The Middle Place

by Kealan Ryan

  ‘You heard the voice in your head?’ the doctor says straightly.

  ‘Oh, here we go. Not in my head. Not like that, I’m not hearing voices. But yeah. Fuck. Yeah, it was in my head. So maybe I am going crazy.’

  ‘Danny, please. It’s not a question of crazy. This really does sound like it might be as simple as an extremely vivid dream. It sounds very similar to sleepwalking. You could be up at your cell door but still be in a state of unconsciousness, which would account for seeing the figure at the wall.’

  ‘Sleepwalking?’ Danny says, unconvinced.

  ‘Yes,’ says the doctor, smiling. ‘Or night terrors. Waking dreams can be bizarre and frightening. Hypnopompic hallucinations are a very common neurological phenomenon that occurs if you are at the in-between state where you’re neither fully awake nor fully asleep. Hallucinations of realistic images like dark figures or hearing voices will often be experienced. Even other senses, like touch, can be stimulated. They are essentially dreams experienced while you are awake. But the important thing to remember, Danny, is that this type of thing really is quite normal.’

  Danny shuffles his bum in his seat, relaxing ever so slightly, wanting to believe the doctor.

  ‘Now,’ says Brady, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’d like to understand a little more of what you are dealing with. Can you tell me what you remember about the night you hit …’ he raises up his clipboard again and flicks through the pages, ‘Christopher Cosgrave?’

  Danny shudders. ‘Christ, even just hearing his name … I don’t want to talk about that night.’

  ‘Danny, if I’m to help you deal with the trauma you’ve experien­ced we need to explore this. Rather than avoiding the trauma and any reminder of it, I want you to recall and process the emotions and sensations you felt during the original event.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asks a sceptical Danny.

  ‘Well, in addition to offering an outlet for emotions you’ve been bottling up, by letting it out you will also help restore your sense of control and reduce the powerful hold the memory of the trauma has on your life.’

  Danny slaps his palm down on the table. Doctor Brady raises an eyebrow in response. ‘But that’s just it. I haven’t been bottling it up, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. When I don’t think about that night or his family nothing happens; when I do think about them I’m hearing voices and shitting myself in a dark room that is meant to be a bright room. I’m fucked.’

  This is honestly the happiest I’ve been since I became a ghost.

  Doctor Brady’s tone remains neutral, soothing. ‘Well, there is a difference between playing something in your mind over and over and actually talking about it to someone and trying to come up with some sort of closure.’

  ‘What if I don’t want closure? Jesus Christ, I killed a decent, innocent family man. He deserves more than my closure. His family deserves more.’

  ‘So what are you saying? You want to keep having visions? Waking up in the middle of the –’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ Danny interrupts. ‘But I don’t want to forget about them either.’

  ‘Having closure doesn’t mean you forget, Danny; it just means that you can come to terms with it – deal with things in a better, healthier manner.’

  Danny shakes his head. ‘I don’t deserve that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you are still alive and if you want to have any kind of a life you will have to face and overcome these issues, and it should be possible to find a way of achieving this that is respectful to Christopher Cosgrave’s memory but also lets you move on with your own life.’

  This is such bullshit; it’s not some wacky dream or post-traumatic stress. I’m fucking haunting him and all the talking in the world about it won’t make a damn bit of difference. Wooo motha fucka! Wooo.

  37

  ‘Come on, Robbie, this way,’ Pam says, smiling to him. ‘Grab my hand.’ For Robbie’s third birthday Pamela wants to start a tradition. Robbie follows along, kicking blades of grass and pebbles, not paying much attention.

  ‘Where, Mama?’

  ‘I told you, we’re going to visit Daddy.’ They walk to where my gravestone stands. It’s the one place I haven’t gone to with Pam prior to this. I haven’t been back here since my funeral and I can barely remember that; I was crying so much that it’s all a blur. But today is different; today, I decide to accompany them. It actually isn’t as bad as I thought. Depressing as hell, don’t get me wrong, but you know – when was the last time I wasn’t depressed?

