by Peter Murphy
Jamey
Free Love
by Jamey Corboy
Jim Canavan shut the front door. Loud music and gunshots and car crash sounds from the living room. He padded quietly to the lounge and eased the door open, thinking maybe he’d catch Conor on the hop with a cigarette, even a joint.
The curtains were drawn across the bay windows. The boy was sprawled on a beanbag. His face flickered in the light of the screen. Baggy jeans, T-shirt three times too big, trainers with laces undone. He wore his hair in brutal military cut and his jaw was fuzzed with beard. Fast becoming a man, big deep voice on him. Scary how fast.
‘You keep sitting like that,’ Canavan said, ‘you’re asking for back trouble.’
The boy looked at his father only to roll his red-rimmed eyes. He returned his attention to the shoot-’em-up.
‘All right,’ Canavan said. ‘But don’t come whinging to me if you’re in a hoop by the time you’re thirty. Where’s your mum?’
‘Out. Her book club.’
A conspiratorial smirk passed between them. He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt as he shut the living-room door.
He climbed the steps to the landing and unlatched the hot-press door and felt the tank under the lagging jacket. The movement reminded him of his courting days, slipping the hand under a girl’s shirt, warm skin, fumbling bra-strap catches. The tank was piping hot. He checked the immersion switch. On. All day, probably. Another hole in my pocket, dear Rita.
When the bath was halfway full he stepped in, slowly lowering his body into the hot water. Once submerged, he tensed his stomach muscles and surveyed his chest and belly.
‘Not too bad for an old lad,’ he said, his voice spookily loud in the small tiled room.
He didn’t feel like an old lad. He weighed about the same as the day he was married.
He smoothed his hair back and breathed in the warm bath vapours and sighed. Just like he could have predicted, the feeling came upon him, that unfathomable sadness, like a mourning for something he couldn’t put a name on. He cursed this mood, like hangover guilt, but without the benefit of having gotten drunk in the first place.
His hand went to his hard-on.
If he thought about it, he could probably pinpoint the exact day, the exact moment when he decided he was going to cheat on Rita. It was like being off the fags, but the fever of wanting becomes too much and you make a conscious decision to lapse, and your heart pounds as you’re walking to the shop with your money in your fist and your hands shake as you shred the plastic and open up the box and stick that bastard cancerstick in your mouth and light it up and fuck the consequences.
He told himself that Rita had cheated on him too, only in a different way. They hadn’t slept together since the Christmas party a couple of years ago. They were both drunk. She’d been flirting with Hyland all night, that yappy gobshite. And before that, periods where she hadn’t touched him for months on end. He wasn’t exactly blameless, he had to admit. He gave up on her. But god, how do you go about asking your wife to put out? It was embarrassing.
So he waited, hoping she’d eventually come around, and then one day he realised he was the only one waiting. He realised that the waiting itself made him accountable, or responsible, or no, what was the word? Complicit.
Thing was, he still had feelings for her. OK, she wasn’t the same woman as twenty years ago, he wasn’t blind. But when he looked in her face she was still the girl he married and danced with that day in the Salt Island Hotel, the day of their wedding. ‘Unchained Melody’, her choice. Even now, if she’d just make some gesture to let him know she was still interested, he’d respond in a second. He would. But she seemed to just not care. And as much as he told himself it was all right, sex is not that important, you can go without, there are other things in life blah-blah-blah, he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Once he’d made up his mind to cheat, there was no going back. He was too excited by his resolution. Women everywhere he looked. Like that time the young one from the hairdresser’s got drenched in the rain. Not all that young either, but she was a fine bit of stuff, almost boyish, what do they call it, gamine, hair cut short and dyed off her head, she had a body on her, my god, she’d had a couple of babies, twins, he’d seen her pushing them around in one of those double buggies, but she’d made an outstanding recovery.
It was warm that day and she was wearing a short skirt that showed off her legs and she had on a light-green T-shirt and the sudden shower caught her by surprise, she just stood and let herself get wet through like a scene from a film. She had incredible tits. He wondered if she’d had a job done, or maybe she was still breast-feeding. It didn’t matter. He had to hurry home to relieve himself.
For weeks after that he was in a sort of fever, balls throbbing, a permanent lump there between his legs. Girls coming out of the bank in their white blouses and sheer tights and high heels, tottering like baby giraffes. Young mothers gathered around the school gate calling out their children’s names, generous arses squeezed into immaculate blue jeans or combat trousers or sweat suits that didn’t quite obscure their curves. Little teenage things all dolled up for the pub on weekends—why didn’t girls dress like that when he was young? Sometimes after closing time he watched them stagger to the takeaway, stocious and coupled at the arm, swaying like stunned heifers.
Then she came along. He saw her sitting in the beer garden in Donahue’s one night, sipping her vodka and smoking her cigarettes. He’d gone in for a late pint and they got talking. She was impish as hell. He liked that. Before he’d even finished his first pint she kissed him, bold as you like. His body was electrified. The hairs stood up on the back of his hands.
