by John Lynch
‘I’m still here,’ he says.
‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘Fuck.’
Then he touches me gently on the point of my knee, I feel his fingers through the cloth of my jeans. I can feel what they’re saying, it’s alright you can trust us, they say, you’re tired. Suddenly I want to talk to this man in front of me, to spill every word I’ve ever thought in his direction; I want them to scuttle from my brain like a horde of beetles. I want to be free of the tangle and braids of my darkest thoughts.
‘Please…’ I mutter.
He takes his hand away and just looks at me.
‘Make it stop,’ I say.
‘Make what stop?’
‘This.’
I point at my head and then begin to rap it gently with my knuckles.
‘Please help me to stop it.’
‘It will take time,’ he says. ‘And time is something that I’m prepared to give you.’
I think of my sister and myself when we were young. I see us scurrying like frightened mice, eager to escape the house behind us. I see the fear in our eyes, and I glimpse the secret that we have woven into the workings of our hearts, it peeps at me across the fallen days. I wonder at these two children, their faces blank with pain, the world stretching out before them. I ask God where he was when the sky lowered, when the birds fell silent, and the moon stuttered in the sky as the night clouds claimed it? Where was he when the world shifted and the deadness poured in? Did he cry? Did he smile, did he stand like a warrior in our persecutor’s dreams, promising him hell and fury when his time on this earth was done?
I thought that my father was dead but he is only asleep and he lives in a box deep in the black ground and waits so that he can cross the dark water to feed on us once more.
Words of Flame
I’m sitting here by the side of the road, outside a town the name of which I used to know, but so much has happened, so much blood has been spilled that I can no longer remember the things that used to hold me together, like the names of towns, days, people’s faces. Even the earth looks different to me now, sometimes it whispers to me as if it had a personality. Trees have a soul, I hear them sometimes in the night moaning, calling out to one another across the darkness.
I wish you were here to tell me who I am, Mother. I think of you in the dirt of your grave, your bones melting into the soil. Was He there when you died, did He hold you as if the world was being born in your smile? Did He thank you for believing in Him all this time, in spite of your husband and in spite of me? Did He ask after me? Did He? Or am I beyond even God’s love?
I know that He sometimes sends spies. They give themselves away because they all have the same look and a grin that crosses their faces, one that never exposes their teeth. They stand and stare at me. They ask me questions, like ‘where are you sleeping?’ or ‘you know it doesn’t have to be like this?’
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I need to catch the next train to heaven and I have no change.’
They don’t know how to answer that. They look at me for a moment and then back off as if I carried an infection or a disease. I smile and shrug because I have them. I have seen things that they can only begin to wonder at.
Mother, my hands are not my own, the ones I have are someone else’s, they are useless to me. My old ones have been removed and these old man’s hands have been grafted on in their place. I took a flower the other day and rolled its stem between these lumps I now have for fingers, trying to woo some sensation into them but it was hopeless. My feet too are different; I’m convinced they are not my old ones. It must happen while I’m asleep, when the shadows deepen and the forces of the in-between come alive. I walk a lot, I have covered many lonely miles, and I know every blister and crack that lurks between my toes. They are not mine, I am sure of it. My other ones were my two soldiers, battle-hardened, as tough as a leather purse. Now they are like accountants’ feet, milky and fine, more used to snuggling beneath a hardwood desk and they scream in pain when I put any weight on them.
Maybe the armies that spy on men’s and women’s hearts when they are asleep are irritated at me, annoyed that I can sense them, that I challenge them in the black long hours before dawn. So a plan has been formed to cut me a new body limb by limb. My old body is hacked from me when I do chance to sleep and the new part sewn on. I know that it is hurried because I can trace the fine stitching across my joints, it is like a cobweb line from a spider’s web, you have to really look or you will miss it. They are working at me, changing me, piece by piece. It will end with my eyes, because when they replace them, they will have my soul.