  ‘Where is he, Mama?’

  ‘Well he’s right here … this is …’ she struggles to find the right way of saying it. ‘This is Daddy’s garden and this is where he lives under the ground, helping the flowers and grass to grow. And where he watches over you, helping you to grow.’

  Robbie looks down at the grass, confused. ‘Can he see me?’

  Pamela doesn’t believe it, but she looks down at Robbie, smiles and says, ‘Yes, he can see you.’

  Robbie waves at the ground, ‘Hi, Dadda.’

  Hey, buddy. If only Mammy knew that I can see you, that I’ll never leave you. That I’ll always be with you.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Pamela’s eyes fill up with tears and she wishes to Christ that things weren’t the way they are. How could everything have gone so wrong?

  I’m sorry, baby.

  ‘I like Dadda’s garden,’ Robbie declares.

  ‘You do? Good. Would you like to come back here?’ Robbie nods his head. ‘Well we can come back here any time you like. I wanted to bring you on your birthday because I know your dad would want to see you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I told you, honey, he’s here. You can’t see him, but he’s watching over you and wishing you a happy birthday and he’s very sorry he can’t share it with you.’

  The first of many birthdays I’ll miss. Fuck it, anyway – I can only imagine this getting harder.

  Pam takes another minute and watches Robbie run his finger along the engraving of my name on the headstone. He doesn’t know what it spells, of course; he just likes the feeling of the hollowed-out letters on the cold granite.

  ‘Okay, Robbie, let’s go – we’ll come back soon.’ Robbie looks kind of sad to leave. I like being here with them and don’t want him to go either. Pam takes his little hand and leads him away, down onto the path towards the gate entrance into the car park. I stay behind and watch them walk away, but just before my gravestone is out of view to them, my little boy turns and waves goodbye.

  ***

  Our house is full for his birthday party. Going to a kid’s birthday party was the last thing Brian and Tim felt like doing. They’d been on the piss the night before, so stepping out to the back garden and a bunch of screaming kids on a bouncy castle was the last thing they needed. Still, fair play to them, they showed up.

  ‘Hi, guys, thanks so much for coming.’

  Actually, scratch that – Orla is the last thing they need. Thanks for coming, she says; it’s not even her gaff.

  ‘Jesus Christ – he’s my bleedin’ nephew,’ both the lads think. ‘Hi, Orla,’ they say in unison.

  ‘How have you been keeping?’ As soon as Tim says that, Brian shoots him the stink eye and Tim knows that he’s made a mistake. Don’t get her started, the stink eye tells him.

  But it’s too late.

  Orla sighs. ‘Oh, you know me, Tim, never a dull moment. You’ve heard I’ve taken up dance?’

  ‘Right,’ says Tim.

  Brian takes a look around, spots Pam. ‘I’ll leave you two to it, I just need to say hello to Pam.’ Tim gives him a look like he might actually belt him.

  ‘You should come to one of our shows,’ Orla suggests.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘You’d love it. They’re really cool – not what you’d exp
ect at all from a modern dance troupe.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Tim says, meaning it as an involuntary fearful excla­mation, but Orla hears it as a question.

  ‘No, not at all. This next one we’re doing for example is all to Bob Dylan music!’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s called “The Lives of Bob Dylan” and it’s going to be a medley of his music from the sixties right up to when he went electric.’

  Tim remains mute.

  ‘And of course all the hippy vibe. And all through the expression of dance; there’s no dialogue.’

  ‘Very good,’ Tim mutters.

  Orla looks so excited that Tim begins to feel bad about his short answers. He decides to show some interest, ‘Eh, who do you play in it?’

  ‘Well, there aren’t really parts – we have a bunch of Bob Dylans to show his different styles, and I play fans and stuff along the way, but for the final number the whole cast is Bob, so I get to play him at the end.’

