The hunger, fear, misery, cold … it shouldn’t be too hard to conjure up those feelings. Especially not if this bloody weather got any worse.
I continued working for another twenty minutes, then had enough and decided to blow the gaff. En route to the exit I checked out a few books, an obese lady with a sweet smile doing the needful, bipping them through the security-tag scanner, stamping the date in royal-blue ink. I gazed around lazily, waiting for her to finish, and noticed the handsome man who dabbled at being an academic riffling through a stand of ancient yellowing newspapers fixed to a steel pole.
I said, really thinking out loud, ‘Wonder who he is … ?’
The librarian looked up. ‘Pardon me?’
‘Uh, the man over there. Going through the old papers. Sorry, I just haven’t seen him before.’
She took a good look then went back to her work. ‘Mr Kinvara? He’s often in here. A real scholar, that one.’ She smiled, handing over my books. ‘Some of the books he takes out, I’d say he’s the first person to read them since they were published. Ancient old manuscripts, they’re practically falling apart. Good job we kept them, all the same. Maybe all these old things are coming back into fashion. Now, that’s you done.’
I thanked her and strolled off, glancing over at the man, now reading one of the pages intently. The famous Mr Kinvara – our resident James Bond, with his presumed wealth and old Victorian pile and taste for classic cars. I wondered how my dad had got on working for him; he didn’t say, I didn’t ask. ’Twas always thus between fathers and sons, and always thus would be.
I trotted down the steps outside, thinking, should have told Kinvara who I was. Carefully, carefully: it was hazardous outside, a film of ice making every surface slippery. I couldn’t get over how cold it was. Temperatures now remained below zero all the time, around minus two during the day and down to minus ten at night. This, in Ireland. Heavy snowfall every day for several days. It was unprecedented, according to TV climatologists.
The worst Big Chill since, it so happened, the winter of 1851. How’s that for coincidence?
Even stranger, they reported, was that the cold snap was unusually localised: basically, our town and its hinterland. We were situated in a funny spot anyway – as I said, hemmed in by the sea, forest and mountains – which I presumed had created some kind of microclimate or whatever they call it. I didn’t know the causes – I didn’t care. I just wanted it to warm the hell up. My fingers were turning an angry blue already, starting to hurt, and I’d only just left the building.
Turning towards home, I saw one of my former tormentors, a fat girl called Clara, staring into space outside a closed-up record store called Music Sounds Better With You, after that song. She looked a bit freaked over something, muttering and pressing one hand to her head. A cigarette was perilously close to her hair, and with all that peroxide it’d go up like a fireworks display, but I wasn’t feeling very charitable towards her. At first I thought she was speaking into a phone but as I got nearer I saw there was no phone and Clara was talking to herself: ‘Who – who are you? What do you want? Get … how are you doing this? This isn’t … it’s not funny. Go away. Go away go away go awaaaaay.’
Whatever. I didn’t stop to ask what was wrong – screw her. I continued on, past a little park, bag swinging on my shoulder, thinking about Sláine. I hadn’t heard from her since the start of the week, that Monday night. I’d woken up in bed the next morning and checked my lips in the mirror to see if her kiss had left any mark. Maybe something, there on the bottom lip – was that a slight bruise … ?
Since then, not a word. I wasn’t massively offended by this – I figured she’d contact me when she was ready – but it annoyed me. I was impatient. I wanted to see her again. And a whisper in my mind made me the tiniest bit afraid: what if I didn’t? What if something had happened to her?
Ha. Something happened to her? What exactly, genius, do you think might have happened to a girl who was already dead? Sláine was going to get more dead, and this would stop her being able to talk to you?
I shook my head, laughing at myself. Then I turned a corner and bumped into John Rattigan. Oh no.
A can of beer jumped in his hand, splashed his coat and fell to the ground. Rattigan followed its flight with a look of shock and dismay that would have been endearing in anyone else. He muttered, ‘Huh?’ and glared up at me, the old anger and aggression abruptly back in place, his eyes bloodshot from cans already drunk.