The Tough Guy
The day after my induction meeting with Thaddeus I join the rest of the new patients in one of the small buildings at the bottom of the large garden. There are about fifteen of us and we all sit in silence, waiting. One or two of the women speak but the men mainly look at each other and nod. Alf the Englishman is the first to arrive and he enters the room bristling with energy, greeting us all with a loud ‘Hello’. Some mutter a reply, others like me don’t bother. He tells us to bring our chairs forward and to make a circle. For a moment I think about leaving but in the end like everyone else I comply. To my right is a young man who I later find out is called Greg. He keeps staring at his hands and shaking his head as if he has just made some major decision that he regrets. I gently nudge him and ask him if he is alright. He doesn’t reply but hides his face in his hands until I stop looking at him.
Then Thaddeus makes his entrance, opening the door with a sudden snap as if he is trying to catch us in some unseemly act. The theatricality of it makes me blurt out a laugh. He greets Alf with a short nod of the head and takes up position in the centre of room, one hand in the trouser pocket of his green tweed suit, the other holding a large black folder across his chest.
‘Thank you, Alf. I’ll take it from here.’
‘Thaddeus…Good morning, everyone.’
Alf left, closing the door softly behind him.
Thaddeus looks at each one of us and then nods slowly to himself. He pulls one of the chairs away from the wall and joins the circle. He places the black folder on the ground and then says: ‘Welcome, everyone. This is the most important day of your lives. You may not know it. But then again I do.’ He grins at us as he says this.
‘My name is Thaddeus and I’m an alcoholic,’ he says. ‘There’s no trick, no dirty deed, no fucked-up immoral act that I haven’t done. I am a card-carrying alcoholic of the first kind. I’ve been to hell. I’ve been sectioned, I’ve been beaten with sticks, and I’ve held a knife to a man’s throat and asked him to love me. I’ve cried, and I’ve made those who love me cry. There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t said, there’s nothing you can do that I haven’t done. This is an illness that delights in telling you that you haven’t got it. This is a disease that will bide its time, that will fuck you as surely as God made little green apples. It will take your wife or your husband; it will take your child, your home, your nice gleaming car. It will take your dignity, your pride, your love of all things, most importantly your love of self. Let’s go round the room and introduce ourselves so we all know what we’re dealing with. We’ll start here.’
He points at Greg. He shifts in his seat and eyes Thaddeus distrustfully, flicking a glance to the rest of us, appealing for help.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Well…’
‘Yes. What’s your name?’
‘Greg…I’m a lawyer.’
‘So?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It doesn’t interest me what you do. Only why you are here. Now let’s start again. Why are you here?’
‘I don’t really know to be honest…My wife set it up…’
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, my new wife.’
‘Your new wife…And why would she do that?’
‘I don’t know…I think she felt I could do with a break.’
‘So let me g
et this straight, one day your wife just decided that maybe a spell in a psychiatric hospital might be just what you need by way of a holiday, or a bit of fun.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What?’
‘Holiday…Bit of fun.’
‘That’s the impression I’m getting.’
‘I…’
‘Where are you?’
‘In St Patrick’s.’
‘And what does St Patrick’s…?’
‘Deal with?’
‘Yes.’
‘Depression.’
‘Try again.’ Thaddeus leans forward in his seat and places the flat of his hand up to his ear.
‘Drink. Alcohol.’
‘Well done, Greg the lawyer.’
He looks around at the rest of us, slowly taking in our faces; it’s self-conscious and designed to intimidate.
‘Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further, it’s not by chance that you good people have ended up in here, something deep inside of you all is begging you to listen for the first time in your lives. Something is crying out for you stop otherwise you would still be in your bars, or crack houses or dinner parties, doing whatever it is you did to anaesthetise yourselves. These chances don’t come often, sometimes they never come at all so gather your lives in your hands and do whatever it takes.’
He points at me. I stare back deep into his green eyes. I feel my fists clench. I remember our meeting and am angry at myself for giving in to him, for being weak and mealy-mouthed. I feel something harden in me. I look at his neat suit and his crisp neat shirt and wonder if this is what is waiting for me.