  Tim doesn’t overly listen to her answer – he’s eyeing up some chocolate donuts on the table – but hears enough to say, ‘Oh, that’s cool.’

  ‘Cheers. I’ll Facebook you when it’s on, be good to all hook up you know?’

  ‘Yeah definitely,’ Tim says with a fake conviction that surprises me with how genuine it sounds. Now, though, a look of pain emerges on his face as he struggles to find something to say. Poor bastard. He hates small talk. I did too. I mean, I fucking hated it. I was terrible at it as well. I often felt sorry for whatever poor prick was stuck small-talking with me because I’d give them nothing. I’d rather have awkward silences and have the conversation end quickly than the more socially acceptable bore-the-tits-off-each-other-type chats that could go on forever. It used to always be the weather that everyone small-talked about, which was bad enough, but at least the weather changed from time to time. When the recession hit, small talk reached an all-time low because nothing changed for years. I felt such joy when it ended, because I didn’t have to listen to any more of the same damn conversation every time I met some new fucking dummy:

  ‘Oh it’s very quiet out there, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everywhere’s the same.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I blame the radio.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘It’s all doom and gloom. People are afraid to spend money.’

  ‘……’

  ‘It’s the same all over. Do you know something? I think it’s worse it’s getting, not better.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up! Will you shut the fuck up, you dozy bastard! Do you think I haven’t heard those stupid points before over and over again? That you are the first person to come up with those ridiculous boring views? What’s more I don’t give a shit about your musings on whether or not it’s the same all over or whose fault it is. If you think it’s getting better or worse, who the fuck are you? You know nothing, piss off you fucking wanker!’

  Just once I would have liked to have said that. Anyway, at least in death I don’t have to make small talk.

  Tim mentions something about it being a nice day, then sees my parents arrive. ‘There’s my folks,’ he says and calls out, ‘Hi guys!’ with a big wave. He nearly knocks my dad over with a hug.

  ‘Hey, Tim, how are ya?’ Dad says with a smile.

  ‘Great. Hi, Mam.’ And he gives her a kiss.

  ‘Hi, Tim,’ my mam says happily, not quite understanding why he is so enthusiastic to see them. Then she turns to Orla. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ Tim grimaces as Orla looks about to start in on something again, ‘Oh, you know me, I can’t complain. As a matter of fact …’

  ‘Hi, folks!’ Pam interrupts with big hellos and hugs for my parents.

  Thank Christ for that, Tim thinks. ‘Hi, Pam, you look lovely,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks, Tim! You look like shit.’

  Tim laughs and tells everyone that he has been up all night. ‘Burning the candle at both ends,’ my dad says as he ruffles Tim’s hair as if he was a kid. ‘Young lads, they never learn.’

  I don’t know how many times I heard him say those exact words to me.

  The day is a success. Brian gets stuck in despite his hangover – throwing kids in and out of the bouncy castle and all that, children up on shoulders and stuff. So much so, in fact, that when one of the neighbourhood kids leaves, Brian overhears him ask his mother, ‘Can we get that clown again for my birthday?’ Little bollocks. There’s the usual puke in the bouncy castle incident that has all the kids screaming and nearly makes Pam puke herself as she cleans it up. It’s the mixed-in Monster Munch that really adds to the stink of the vomit – a completely new kind of horrible, but to Pam’s credit, she powers through.

  It’s good to see my parents happy for once. They spend most of the time playing with or watching Robbie. He’s such a lovely little boy, very gentle and calm – always with a slight grin on his face. He kicks a ball back and forth to my dad as my mam cheers every time his foot hits the leather. ‘Very good!’ she encourages. Robbie bursts out laughing, kicking it again as my dad does an over-exaggerated dive, as if he’s a goalkeeper struggling to make a save. I know it hurts them, in a way, to play with him, as he reminds them both so much of me. He looks just like me – the same milk-chocolate eyes matching his wispy, light-brown hair. He purses his full lips any time he concentrates on something, just like I used to do. He even has the same egg-shaped belly I had at that age.

