by John Lynch
I tried to get her to touch me, just like he did and for a moment she co-operated with me, her hand reaching down between my legs.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’
She withdrew her hand and rolled away from me, her arms wrapped around her body, forming a tight barrier against any further intrusion. I lay on my back looking up at the stars. I could hear her crying, her sobs rising violently from her body.
I didn’t know it then but that night my sister fled from me. She cut her body free of mine and she ran. She walled up the rooms in her heart that we used to play in. Never again would we share the same torn ground, or look out on our lives with one pair of eyes.
I think of my job, how it used to thrill my heart to see my students make headway, to grasp the words on the pages of the books in front of them. I think of Boyle’s face as he fired me, of the smugness I saw, of the way his hands were joined on the desk in front of him, as if to say this is it, O’Rourke, there is no second chance. I didn’t like the pleasure he took in sacking me, but then what did I expect? I was everything he abhorred, a spark in the dry grass of his predictable mind.
I look at the fields surrounding the house and for a moment I think I see my father’s shape break the back of the hill and behind him I’m sure I see the scurrying shape of a small boy, his feet trying to make up the distance between them, in his hands the carcasses of two rabbits. I think of my son and the fear I have put in his eyes, of the terror that I slipped to him while he slept. I know I am lost, and the pig in me wants the same for those who follow after me. Yet there is still the child inside me who begs for the fairytale, because on all sides the dark sings to him of the coldness of things.
The Sign of the Cross
I’m trying not to look. I know that it’s dangerous and that something has been awakened in me. I am drunk. My sister had made me swear not to drink, she told me that this was my last chance; I said that I understood and made the sign of the cross over my heart. I am babysitting my two nieces while Seamus and my sister have a night on the town. It is at least three bottles of wine ago since they left.
She had crept out of bed and had been watching me for a while.
I didn’t notice her until now. She is naked and she is crying. She tells me that monsters are in her bedroom, that she can see them moving the curtains and playing in the dark. She can hear them laughing. Her name is Mary and she is my sister’s eldest.
I look at her, at her small body and her hairless sex and something stirs in me. I notice her nipples, how brown and soft they look. She wants me to come to her bedroom with her. There is something in her eyes that draws me; it’s a purity that I have long since lost. I want to steal it from her, to have it for myself.
I can’t look at her anymore because I am afraid of what is forming in my mind, so I tell her to go back to bed, that there were no such things as monsters. She tells me she can’t because she has wet the bed, that’s why she has no pyjamas on, she needs some fresh ones and the bed needs to be changed.
‘Fuck,’ I say.
‘Don’t say that. It’s a bad word,’ she says.
‘I know it is . .’.
I can’t leave her standing there. I ask her where her mother keeps her pyjamas.
‘In the press,’ she says.
I stand. I can feel her watching me.
‘You’re drunk,’ she says.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Shut up,’ she says.
It takes me by surprise how grown-up she sounds, then I realise that she’s parroting her mother.
‘Go and get your jim-jams…’
‘Pyjamas,’ she says very primly.
‘Yes, yes, whatever you say.’
I watch as she walks to the hot press in the hall, and notice how white her skin is, like a winter moon. I can see my sister’s body in hers, the long back, the small peach-like behind. I go upstairs calling to her to fetch some fresh sheets. When she arrives, she is still naked and is clutching some sheets and a pair of pyjamas to her chest. I tell her to dress herself.
‘You have to do it,’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘Because Mummy does it.’
I kneel in front of her. I can smell milk and the sweet breath of her youth. It calls to me, it tells me to taste it. I hold the bottoms out in front of me and have to force myself to look away as she gets into them.
Then I hold the top out and tell her to put her head through, as she does so I feel her hair brush against my face. As her head comes up her eyes meet mine.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks me.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say.
‘You look funny.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, like Spiderman when he’s been bitten.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you tired?’
‘Bit…I’m afraid of the monsters.’
‘I know.’ I say.
I push the hair back from her forehead and look deeply into her eyes. My fingers are on the down of her cheek, I run them along the line of her jaw. She is so trusting, I think, so open and caring, so new.
‘Mummy says you’re sad.’
‘Does she?’
‘Yes.’
My hands have moved to her neck. I am frightened; I can feel the desire stirring in me. This is what he felt, I think, this is what he saw. I remember the bottle of wine downstairs and know that I must get to it, put it to my head and kill the devil that has begun to dance in my brain.
‘I’m lonely,’ I say to her. ‘Do you know how lonely I am?’