‘You know my name,’ I say.
‘Yes, that’s true. But it’s not for my benefit. It’s for everyone else’s.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about that.’
I can hear one or two of the women snort their disapproval.
‘Does it give you comfort to curse?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Then why do it?’
‘Because it gives me something to hang on to.’
‘Right. Does it make you feel tough…just like your father?’
‘Don’t push it.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You lost everything, didn’t you? You ended up in an alleyway pissing yourself. Begging for money…’
‘So?’
‘Where’s your dignity? Your self-respect?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Not only did you lose everything. But you lost your mind too.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘And now you want to get violent, don’t you?’
‘Fuck off.’
Greg told me later that he thought that I was going to get up and punch him. He said he had never seen someone so angry. Instead I left the room and stood outside and tried to calm myself down. Then I looked at the sky and saw myself there. I saw myself as I was only a short time before when the world bristled with threat and there was nowhere for me to lay my head.
Mrs Johnson
I watch her as she sits beside me, her heavy body causing the wooden spars of the bench to sag. She doesn’t look at me but brings a hand up to her face and slowly passes it across her mouth as if she was a farmer looking out across a freshly mown field. I think about moving but something stops me, I am fascinated by her, she has the same watchfulness to her that I know in myself. She seems tired, weary. I know that she has been in the fire just as I have. For a while we watch the sky and the people moving about the grounds. I have often seen her in the recreation room seated in front of the television, the volume up loud, watching some turgid soap opera, her hand playing with the wisps of her short blonde hair. After a moment she takes out a packet of cigarettes and puts one in her mouth and then offers me one. She does this without looking at me. I take it and nod thanks and put it to my lips. As she lights my cigarette she looks at me for the first time. We smoke and return to silence. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her head gently nodding. As she stubs out her butt I see that her toenails are painted different colours, red, pink, green and violet. I smile, it is deep winter and she is wearing flip-flops.
‘Mrs Johnson.’
She holds out a hand. I take it and shake it.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say.
‘I have been watching you. Mrs Johnson has been watching you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, Mrs Johnson likes you. I had to wait…’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Until I was Mrs Johnson so that I could say hello.’
‘Right.’
‘The others are not so sure…’
‘The others?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not so sure of what?’ I ask.
‘Of you.’
‘Oh okay.’
She looks at me and smiles. She seems pleased with herself as if she has just completed some arduous task.
‘Gabriel,’ I say.
‘I know. Mrs Johnson asked around…’
‘Do you enjoy being Mrs…?’
‘Yes. She is very correct, very clean. I sorted my room out today. Washed every surface. Dusted every nook. Mrs Johnson likes order.’
‘Right.’
Then she leans in close to me so that her face is inches from mine. I can smell the rich odour of face cream.
‘It’s the others who drink. Not me. No, not Mrs Johnson.’
‘Who are they, the others?’
‘Well there’s Cassie. She’s a dirty stop-out. Would sleep with anyone in pants. And then there’s Angelina. She’s a princess.’
‘A princess?’
‘Of the heart.’
‘I see.’
‘But they both have terrible problems.’
‘Yes.’
‘Needs that never can be met. Drink, drugs, gambling…desperate needs.’
She turns away from me to gather herself; there is a long streak of black in her hair at the back which she had missed with the dye bottle.
‘I have tried to tell them,’ she says, her head still turned away from me.
‘Tell them what?’
‘Leave it to Mrs Johnson. She doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t open her legs. She will keep the others in check. She will make them behave.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They just laughed at me. I know that I have to learn. I have to be able…’
‘What?’
‘I have to be Mrs Johnson. I get so frightened when she goes. So lonely.’
‘I know what you mean.’
She turns to face me. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. She looks deep into my eyes, it makes me feel uncomfortable. I break it and look down at my hands.
‘Will you have a word with them?’