  When Brian takes him to go on the bouncy castle, my parents stay sitting on the grass and smile at one another, each knowing what the other is thinking.

  ‘He’s a right little man,’ Dad says.

  ‘He just breaks my heart he’s so lovely,’ says my mam. ‘Can you believe he’s three already?’

  ‘I know, hard to believe.’

  ‘Do you remember when Chris rang us after he was born? He was so happy that he had a boy. He said he didn’t mind if it was a girl or a boy, but I knew deep down he wanted a son.’

  That’s true, but only because I felt I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl. It’s all boys in my family, so the idea of a little girl kind of scared me.

  ‘He did, he was over the moon. He kept bragging that he was going to be the soundest dad in the world. I believed him too, and he did turn out to be a fantastic father.’ My dad gets hit with a wave of anguish. His face goes red and he grits his teeth. Mam reaches out and puts her hand on top of his.

  ‘It’s okay, honey.’

  He grabs her hand tightly and glares ahead.

  I can feel the ball of anger and sorrow in my dad’s stomach; the not knowing what to do, the feeling of pain, of loss, feeling like somehow he has failed, let me down. Knowing that Danny Murray is alive and well and will soon enough be back on the streets living his life. How unfair it all is, feeling inadequate, like he should be able to do something. He worries for my boy and what his life will be like without a dad. He’s sorry for me and all that I will miss, and he feels sorry for himself because he simply misses me.

  ‘He looks so like him,’ he finally says.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it – he’s the absolute spit of him,’ my mam says with a smile.

  ‘He was a great man for kicking the ball around too. He should be here to do it with him.’

  Mam nods. ‘Yes, he should.’

  ‘What’s it going to be like for Robbie without his father?’

  My mam takes a minute and looks at Robbie as she speaks, ‘Christopher was a wonderful, wonderful dad and nothing will change that. But look at him in Brian’s arms – how safe he is. Or when he’s with Tim, how much he laughs. Nobody can make him laugh like Tim can. And when I look at him when he’s with you, that’s when I truly know that everything will be alright in his life. The love and generosity you show him is already beginning to shape him. You are the best man I know
and our three boys were so lucky to have you growing up, and now Robbie has you too.’

  Dad gives her a bewildered look. ‘I wasn’t all that.’

  ‘You were more. Robbie has no shortage of positive male role models in his life – you made sure of that.’

  Dad smiles. ‘Well, I think you had something to do with how the lads turned out as well, you know.’

  She laughs. ‘I sure did, and I’ll keep little Robbie on the straight and narrow too.’

  ‘I worry that’s all …’

  ‘I know, but don’t. Not about Robbie, anyway; he’ll be fine. He has nothing but love around him. And that’s it.’

  My dad looks back at my mam. ‘I know he does.’

  They watch Robbie laughing hysterically as Brian passes him down from the bouncy castle and into Tim’s arms. Tim purposely falls flat on his back as he raises Robbie above him. Robbie laughs even louder as he stretches out his whole body, arms and legs straight, his fists clenched to form the perfect Superman pose.

  38

  ‘Alrigh’ bud.’

  Danny hears the words but doesn’t bother looking up. He often sits alone on one of the few benches in the courtyard of Mountjoy. Nobody has said hello to him the entire time he’s been in prison, so naturally he assumes it isn’t directed at him. ‘Bud! What’s the craic?’ This time it’s a little louder and closer, so he glances up to see Wacko standing there, looking at him with a shit-eating grin that Steve Guttenberg would be proud of.

  ‘Alright,’ Danny says back.

  ‘Wacko, remember me?’

  ‘Yeah, course. The holding cell.’

  ‘Yeah, Johnner, isn’t it?’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Yeah. Do you have a smoke?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Danny has an uneasy feeling – something isn’t right. This guy hasn’t acknowledged his existence in months and now he’s being all buddy-buddy. He sits down beside him on the bench, causing Danny to shift slightly in his seat.