The next morning he was stricken with the guilt. But the guilt went away pretty fast. Or maybe he just got used to it. He thought about people who get married because they fear being lonely. They don’t know the meaning of the word. He didn’t want to turn into an old man made bitter with regrets. Sometimes he felt like the poor old horse from Animal Farm, what was his name, Boxer. I will work harder, that was the horse’s solution for everything. And look where that left you if you weren’t careful.
In the bath, with your prick in your hand.
But things had changed.
He’d changed.
The water lapped against his legs. He imagined her head bobbing there, her tongue working wonders on his fatigue, bringing his body back to life. He conjured her touch, the way she kissed, like she was starving, like she might eat the face off him. It was so at odds with her everyday manner, which was sulky and taciturn.
The water had grown tepid. He gripped the sides of the bath, hauled himself out with a groan. Dried off. Went into the bedroom and removed a set of fresh clothes from the wardrobe. Rita had been at him to empty his stuff out so she could have it for her shoes. Seventeen years in this house and he still felt like he didn’t fit with the decor, like he was a gaudy heirloom or a bad painting migrating from room to room.
He checked his phone.
One new message. Text.
Come on over. M.
Later, when they were both flushed and spent, he nestled against her bony backside. She wriggled around to face him.
‘Don’t be coming near me with your piss-horn,’ she said sleepily, and groped between his legs. He closed his eyes and smiled the smile of a satisfied man. She was some piece of work, all right. The way she let herself go while she was lying under him, or straddling him, the way she didn’t care.
They nuzzled for a bit and then she propped herself up on elbows, looked in his face.
‘Ever think of getting out of here, Jim? We could do it, you know. You could get a transfer or something.’
He clasped his hands behind his head. He reeked of sex-sweat, but she didn’t seem to mind. Maggie wasn’t the prudish type.
‘I couldn’t leave Conor,’ he said.
‘He’d be OK. He’s not a child any more.’
She reached for his hand, the gold band on his ring f
inger.
‘I hate that you still sleep with her.’
Here we go.
‘I don’t sleep with her. We share a bed, that’s all. We haven’t slept together in years.’
‘I still hate it.’
‘You’re not exactly Miss Fidelity yourself.’
She turned away. He wanted to touch her but made himself wait. He wasn’t some young lad she could wrap around her finger.
Eventually she broke the silence.
‘I just wish I could be with you more. It’s the only time I ever feel safe.’
He didn’t answer. She slipped her hand between his legs again.
‘Will you stay the night? Gunter’s out till eight.’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Not tonight.’
She got out of the bed and padded downstairs. He lay on that strange bed and gazed at the ceiling and wondered if at any time in the history of the human race there’d existed such a thing as free love.
***
The day Jamey was due home, I stood on the main Ballo road with my thumb stuck out and played roulette with the registration plates, trying to make the traffic stop by sheer force of will, but it just whooshed past. Each car that flashed by made me check my watch and pace the hard shoulder, muttering and swearing.
I tucked my hair under my collar and buttoned up my jacket and tried to present the appearance of a respectable human being. And I remembered what Jamey told me that night in the Rugby Club, that it was all about attitude, so I put my shoulders back and stuck my chin out and looked directly into the windscreen of the next car that came along.
A deep red Toyota pulled over about fifty yards up the road.
You beauty.
I trotted after it, but my heart sank when I saw the driver was a woman. It had to be a mistake. Earlier in the afternoon another lady driver had stopped for me and it was awful: I ran towards her car and opened the passenger door and her eyes flew wide open and she shrieked and it turned out she hadn’t stopped for me at all, she’d just pulled in to use her phone. I didn’t want an action replay, so I stood gawking like a daw, waiting for something to happen.
The Toyota idled on the side of the road. The girl rolled down the window and yelled.
‘You coming or not?’
I ran the last few yards and opened the door.
‘Miss Ross,’ I said.
She smiled, showing bleach-white teeth.
‘Thought it was you. I never forget a face. Get in.’
The door clunked shut, sealing the vacuum.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ I said, arranging my feet. ‘I didn’t expect to get a lift from a lady driver.’
She checked the rear-view mirror as I clipped the belt on.
‘Call me Molly, please. I’m taking a year out from teaching. At least.’
That was news. I always had the impression that teachers did the same thing their whole lives, like nuns or convicts.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘Let’s pretend we just met. I’m Molly Ross.’ She reached over her small hand and gave my fingers a squeeze. ‘And you are?’
I cleared my throat. Felt like maybe I was the butt of some joke.
‘John.’
She released my hand and put the car in gear.
‘So, John, where you going?’
I looked out the windscreen at the distant clouds, some answer to it all encoded in their inkblot shapes.
‘Ballo town.’
She smiled, and it gouged dimples in her cheeks.
‘Off to commune with the ocean? Talk to the dolphins?’
‘Something like that.’
