White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  “Luxury?” said Eban. It seemed a strange choice of word.

  “Indeed no… we are looking here at advanced disease affecting three of your vessels, and so I am recommending an immediate cabbage.” Mr Khan looked at him gravely.

  Eban was unsure he had heard properly. “You want me to eat cabbage?” he asked, incredulous.

  Mr Khan sat on the side of his desk and laughed.

  His belly wobbled somewhat over the top of his waistband.

  Eban didn’t see the funny side.

  He wondered about the man’s appetite for food cooked in ghee, and felt like asking him if he’d taken his own fucking examination.

  “Oh dear me… no… no,” he chuckled. “If only it were that easy…”

  “You did say ‘cabbage’?”

  “Yes… forgive me: Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting; CABG – in your case triple bypass surgery. We are going to take a saphenous vein from your thigh and lower leg and—”

  “Whoa, whoa… you mean open heart surgery!” blurted Eban.

  “Quite. Given your profile I am recommending that this take place as soon as possible. The sooner the better in fact. Could you go home and collect some toiletries, pyjamas and a dressing gown and return here?”

  Eban was horrified. “What?! No, no… don’t I get time to think about all of this?”

  Mr Khan seemed bemused. “There is usually a waiting list. Up to six months, but if it’s life-threatening we make an exception for—”

  “Back up! Back up a minute!”

  “Alright then… I can probably have you booked in for this weekend. In the meantime you should be careful not to exert yourself and avoid stressful situations.”

  He took out his prescription pad. “I am writing you a prescription for blood thinners, blood pressure tablets and cholesterol-lowering statins. You should have this filled and begin the course immediately.”

  Eban was in shock. “You’re kidding.”

  “Unfortunately no. Please check at admissions on your way out and they will inform you of protocols and take details of your next of kin.”

  “But I don’t have—”

  “The operation is routine but a major one and you will require a prolonged recovery period, so I suggest that you make arrangements to be absent from work and for post-surgery care.”

  “This weekend?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Four days from now?”

  Mr Khan was sensing denial. “You are in a high-risk category Mr Barnard. You should not be walking around. Talk it over with your wife.”

  Mr Khan’s mobile phone buzzed on vibrate again. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  Eban watched the man become engaged in a fairly heated conversation with someone on the other end.

  Whilst he could not understand what the cardiologist was saying, he was sure he registered the terms ‘Audi’ and ‘A5 Series’.

  The man’s head moved in the manner common amongst those from his subcontinent of origin. It tilted from side to side in little arcs and seemed to wobble like some toy dogs Eban had seen in the back of cars.

  Eban felt that he needed to get outside, get away from the hospital if he was to begin to percolate the information just imparted to him.

  In fact, what he needed more than anything else was a cigarette.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and found the door.

  Mr Khan continued his phone conversation, but on noticing Eban make to leave the room, held up a hand in an attempt to have him stay.

  Eban ignored him and left.

  The last words he recognised in English were “bloody bluetooth!”

  *

  He passed the busy admissions area, ignoring the instruction to register his intention to return as an inpatient later in the week.

  He felt lightheaded and strangely elated, but with an undertow of awful dread just below this that was somehow being kept in check for the moment.

  Then a sadness welled up in him and his eyes filled with tears.

  It was not the awfulness of the news that he had just received, or the prospect of his chest cavity being split open and his heart artificially stopped.

  It was in the reminder of his isolation.

  That he must face this ordeal alone.

  Brother Alex… Joe Breslin… those awful memories… they had been his constant companions for so long it seemed.

  Where were they now when he needed them?

  Next of kin? Post-surgery care? Talk it over with your wife? That’s a laugh!

  In the short walk into the open air, he had become intimately apprised of his heart’s behaviour in a way he’d never previously experienced.

  Of its every beat.

  Its frequency and rhythm.

  He was painstakingly watchful, listening for any indication that each beat would be his last. Anticipating the seizure that would strike him down.

  He would rather it happened here with all these people around.

  If he died alone…

  …in some stairwell…

  …or public toilet….

  …how sad was that?

  If a tree falls in the forest… he thought.

  The sky seemed darker than it had been for the time of day.

  Something about the clocks going back… or forward. He could never remember.

  The rain drifted in fine sheets. Donegal rain. Down from the north-west. Mizzle. The kind that somehow penetrated your outer garments and seeped in, leaving what seemed like a marrow-deep residue.

  He was half-considering the idea of abandoning himself to the fates.

  Walking away.

  Pretending like all of this had never happened.

  Just keep on keeping on… waiting for the big one.

  Should I make a will? he thought, and then laughed aloud at the thought.

  His Ulster Bank account held the princely sum of £635.

  His books, DVDs, records… who would want them?

  One thought pushed itself to the front of his mind.

  It had been there more or less constantly since his session with the HET.

  I have to speak with Joe Breslin.

