Collected Stories

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘Bravo,’ said the Major. ‘Play me the Mozart.’

  The piano started again. And went on and on and on. With that kinda music, you know when the end is coming. It winds itself up. After that everything goes quiet.

  I know they are in the room but I can’t hear anything. So I start mouth breathing. It’s quieter. I can sense someone sitting on the sofa, then getting off again. They’re speaking very quietly – sorta murmuring. This goes on for ages and then they start exercising – sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the floor. In school they have this crazy bastard of a gym teacher who has a yelpy voice. ‘Running on the spot. Go!’ ‘Ten press-ups. Go!’ And he reserves the highest and loudest note for yelping the word ‘go’. Before the Major and his woman eventually stop the exercising and the gasping the penny drops. They’re doing sex. Having a ride. Not two inches away. And I can’t see a thing. And then they go back to the murmuring. I can’t make out a single word. The clock chimes nine and the TV is switched on. The music is for the News. Somebody sits down on the sofa. The news is the usual boring stuff. When it comes to the Northern Ireland bit there are two murders. A prison officer who worked at the Maze tried to start his car and it blew up and he got killed. Boo-hoo. Lend me a hanky. The other was a drive-by shooting on the Antrim Road. A boy of seventeen had been shot and died on the way to hospital. If it’s the Antrim Road he’ll be one of ours. There was three explosions but nobody got hurt because there was warnings.

  I’m feeling a bit sleepy but keep myself awake by sticking my fingernail into the back of my other hand. I don’t think I snore. But you can’t be sure. A comedy programme comes on because there’s a lotta laughing from the audience. Canned stuff. It goes on for ages. When the clock chimes eleven the Major and his wife go to bed. I hear the click of the light switch going off and I’m aware that the darkness has increased. I hear them doing things in the distance – running taps, brushing teeth, kettles clicking off when they boil. A hot-water bottle for her, maybe. After a while everything goes silent. At last I can turn. And fix my pillows. I don’t even risk a wee groan. This must have been what it was like ‘durin the war’. All the old ones at the stalls talk about ‘durin the war’. They never stop. I reach out for my sandwiches – touch and rip the cling wrap. Ham and cheese. I normally like egg and onion but my Da said it’s too risky – it would stink to high heaven. Give me away. Rosaleen made them. She lives with my Da now. I like her – she’s a good laugh. My mother died of cancer when I was eight – right after my First Communion.

  Chewing in the quiet like this is weird. The inside of your head is filled with noises, crunchings and squelchings – moving muscles and teeth-clicks and a roaring in your ears. And I think of myself as a mouse – the way other people hear a mouse. They sit up in bed at night and hear small noises, scratchings, pitter-patterings. ‘There’s the mouse,’ they say. ‘I must set the trap tomorrow.’

  This is the third Trojan sofa I’ve done. The first was the worst. I was nervous and needed to pee a lot. Nearly filled the poly bag I had. Fresh piss is really warm. And – see – trying to get the knot outa the neck of the bag when it was half full when you wanted to go for a second and third time – that was awful. Anyway it all went fine. A cinch. It was funny being in a house with Union Jacks and pictures of the Queen on the walls. Really spooky.

  On Saturday afternoons I help Rosaleen with her stall and she gives me a tenner. All the books are priced in pencil on the inside leaf so it’s dead easy. I seen the Major that day. My Da’s stall is about three over from Rosaleen’s. There was no indication as to what or who he was. Nothing remarkable about him at all – heavy-set in a tweed jacket, open-neck shirt, wavy hair getting a bit grey – but my Da knew the voice. The voice is a dead give-away. He was interested in this old-fashioned clock for his mantelpiece, paid a lotta attention to it, listened to the different chimes it could do and all. Then he took the Victorian sofa as well. And now here I am lying in the back of it ateing sandwiches. I don’t wanna wash them down. As little liquid as possible. So I just knock them around inside my mouth till they go away. It takes bloody ages. I don’t bother with the crusts.

  At this very minute my Da and Rosaleen’ll be coming back after a night in the pub. He takes pints of lager, she has her vodkas and Coke. When they come home me and my brother hang around being nice. They usually bring a crowd back with them – maybe a couple of fiddlers who can play jigs and reels, or singers with guitars. It’s a bit of a laugh and when he’s in good form my Da’s liable to put his hand in his pocket – but he never remembers the next day. So you can try and tap him again. Rosaleen hugs us and says things like ‘Yis are not mine – but I love ya.’ Then she’ll punch my Da if he’s beside her. ‘My womb cries out,’ she says and everybody’ll laugh.

  I start to feel really sleepy now. I think about having a piss but whatever way I was up-ended coming through the door I can’t find the poly bag. It’s probably down by my feet somewhere. And I can’t bend. I must have dozed off because I waken up halfway through the Westminster chimes. I lie there counting all twelve of the strokes that follow the tune. Then I hear a creak of a door in the distance. Somebody on the stairs.