‘I don’t think that they will listen to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…’
‘Cassie tried to kill herself the last time. It was terrible. Awful. I tried to call Mrs Johnson but I couldn’t reach her. She booked herself into a hotel.’
‘Cassie?’
‘Yes. And ordered a large bottle of Middleton whiskey and took some pills. But she was caught out.’
‘How?’
‘I found Mrs Johnson just in time and she called reception. And they called an ambulance. You see…’
‘Yes…’
‘So you must talk to them.’
‘I’ll try…’
I say it to deflect her. I smile to reinforce it.
‘Good. Good. Mrs Johnson will hold you to that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Laundry,’ she suddenly says and stands.
Fucking Around with Love
‘A penny for them.’
I turn to see Alf standing there. I am outside, standing on the gravel that runs along the steps of the main building.
‘It’s all coming back to you, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The pain. The booze. The mess.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh I think you do.’
I don’t answer but stub out the cigarette I’m smoking and begin to make my way inside.
‘That’s it. That’s it.’
‘That’s what?’ I say turning back and spitting the question back at him.
‘That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it, it always has been.’
‘What?’
‘Walk away, fuck this, and fuck that.’
‘You said it.’
‘Isn’t it time to stop, isn’t it time to come home from the war?’
An aeroplane moans above us, beginning its descent into Dublin airport. He walks towards me.
‘I’ve been in your head. I’ve looked out through eyes like yours and seen the grey shit of my life in front of me.’
He’s close now. His breath is sweet and wholesome. Like a farmer’s wife who has spent her life elbow-high in butter and cream.
‘Give in, Gabriel. Stop fighting. I’m only trying to help. Life is simpler than you think it is. You are loved. You may not believe it but you are. We all are.’
I look at this big man, at the purity of his gaze. For a moment I ache to see the God who soothes his life. But I stamp it out, I kill it.
‘I’ve tried it your way,’ I say.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah I’ve fucked around with love.’
‘You’ve fucked around with love?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s an interesting way of putting it.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘I’m not patronising you. You’re doing a good enough job of that yourself.’
Clive
He was an American. He had tried everything, he told me. This was his eighth attempt. It was his last chance. He had just arrived. His wife had made him sign a piece of paper saying that if he failed this time all assets would be hers. Very American, I remember thinking.
There was nothing he didn’t know about getting sober, except the one thing that it was all about, staying that way. He was a big man in his forties. He had long grey-blond hair, like a fading rock star. He worked with computers. He had a successful business repairing them and reconditioning old ones to be resold. He told me that we were lucky to have the chance to take stock, to rebuild our shattered lives. Especially you, he would say to me, this is your first time, and it’s always magical, always special. His name was Clive and his eyes were dark as if thunder lay across their gaze. He had tried many places, ones in America where they treat you like a king and bring you tea and medication in bed, to places where you had to clean toilets and prepare your own meals. It was always the same, he said, his rage would subside and his body would begin to repair itself. He would greet each day with the vigour of the converted. He would devour all the literature he was given to read, and be full of love for everyone and everything. But it never lasted, it couldn’t, you see, I’m too extreme, he said to me, we’re too extreme all of us. Usually he would get a month or so, once he even made it to a year, but that was tough, he said. It was always something stupid and small that tipped him over the edge, a car that wouldn’t start, or a virus in one of his computers, you know, something that other people would shrug off as the luck of the draw. Not him, no, sir, before he knew it he was in a bar and halfway through a bottle of Bourbon. Then the ugliness would come back, that pig-headed fucker who would begin a fight in a monastery. This time had been the worst. He had shat on his sofa. He didn’t remember doing it but his wife lost it completely, he told me, when she saw this big turd sitting in the middle of her prize chaise longue. I laughed, it felt strange to do so, but it was funny. We don’t half fuck ourselves up, don’t we? he said. I nodded. I’m sure you have stories, he said, we all do, that’s all we have are our stories. I said yes. He looked at me as if to say and…? But I said nothing, I just stared back, holding his gaze.