. Tom points out a new yellow Volkswagen Beetle and says ‘Yuk’, describes it as the colour of puke. She’s so pleased to hear him talk that she doesn’t tell him off. ‘Hard to live with,’ she says and kneads her calf muscle with the tight grip of her fingers. There is the electric scribble of green neon and a flashing diamond flush of fast-food outlets. ‘Can we get a McDonald’s?’ Tom asks. ‘No’, they say simultaneously. Only their tone is different – Martin’s more insistent and tinged with his frustration. ‘Just to take out, not to sit in,’ Tom pleads as if the location of eating has serious significance.