When he clocked who it was, the look of shock returned for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe a maggot like me had dared to knock his drink away. If I’d done it on purpose, I wouldn’t have believed it either. As it was, it had been a total accident, no fault on my part. And though I knew concepts like logic and fairness didn’t hold much sway with Rattigan, I felt obliged to point this out anyway.
‘Sorry about your beer. It was an accident.’
I held my palms up in a show of peace. That only stoked the rage inside him further. Shock got pushed off his face for the second time, aggression returning again. That bastard’s ugly mug was having a real emotional tug-of-war today.
Rattigan spluttered, ‘You – you – clumsy asshole. Look what you did.’
‘I said it was an accident, all right?’
I made to move past. His arm shot out and stopped me.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ he said. ‘The dipshit you are, can’t even watch where you’re going. Who else would it be but the Carnival Boy?’
I didn’t reply. A small crowd had stopped to watch, shoppers and construction workers, kids with their mothers; even a hunched old crow, wings tucked back, leaning forward as though listening in. Everyone was keeping their distance: they all knew Rattigan’s reputation as a thug – nobody wanted to get involved.
He went on, ‘Moping around like a little faggot. What’s this?’ He grabbed my bag with his other hand, keeping the first one on my chest. ‘In the library, were you? The faggot spending his Saturday reading. Jesus Christ. No wonder your girl left you for that knacker of a carnie. The only thing I don’t get is why a fine bird like that was going with a mopey little puke like you in the first place.’
He flung my bag to the ground. Stupid Aidan, you left the top untied – books and sheaves of loose paper spilled onto the ice in almost geometric patterns.
Rattigan stepped back and smiled, as if to say, ‘Well, what do you think of that?’
I thought of a few weeks ago, when he’d punched me in the face just because he was an ignorant Neanderthal and got the notion to do it and I was too weak to stop him. I thought of all the times he’d made me feel pathetic and afraid. I thought of Sláine, what she’d said about my life being worth more than any of those ‘vindictive babies’.
And I had a realisation, it washed over me like a blast of fresh air: in most cases, other people only have power over you if you let them. They can strike or tease or ignore you, yes. But their power over you is dependent on your acceptance of it. Once you stop giving a shit, they’ve got nothing.
I realised that I’d stopped giving a shit about John Rattigan. He had nothing. And he was nothing.
So I said it to him: ‘You’re nothing, Rattigan.’
He stared at me, boggly eyed, incredulous. Before he could speak I continued, ‘You’re nothing. You’re a bully and a cretin. You’re scum. You are nothing, and you offer nothing. You’re a waste of oxygen and a drain on society. If you were to drop dead right now, you know what everyone in this town would do? They’d celebrate. They’d throw a big party and celebrate. Then they’d forget you ever existed, because you’re nothing, and who remembers nothing? Now take your filthy hands off me.’
To my amazement, he complied. Probably to his own amazement too, if he gave it any thought, and the amazement of everyone watching – they stood open-mouthed, motionless. I couldn’t believe that I was saying all this stuff either, but there it was, pouring out of me. It was almost like someone else had taken control of my mind and w
as using my tongue. But no, it was me, the real me. Some newfound courage was making me face up to him. Making me honest and unafraid.
‘Yeah, I was in the library,’ I went on. ‘Know why? Because I’m a human being with a brain that I like to use from time to time. I’m not an animal, Rattigan, like you. In ten years I’ll be doing some job that you won’t even understand what it is, living far away from this kip. But you’ll still be here, still stupid, still acting like an animal. Drinking cans in the park and trying to prove how tough you are. What a great future you have to look forward to.’
I heard one of the workmen chuckling, probably happy to see Rattigan get what was coming to him, finally. For the first time, I looked him right in the eyes; and for the first time, Rattigan looked away. He couldn’t hold the stare.
I said, ‘All you have is brute strength and the willingness to use it. That’s all you have, and all you are. I know you can beat me up, you’re stronger than me. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a shitty person, nobody likes you, and hopefully you’ll be dead soon so we can have that party I was talking about. Okay? So I’m going now. Take it easy, jerk-off.’