She brushed hair back from my face. ‘There,’ she said, and reached for her bag and one-handedly removed a silver cigarette case and a Zippo.
‘Smoke?’
She flipped the lighter open, lit me first, then herself. My mouth felt dry. I’d been smoking too much.
We passed some bollards and crunched across a bed of loose chippings. Miss Ross slowed the car until the road became smooth again. She was wearing a white blouse tucked into a black skirt that stopped just shy of the knee. The hem rode up and down as her fashionable shoes worked the pedals. Up and down. Sheer blue tights. It was very warm. There was a plastic Jesus magnetised to the dashboard. She noticed my stare.
‘Kitschy, huh?’ she said.
There was nothing kitschy about it.
‘So,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette, half smoked. ‘Get up to anything interesting over the summer?’
I couldn’t even begin.
‘Not really.’
Her mouth went wavy-lined.
‘You’re not giving me much to work with here, John. C’mon.’
‘Sorry.’
She returned her attention to the road. We came to a village, not even a village, it didn’t have a name, just a strip of buildings: petrol station, pharmacy, one of those mini-markets where you pay at a hatch, like a post office. Molly Ross geared down and pulled in.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ she said, and shouldered open the door and disappeared into the building. A couple of minutes later she reappeared, stuffing something into her handbag. We drove some more. Two-pubs-and-a-shop stops. Roadside nurseries. Cooking apples for sale. Molly Ross flicked the winker on. I looked at her like I was asking a question, but I kept my mouth shut. The car turned off the main road and into the mouth of a narrow laneway. We crunched over gravel until we came to a rickety wooden gate. She parked and turned off the engine.
‘Are you all right?’ she said.
‘Uh-huh.’
My voice was a toad’s croak. My shoulders were all knotted. I needed to get to Ballo as soon as possible; it was getting late and Jamey’s train would be in soon.
She twisted in her seat and looked directly into my eyes, and my cheeks started to heat up. There was nowhere to look that wasn’t her. Her prim face reminded me of the bit in Harper’s Compendium that explained why people find facial symmetry attractive, because having a face where the two sides are like mirror images is considered a sign of good health and a potential breeding partner. Intestinal parasites made people’s features lopsided.
Molly Ross stared at me some more. I stared back. She put her hand on my leg and leaned in close.
‘Do you fancy me at all, John?’
I tried to talk, but no words left my mouth, just that gritty throat sound.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to answer.’
She planted her mouth on mine, and her tongue darted between my lips. Her breath tasted of tic-tacs. Over her shoulder, the plastic Jesus’ palms were turned upward in what was probably intended as a gesture of compassion, but in the context it looked as though he was saying what can you do?
My throat made a noise; Molly Ross stopped the kissing.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’
I nodded. She went back to kissing me, more urgently this time, and began to unbutton things. My hands sort of flapped about and my stomach shrank back as her fingers groped and probed places I’d never been touched before in my life, and my heart went gabba-gabba speed-metal double-bass drums and my arms and legs began to shake.
She reached into her bag and fumbled out a box of condoms with a picture of a sailboat on the front, pushed my seat back and climbed on top. I pawed at her blouse and she undid her bra from the front and then hair and braless breasts hung in my face. She fumbled the condom box open, shook one out, tore the wrapping off and pinched the air out of the teat. She pulled me out of my trousers and rolled the rubber on, then tugged her tights and panties down and mounted, guiding me in, moving her weight about.
The smell of us polluted the car. A voice babbled from the back of my brain.
The hookworm has dagger teeth which it uses to gnaw into capillaries and devour the intestine, injecting its host with an anti-clotting agent.
Her backside pistoned.
Or a pinworm. Pinworms are sometimes found in the vulva, the uterus and the fallopian tubes becaus
e they get lost on the way back to the anus after depositing their eggs.
She splayed her hands across the dashboard and pranged her lower half onto my pelvic bones.
The South American carnero fish has sharp bones with a series of spines located around the head. It follows urine smells in water and enters swimmers’ urethras. It swims up the victim’s penis and extends its spines and takes in blood, expanding as it feeds.
Our bodies made slapping noises. The plastic Jesus watched it all, palms up.
The only cure is an expensive form of surgery that involves inserting the Xagua plant and the Buitach apple up the urethra, which kill and then dissolve the carnero fish. For people who cant afford the operation, amputation is the only cure.
I was on a hair-trigger. I remembered the one Fintan told us about Snow White sitting on Pinocchio’s face and moaning tell-a-lie-tell-the-truth-tell-a-lie-tell-the-truth, and that made me even more excited somehow. My own Pinocchio nose seemed to grow longer with each stroke and the feeling came upon me and I let it go, thinking, I’m a real boy now.
Molly Ross sensed the shudders and moved up a gear, panting, fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck, ramming her hind parts onto my front parts, but I’d already emptied out. I was going rubbery and limp down there, and it hurt a bit.
She stopped moving, carefully reached down and extracted me and climbed off and flopped into the driver’s seat.