  He was sure of it. To explain? To apologise? He didn’t know.

  Justice for Joe.

  It had a ring to it that any self-respecting human rights campaigner would have loved.

  A man’s wasted life summed up in a slogan.

  He thought briefly of proposing to Emily, and noticed that he was grinning widely to himself.

  It occurred to him that his reason had temporarily been misplaced.

  Mild hysteria might not be far behind.

  It’s in the lap of the gods, he thought to himself, and immediately began to hum some song of the same name. “Whoa, whoa, la, la, la… whoa!”

  He heard it escape his lips.

  He sang it aloud.

  He saw an elderly man in a dressing gown and slippers – on a Zimmer frame, supported by a relative – draw level with him.

  Some smokers standing outside the hospital’s sliding doors.

  An ambulance crew unloading a patient.

  All gave Eban a curious look.

  He sniggered to himself and sang louder.

  “It’s in the lap of the gods… Whoa, whoa, la, la, la… whoa!”

  50

  By 9.24pm, Joe accepted that Molly McArdle was not coming to tea.

  Anne had chided him for using the term ‘stood up’ but that’s what it was.

  Yes, she was correct in saying that any number of things might have caused the delay or cancellation of a cross-town journey for a blind woman and her guide dog.

  “Probably some perfectly good reason,” said his mother.

  Why not ring her mobile? He was not to fret.

  But following the conversation he’d had the previous day with Molly, Joe had already surmised that there was a problem.

  It had happened before with Delores, why wouldn’t it happen again?

  During their
sharing of his packed lunch – in what had become a regular ritual over these last few months – Joe had felt the time was right to open up to her.

  To explain about his past and what this would mean for his – their – future together.

  She had let him kiss her twice and had rested her hand on his inner thigh both times when assured that they were alone and the kids were preoccupied with their music practice in the main hall of the community centre.

  Joe was surprised by how passionate she was. Kissing him hard and long.

  Molly was younger than him.

  She deserved to know.

  “What… nothing at all?” she’d asked disbelievingly, when he’d explained.

  “That’s right, just smooth… just scar tissue. Everything was lost… or has gone up inside.”

  “But how do you… you know… pass water?”

  “There’s a… hole; a gap… like a woman. I use a tube thing when I need to go.”

  “That’s… terrible. Just… terrible,” she said, but he knew by the expression on her face that he’d lost her in that moment.

  “I can’t have kids… if that matters, I mean…”

  It had mattered to Delores.

  It was why, soon after he’d left hospital, she’d finished with him.

  He wondered whether blind people – not being able to see their own reflections in the mirror – were less able to hide the emotions on their faces.

  Still, he might be wrong.

  Molly’s own disability might in some way alleviate her revulsion and she might rise above it.

  It was secretly what he had been hoping for from the day and hour they first met.

  He liked to make up outcomes up in his head.

  Elaborate pictures of how things would be just so.

  But he couldn’t stop himself from seeing the flip side as well.

  The detailed stage set in his mind, where his apprehensions and fears were also played out in clear aspect.

  He believed that the two scenarios warred with one another for preeminence, and whatever image prevailed, then that would make it so.

  So he had to think hard… really hard.

  Standing at his bedroom window looking down into the street below him, he envisioned again the special taxi pulling up.

  The driver jumping out ahead, sliding back the door.

  Keano the golden Labrador bounding out before her.

  And Molly being taken by the hand and then orientating herself with the dog and harness. Patting her hair and smoothing down her clothes in anticipation of meeting the family he had spoken so much to her about.

  Now, try as he might to make this much-anticipated image become flesh and blood, only a solitary junk mail jockey in a baseball cap came through the rain to the threshold of 22 Rosapenna Street that evening.

  Downstairs, he knew Anne and his mother would be sitting in silence. Neither acknowledging their worst fears.

  He’d had to work hard on keeping up appearances.

  To hide his feelings.

  Had to scrub the recliner with disinfectant before they got home, telling the women he’d spilled a mug of tea there.

  By now they would have set the table for their guest. Sandwiches; egg salad; cheese and ham; tuna. Fresh cream pastries.

  A bowl of water for Keano as instructed.

  He couldn’t face his family.

  Didn’t know what to say.

  Some ‘man of the house’ he was.

  *

  The day had started badly.

  Three policemen were waiting in a car outside the house when he’d arrived home early from work to prepare for Molly’s visit.

  They explained to him that it was about the investigation into his assault all those years ago.

  They didn’t wear uniforms.

  Joe made it clear that he did not want to talk about all of that.

  That he saw no point any more.

  But they had insisted, and he had brought them into the house at their adamant prompting.

  His mother had gone out for the buns and such and Anne was at work, so he did what he thought was best and let them in.

  Two of the officers sat with him talking and making notes, while the third excused himself to go to the toilet but didn’t return right away.