Spilled
My sister is looking at me. She has been watching me for a while; I can tell by the way her arms are folded as if she is waiting for a bus that is always late. My eyelids are heavy and my head hurts as if someone had spent the night banging it with a hammer. I try and smile but I can tell from the expression on Ciara’s face that it will do no good.
‘Get yourself together and meet me in the kitchen. We have to talk.’
I squint into the light that is streaming through the window of the living room. I am lying on the small goatskin rug in front of the fire. Wine has been spilled on it. I curse myself and begin to stand. It takes a moment or two.
‘I would love a coffee,’ I say but I get no response.
I try and remember the night before but nothing will come, all I feel is the pounding of my head. I am angry at myself for drinking again and I know that my sister is too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her know that I am. I see the wine bottles on the coffee table; one of them is half drunk so I reach for it.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
I look up to see Ciara standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen.
‘Get yourself in here.’
I join her in the small kitchen; she doesn’t say anything but makes me a black coffee and dumps it down in front of me. She waits until I have taken a few sips before she speaks again.
‘What did I say to you?’
‘I don’t know, what did you say to me?’
‘Don’t play bloody games with me, Gabriel.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh I can see that, Gabriel. You’re rushed off your feet. I mean what with having no job to go to anymore. No home, no wife. You’re living a packed life, aren’t you?’
‘Fuck off, Ciara.’
‘What did you say to me?’
‘You heard.’
‘I told you, Gabriel.’
‘Told me what exactly?’
‘That this was your last chance.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And it was. I want you out of here.’
‘You mean Seamus does.’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? Take a good look at yourse
lf. You had everything…everything…’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘I’ve taken advice. People have been helping me.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And they say that the best way to help you is to throw you out. Tough love they call it. That it’s you and only you who can sort this out when you’ve gone down far enough.’
‘What people?’
‘People. Experts.’
I look at her and there is amusement in my eyes because I know that it will annoy her. I don’t give a fuck, I feel like saying, but the coffee has made me feel a bit better and I don’t want to distress things further.
‘What happened last night?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With Mary?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘She was in different pyjamas.’
‘So?’
‘Seamus thinks that…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So you want me out?’
For a moment she doesn’t say anything but stares down at her hands, when she looks at me again there are tears in her eyes.
‘Yes.’
Days Like People
I can’t remember how long it is since I stood outside in the air. Days have become like the people I have known, one fading and blending into the other so that I can no longer tell which is which. They have let me sit by the window, so I can see the grounds. It is morning and the world is hung on long curtains of mist. It makes everything look ghostly and half formed. My head feels heavy and I have to prop it up with my hands as I lean on the windowsill. My shaking has stopped; I noticed it this morning when I woke. I was calm as I lay in the bed and looked at the white ceiling above me, something I’ve not been for a while. They’re still drugging me, it has to be this way, or otherwise the demons will begin digging at my flesh again. I was moved to a small ward yesterday. Moira came to say goodbye to me and said that her work was done and that she was handing me over to another part of the hospital. I liked her, she had a sense of humour, tough to sustain in a place like this.
For the first time in a long time I feel safe, and part of me wants to stay here forever, sectioned from life and its pain, dressed in a gown, pumped full of medication and held by these blank, anonymous walls that surround me.
My legs are bare and they stick out beneath me like toothpicks. I see the scars and bruises on them and wonder how they got there. I try to say my name, but it takes me a moment to remember it and when I do it slips away again, like those trout I used to watch in the stream by my house. I look around, a woman shuffles past me and smiles at me, she shows me all her teeth when she does it. It disturbs me for a second, but then I relax and give her a little wave. A man sits by a television set in the corner, his hair is wild and unruly and his shoulders are hunched up around his neck. He is rocking slightly and shouting every time his team gets the ball. He must have felt me watching him because he turns round and gives me a stare as if to say what are you looking at? I shrug, he doesn’t scare me; I’ve been in tighter spots. I can’t stop yawning. I see a man across the lawn that lies in front of the building; he is raking leaves, piling them high and then dumping them into black bin bags which he has trouble controlling in the brisk wind. I watch as they flap around his body like big black tongues.
They told me that I will have an assessment this afternoon. A woman nurse came into the ward and sat on the end of my bed and smiled and patted the shape of my feet. She had a small tight smile, well rehearsed, and no bigger than it needed to be.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. You look a little better.’
‘Right.’
‘My name is Bridget.’
I remember looking at her and thinking that I could love her. Her hair is a dirty blonde colour and her eyes have that patience that comes from sitting and watching people in pain, the same look that my sister has.