  Jesus, maybe he’s rumbled me. But how? What have I just done? Did I snore? Did I give myself away somehow? Did he hear me chewing? No chance. Wait. The light clicks on and I can see faintly around me after the blackness. It must be the Major because he clears his throat. A deep sound, not a woman. He doesn’t come near the sofa. So it’s a false alarm. He shuffles over to where I think the mantelpiece must be. He is doing something footery because he’s cursing and mumbling to himself. Then he says ‘Ha!’ and goes out of the room. The light goes off and I hear nothing more. What was that all about? Maybe he was sleepwalking. Did people really do that? Walk about the place sound asleep? Uncle Eamon says he woke up one night and he was standing pissing into a suitcase. Maybe the Major’s turned off the chimes. And I’ll be able to get a bit of shut-eye. ‘Thanks and praises be to God.’ Rosaleen says that all the time.

  I don’t remember anything much of what my mother said. She smiled a lot – or did I get that from photographs of her? Sitting in the park. On beaches. With other girls on the wee wall outside Granda’s. And the styles. Her hair and her clothes – they were just embarrassing. When she died she went yellow. I seen her in the coffin. It had the lid off before the funeral. That was a thing she said, ‘Yella as a duck’s foot.’ I can remember that. ‘So-and-so had the jaundice – he was as yella as a duck’s foot.’ I lie thinking about her for a while. My Da seemed to take a long time to get over it. If any grown-up on the street mentioned her to me – ‘Aw, I knew your mother’ – I just wanted to cry. And that went on for years. I don’t have very many friends. Most of them are grown up – like Uncle Eamon and the ones who come back to the house after the pub. I don’t really like the friends who are my own age. Danny Breen and Eugene Magee. I fight with them a lot. They’re so stupid playing. They squabble and fall out about the rules for everything. And they cheat all the time. It’s impossible to knock around with them. ‘You do this.’ ‘No I don’t.’ ‘Yes you do – for I seen ya.’ ‘Ya fucking did not.’ Like politicians in Stormont.

  I can’t sleep because I’m still fairly uptight. But I’m relaxed enough to be able to think about the way things are. The second time we pulled the scam it was a woman who owned the flat. She was high up in the Civil Service at Stormont. My Da said it was a cover for something to do with the H blocks. But when I got out of the sofa I couldn’t believe the place. It was the worst I ever seen. Everything everywhere. Newspapers and high-heeled shoes and magazines and half-drunk cupsa tea. Dirty knickers, dressing gowns, dresses and blouses flung all over the place. And tissues. I’ve never seen as many bunched-up tissues in my life. A fire hazard. And the only neat thing in the whole place was her manicure set and the ten wee nail clippings on a black coffee table – each one a wee arc. How will this woman know we’ve burgled her? She’ll not know for a week. Unless
she wants to watch the telly. Or play something on the video.

  The smell of the dust inside the sofa for some reason makes me feel sad. It’s not a bad smell. It’s just sad. And it won’t go away. The smell dries inside my mouth. I try to get in the habit of mouth breathing because it’s quieter. And I begin to dream. I see myself dreaming in the darkness and then I wake up in the darkness. Not knowing where I am. And back to dreaming again. In one dream I’m in school and nobody in the class knows what ‘onomatopoeia’ is except me. But I can’t put my hand up. I’m paralysed. Another dream is of me snoring. And jerking awake to stop me snoring. Rosaleen puts me in the bottom of a wardrobe and covers me with coats to keep the sound to a minimum. Then I wake up. Wide awake. I can sense it’s light – morning light, not electric. I can make out areas and shades. I check where my Stanley knife is. It’s one of those with a safety slide thing at the side for retracting and bringing out the blade. I should have been awake earlier. And I know there’s something wrong. The first thing I hear is a man’s footsteps walking away from the sofa. Quickly. I just know by the way he’s walking that he’s on to me. I hear him lifting the phone. He uses just one word. Police. Then he starts talking about an intruder in his house – trying to keep his voice down. I have to be quick. I get the Stanley knife and slide out the blade – stick it through the material above my head – out into the room. Then I pull hard. A kinda ripping sound. A thin line of light. A tent flap. And me getting out of it. Moving my stiff legs. Backing out. My feet are on the floor and I straighten up. My back feels like it’s broke in two. I look down the hallway where the Major is on the phone. The door of the room is open and his eyes are watching me.

  ‘Freeze.’

  It’s a scream that scares the shit outa me. The Major moves his arms upwards and now I can see he has a shotgun aimed at my head. The phone falls and swings on its wiggly cord. He starts to walk towards me. I see more and more clearly both barrels – two black holes – as they point straight at my face. He’s as white as a sheet.