  Joe could hear the boards creaking above them in his room as the hefty man moved around up there.

  He complained that they should come back when his sister was there. She dealt with all the official stuff.

  Eventually the man returned.

  Joe noticed how big he was… like a giant. And how angry-looking.

  Just staring at him all the while. Scowling at him.

  He sat on their couch making it look tiny, red in the face, saying nothing whilst the others questioned Joe.

  Did he remember anything from that night?

  What had he been doing on the Shankill Road?

  Could he identify his attackers?

  Could he recall any names being mentioned?

  Joe said he remembered nothing.

  That it was all a very long time ago.

  The ogre arose slowly and went to stand behind Joe’s chair.

  His entire body went limp and he dared not look behind him.

  He felt sure that the big man’s hand was hovering claw-like above his head.

  About to rip the very scalp from his skull.

  The rest of the men got up to leave. They were laughing.

  He thought he heard someone say, “Fuckin’ eunuch.”

  They seemed to defer to the big man.

  “Have you heard enough, Fish?”

  *

  Joe did not see them out when they left.

  Instead he poured all his concentration into registering nothing at all.

  No fear or recognition or shock.

  Showing no emotion.

  Nothing.

  Focused on staring dead ahead.

  Just sitting there in his mother’s recliner in abject terror as the hot piss pooled underneath him.

  51

  To say that Emily was surprised at Eban’s unexpected request that the two should journey together to Portstewart and Portrush was an understatement.

  The urgency and enthusiasm that he’d shown for the trip away was unlike anything else she’d ever witnessed in all the time she’d known him.

  It completely countered her initial reservations concerning taking time off work at such short notice, but did not undermine entirely the feeling that – despite occasional couplings – they had been growing apart from one another to the point of becoming little more than casual acquaintances.

  ‘Fuck buddies’ was apparently the term younger people used.

  She didn’t like it, or the validation of the principle in general.

  To this end she insisted that she would feel better if the B&B they stayed in together provided single beds.

  Eban appeared taken aback by this, even a little hurt, but he assured her that separate sleeping arrangements would be the understanding if she so wished.

  Rosemary Payne seemed disgruntled when she heard the news, believing any rapprochement between her two fellow housemates represented a dire backward step for Emily and an opportunistic snatch at carnal satisfaction for Eban Barnard.

  Pascal Loncle wished them bon voyage in what seemed a genuine enough felicitude, but was particularly exercised in securing assurances from both – on more than one occasion – that they would be back by Sunday evening, when he expected them in attendance at a significant ‘bash’ to be thrown in his room.

  Intrigued, as they had never been deemed suitable guest material before, they assured him that they would both be in attendance.

  On Eban’s request, Emily hired a small Nissan Micra car for the trip.

  Determined not to be taken advantage of in any sense, she made a point of telling Eban how much his side of the tab came to. To her surprise he produced the cash immediately and paid her for the full amount despite her protestati
ons.

  “My idea, my trip, my treat,” was his response.

  *

  On their short passage to the coast she listened while he talked about how much he loved that part of the world and how we all should do more with our time when we had the chance.

  She ascertained that there was clearly something preoccupying him, for despite an outward air of breezy good humour, he had used the terms, ‘The clock is ticking’, ‘It’s later than you think’ and ‘You only live once’ a number of times.

  The coastal town of Portstewart had grown exponentially since Eban had first visited as a boy.

  The result of the University of Ulster locating in nearby Coleraine and the upsurge in avaricious property developers overreaching themselves with holiday home provision.

  Out of season the town maintained a busy enough frisson, thanks in large amount to the off-campus student body and faculty members who had located there.

  At this time of year, the sea thundering in from the North Atlantic could be breathtakingly awe-inspiring and sat in dramatic juxtaposition to the quaint, well-tended shop fronts and civic gardens.

  Almost annually there were drownings.

  Reports of drunken students – habitually male – exiting from a session at the Sea Splash Hotel (aptly named) and venturing out onto the rocks for a better view of the colossal waves which hammered down, throwing spray and suds out over the roads and footpaths.

  The currents and tows were pitiless.

  When a body was eventually recovered, it invariably was weeks – sometimes months – later, and likely it washed up bloated in Donegal Bay or some other coastal inlet miles away in the Republic.

  The holiday town of Portrush was some three miles further on down a windy, twisting stretch of coast road used for the yearly Motorcycle 200 races.

  Established for many years as a popular destination for ‘townies’ from Belfast to vacation, Portrush maintained something of the ‘kiss-me-quick’, ‘dodgems and big dipper’ ambiance that had made it so popular in its heyday.

  But out of season, the town felt old and tired.

  Sea salt eroded metal fairground attractions and scarred and pockmarked the garish signs offering fish and chips and free shots with every pint.

  Wind and rain whipped through the empty rides, rattling chains and clanking metal seats against their housings.