I turned to leave. He looked in shock again. I was pretty sure that was going to win the tug-of-war; aggression had slinked away for good. Rattigan muttered, ‘I should … should bust your bloody teeth out for … talking to me like that … ’
‘If that’s what you need to do, Johnny boy, knock yourself out. Knock me out, I can’t stop you. Won’t change a goddamn thing. You’ll still be a supreme asshole. Still be nothing. You’ll always be nothing.’
I left him, hunched, staring at the ground, his lips moving as he tried to process what had just happened. I wasn’t fully sure myself. I crouched and picked up the books and things that fell from my bag; a little old lady hobbled over and helped, smiling kindly. I smiled back and said, ‘Thanks.’
And I nodded and smiled to the crowd around us as I stood, now separating and returning to their lives – it was all smiles today. Including the man from the library, Kinvara. He must have left soon after me. He grinned mischievously, tipped his finger off his forehead in salute and said, ‘Bravo.’ I gave a little bow.
Kinvara added, ‘From the Latin. Look it up.’
I said back, ‘I will.’
One of the children smiled at me too, as if I was his big hero, and I wondered if he was a victim of bullying. So many poor kids getting hassled; it was always the way. But for once, I wasn’t one of them. For once I had the power.
I walked off with a light step, heart pumping, head buzzing, a surge of energy through my whole body. It felt like I was being lit up from inside with a thousand electric lights.
Then I burst out laughing. Holy crap. You just owned John Rattigan. What the hell’s going on with you, man?
I felt pure happiness, an adrenaline shot, boom, straight to the heart. I only wished I’d done it months ago. Although maybe I couldn’t have. Maybe I was only now rediscovering the strength inside me. Becoming a different person.
I heard a voice behind me, aged but not weak, medium-pitch. It was the old dear who’d helped me gather my things off the snow. Once more she hobbled towards me – it sounds like the start of a literally lame joke – held out her hands and gestured for me to give her mine. She took my fingers and looked deep into my eyes. Her own seemed a bit funny, gone blooey, very distant, as if she were high on something. I smiled self-consciously, wondering what this was all about. But I kind of already knew.
The old lady said, ‘Now look at your hand.’
She left and I looked down. There was writing on it. Tiny veins under my skin had redirected the blood, filled themselves with it, which made them rise up and form words.
Sláine was doing this. It wasn’t really happening, I was hallucinating, yet it was as real as anything I’d ever experienced.
‘I think you’re ready to know what happened,’ the words read. ‘How I died.’
How I Died
‘Another cool trick this afternoon, by the way. You’re building up a real repertoire, Sláine. You could go on stage, put on a magic show.’
‘Oh?’ she said vaguely, pretending not to know what I meant.
‘With that old lady. Hypnotising her or whatever you did. It was good, I was impressed.’
She smiled. ‘I aim to please.’
‘Were you nearby?’
‘Mmm … sort of. In spirit, let’s say.’
Two wine glasses clinked as I placed them on the table in the hunting lodge. I’d pinched them from home. I was sure my mother wouldn’t mind – they were cheap old things, though free of cracks. It was past midnight on Saturday, Shook Woods was frozen and motionless, Sláine was sitting on the bed and me on a stool, and we were talking. Or rather, not yet talking about the big issue. Her death. I didn’t want to force it so decided to go along with the flow of conversation, wherever she wished it to travel.
She had prettied up the place further: a large colourful rug covering half the floor, a Picasso print in a frame on the wall, even some sprigs of holly in a vase on the table. An ashtray for me, some toilet roll if I felt the call of nature. There was also a gas heater, giving off a lovely warming glow. I couldn’t begin to guess where she’d got this stuff; it didn’t matter. The whole world had been reduced to this stone-and-wood shack, the two of us in one moment, and that was all that counted.
Sláine somehow knew about my researches into the Famine, although not exactly what I had found out. How? I don’t know. By this stage, nothing about that girl came as a surprise. I just accepted it as the way things were, the way she was.