‘I’m…’
‘I know it’s tough. It’s a tough time. It seems you went on quite a journey…’
‘I suppose.’
‘Here, take these.’
She holds out three little pills. I look at her for a moment before reaching out for them.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Here in this ward?’
I nod.
‘Just overnight. We moved you in here yesterday evening. Before that you had your own little room for a while. Do you remember?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve been pretty sick…’
‘Right.’
Yes, I could fall in love with her, with her measured humanity and her tight-uniformed body.
‘Anyway, Doctor Garland will go through all that with you as will Doctor Burke. Until then rest. And if you want you can go into the recreation ward and smoke or read. Whatever you want to do.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I told you – Bridget.’
‘Right. You did.’
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you those.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s policy.’
I don’t say anything but look away. She leans into me and whispers softly in my ear.
‘Have faith, Gabriel.’
I nod. I want to believe her, I really do but there is a fear in me that I’m not sure will ever leave. I look at her as she walks away, just before the ward doors she turns and smiles at me.
The sun is trying to burst free of the clouds. I watch for a moment as the light ignites the sky then I roll a cigarette, leaning my head against the windowpane as I do. I can feel the damp on my forehead. I think of the conversation with Bridget earlier that morning, and wonder about the assessment. I know that I have been in a strange country peopled with my own fears. What will happen when they stop drugging me, when I no longer have these chemicals in my body soothing me, telling me that everything will be alright.
‘Hi.’
I look up and a young woman is standing in front of me. Her hair is unkempt and parts of it lie across her face. Her eyes have a hunger to them; she reminds me of a small animal who hasn’t eaten for days.
‘Hi.’
‘My name is Josey.’
‘Josey?’
‘Yes, it’s short for Josephine.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Josephine.’
‘Likewise. Mr…?’
‘Gabriel. I think.’
‘Like the angel.’
‘Yes, like the angel. I suppose so…’
‘Do you have a spare one?’
‘What?’
‘Cigarette?’
‘Yeah of course. Please.’
I give her my tobacco and watch as she rolls her fag. I see her wrists and the long scars on them, thin and ugly and the colour of milk. She notices and turns away slightly, hiding her hands from me. She is painfully thin.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
She blushes and looks down. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and white sneakers, they’re stained and more grey than white.
‘I see they let you have your own clothes.’
‘Yeah.’
‘They won’t give me mine.’
‘It takes a while. They have to be sure that you won’t make a run for it.’
‘Oh I see…’
‘It took two weeks the last time for me.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Yeah, a couple of times. You?’
‘No, first time.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Well…I don’t know about that.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’
‘Anyway I don’t know how much use my clothes would be to me. They were pretty fucked, I think. I’d been living in them for a while.’
‘Oh they have gear. You know…They’re used to people coming in, you know, off the streets and stuff.�
�
‘Right.’
‘You have very sad eyes.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Sad and big.’
‘So do you.’
‘Yeah, I know. I suppose we all do in here. We all have sad eyes.’
No Bounce
‘Is there any bounce in the situation?’
‘What?’
‘Bounce…Give…’
‘No, Gabriel. I’m sorry, there’s no bounce.’
‘Just a tenner. A fiver…’
‘No.’
‘Come on…’
‘No. Not anymore. No.’
‘Please.’
‘Don’t beg, Gabriel. Don’t beg.’
‘What else am I supposed to do?’
‘Get help.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘We have it all set up. There’s a place that will take you and you can rest. You can get well.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re far from fine. Gabriel?’
‘What?’
‘Where are you?’
‘It’s not important.’
I know that she is on the point of cracking, I can hear it in her voice. I stand there in the phone box hoping that she does before my small change runs out. I try and nudge her, to get her to relent.
‘Please, Ciara. Please, Ciara. This is the last time I swear. I swear…’
‘Gabriel. This is Seamus.’
‘How are you?’
‘Alright.’
‘Right.’
I know now that my chance has gone. I should hang up and keep what dignity I have left intact, but I don’t.
‘Seamus, I’m stuck for a…’
‘I know what you’re stuck for, Gabriel.’
‘Can I trouble you for a…’
‘No.’
‘Is that your final word, Seamus?’
‘It’s my last and final word, Gabriel. Don’t call here again.’
I stand there for a good few minutes after he hangs up, the phone receiver held out from my head as if at any moment I expect the conversation to restart. It begins to rain and I watch as it runs in long lines down the glass of the phone booth. After a while I try the number again but all I get is an engaged tone. I have enough for one more quick call, so I try her number even though I promised myself that I wouldn’t. It rings for a while before she answers.