She leaned against the wall, getting comfortable on the bed. Interestingly, she had a physical presence, in that she didn’t fall through the wall – she wasn’t a ghost in the traditional sense. Yet at the same time, the mattress didn’t depress under her, the blankets weren’t shifted or scrunched; Sláine had no weight, as such. She kind of floated on that bed, as light as a pillow feather.
I gave her a quick precis of my discoveries that afternoon and she said, ‘Actually I knew that already. About my family fleeing for survival, and William John staying behind. But it’s an odd coincidence – I didn’t know until recently. I started researching the family history during the summer. For no reason. It was just something I felt … compelled to do. You know what I mean? Nothing to do with college or anything. I just had an urge to know.’
‘Sure. I mean I don’t really know – I have exactly zero interest in tracing my family tree. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass if they were all a pack of murderers and rum smugglers.’
‘I used to feel like that. Didn’t interest me at all. But last summer, yeah … Soon after the Leaving. I was at a bit of a loose end anyway, no summer job lined up – that’s probably why.’
‘Well, at least it was pretty cool material,’ I said. ‘The Famine, like it’s awful but fascinating too. And your guy, the ancestor? He was an interesting character.’
Sláine looked at the low ceiling, cobwebs stretching across corners like supports in a tiny suspension bridge.
‘He was … It must have been unusual, their relationship. Eleanor – my great-great-whatever grandmother – she was poor, relative to William John McAuley. He owned a shop and land, which I suppose made you rich for those times. She wasn’t from absolute poverty, but they would have been small farmers, like tenants of someone else. I think it was a step down in social class.’
‘So McAuley, he sounds fairly forward-thinking for that time?’
‘Yep. And he was very well educated, apparently. Had a room full of books in his house, a whole library really. He read all the time, everything and anything. He was famous for it. Probably infamous, ha! “That weirdo McAuley, what’s he wasting his time with all those books for?”’
‘Ugh. People were so dumb back in those days.’
‘He was into all sorts of stuff. This’s according to family lore, you know. History, philosophy, eastern religions, astrology, Classical
civilisation, Celtic civ … Even things like witchcraft, seances, mediums, all this far-out stuff. Different cults, old gods, like the old Irish gods? The river gods or whatever. That’s what people used to say.’
‘Ouija boards are such horseshit, aren’t they? They never work. Sorry, that’s a totally irrelevant statement. I’m sorry, carry on.’
Sláine smiled. ‘Anyway, his wife and kids survived the Famine and eventually returned to town and found him … dead, missing, who knows. Dead, I suppose. They inherited his property, his land, the business … And here we remain.’
We were still dancing around it, the reason she’d summoned me. Sláine had said she’d tell me how she died, as much as she understood it. But she hadn’t broached the subject yet. She didn’t even explain why there’d been no contact for several days. All she said was, ‘I needed to rest … I was very tired. I needed time to rest.’
What was that supposed to mean? Did dead people really ‘need to rest’? Sláine admitted that she didn’t sleep any more, so what did she mean by ‘rest’? Chillax in front of the telly with the feet up, a cup of tea and a few fags? Somehow I couldn’t picture that cosy little scene taking place here in gloomy Shook Woods.
Of course Sláine didn’t stay in the forest, though, did she? This was her home but she could travel other places as well. And she’d ‘brought’ me home, somehow, twice. I wondered where else she’d been since becoming what she was now. Could she enter properties besides my house, or was this – our friendship, relationship, whatever – making it possible? I debated whether to ask, then decided to switch gears by telling her about the Rattigan incident instead.
She listened to my story, then said, ‘How did it make you feel? To do that.’
I laughed. ‘Gee, I’m not sure I’m comfortable going there just yet, Doctor Freud. Maybe another few sessions on the couch first. Maybe you could get a couch first.’
Sláine frowned at me, almost maternal, and I remembered again how much older than me she often seemed. She said, ‘Don’t hide behind sarcasm. I’m not a psychiatrist and you know that. I’m just – interested in you.’
Shiver the Whole Night Through Page 9