  ‘Freeze you bastard.’ My stomach swoops. Again and again. His voice is like the gym teacher’s. Yelped. Because he’s scared shitless. I could have been anything. So I do as I’m told. Try not to frighten him into doing something foolish. But I start to shake. I hope he doesn’t notice me shaking. ‘You fucking piece of shit. I’ve a good mind to kill you right now. Before the police arrive.’ I’m still behind the sofa, between it and the wall. He walks past me and goes to the front door to check that it is firmly closed. My heart’s beating like mad. Then the clock chimes – the whole Westminster followed by nine dings. He must have turned it back on earlier. When I was asleep. Now I can hear the clock ticking. Or is it my imagination. Myself breathing.

  ‘Do everything nice and slow or I might just pull this trigger. Put that blade down.’

  Very deliberately, with my thumb, I retract the blade into the handle and set it on the seat of the sofa. It’s weird. I’m gonna be shot in the face and yet the thing that annoys me most is – the room isn’t the way I thought it was. It’s much, much bigger. The mantelpiece is on the wrong wall and the piano – a grand piano with a big fin sticking up in the air – is over by the bay window. I didn’t even know the room had a bay window. Everything’s in the wrong place.

  ‘You’re a bit young for this game.’ The cut-glass voice. Like Prince Charles. ‘Who put you up to this?’ My hands are resting on the back of the sofa. It’s velvety material – gives under my fingers when I press. I haven’t a clue what to do. I’ve never been caught before. The only advice I ever heard was my Da’s. ‘Whatever you say, say nothing.’ But he was talking about guys getting interrogated in Castlereagh. Guys getting tortured.

  Another thing – I badly need a piss. Even more since he scared me. You can see the Major is delighted when he sees what age I am. He keeps moving about. Swaggering almost – like the cat that got the cream. He begins getting some colour back in his face. His wife must be away to work because there’s no sign of her. He begins talking ninety to the dozen. Still with the gun levelled at my head.

  ‘I was just thinking I’ll try out my new sofa – read the paper. At first I didn’t believe what I was hearing. I kept thinking there’s someone else in this room. Breathing.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘It wasn’t snoring – just long breaths. Who are you working for?’

  I don’t want to say anything. Don’t want to give anything away. I look down, like I’m in pain. I’m pressing myself hard against the back of the sofa.

  ‘I need the toilet,’ I say.

  ‘Oh – it speaks, does it?’ He kinda smirks. ‘Go in the police station.’

  ‘I’m gonna wet myself.’ He just stares at me. ‘I’m gonna wet the carpet.’

  He thinks about this and stares at me. Like a teacher when he hears an excuse he doesn’t believe. Like he thinks there’s more to it.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’ve gotta go now.’ I grip the front of my jeans to stop myself and close my eyes – tight. As if every muscle was connected – even my eyes were contributing to holding it in. The Major now sees it as a real threat. To his fawn carpet. He’d never get rid of the smell. He waves me out from behind the sofa with the shotgun. He goes in front of me and beckons me. He leads me into a panelled hallway. There are various brown doors off it. One is open and I can see office chairs in front of big drawing boards. Still my fist is bunched at my flies. The Major indicates another door. I open it but it only leads to another. In between there is a washing machine and a drier and a big wash basket.

  He holds the door open with the toe of his brown leather shoe. I open the next door into the bathroom. He follows me in and nods to the toilet. I’m still burstin but I don’t like taking my thing out in front of him. He sits down on the side of the bath and keeps pointing the gun at me. So I half turn my back on him and take my thing out.

  But being watched this closely nothing happens. I’ve gone into some kinda block. I look at the wall in front of me. There’s a framed diploma. What a place to hang a diploma. It’s for Architecture. For somebody called Dunstan Luttrell. At the same time I’m trying to think of a plan. To get away. There’s a narrow frosted glass window to my left but it looks well and truly closed. Anyway we’re two floors up which is a long way down. Then when the piss starts it nearly drills a hole in the delph. It goes on and on and on – like it’s never going to stop, making an awful lotta noise in the bowl.

  ‘You sound like a man on stilts after a night on the beer,’ says the Major. He’s making jokes. There’s no way this guy is going to shoot me if I make a run for it. And he wouldn’t be fit enough to catch me. Fat bastard. Eventually I stop peeing and give myself a wee shake and put it away. I give a wee shivery shudder because of losing my central heating. I continue to stand at the toilet bowl. ‘So you’ve been in there all night.’ I nod my head before I can stop myself. Give him no information whatsoever. Maybe he’s remembering doing the sex. Maybe he’s embarrassed about it. If I leg it this minute, I’ll have time to get down onto the road and into the van before the cops arrive. Maybe the traffic is bad. He waves the gun towards the hallway. I start to move past the mirror and the wash-basin. My face is too pale. ‘Wash your hands.’ I don’t know whether he’s kidding or not. The gun’s pointing at me. I turn on the tap and wash my hands. It’s that soap with the wee label that never goes away. Imperial Leather. The last thing to go is the wee label. How do they make it do that? I reach out to get the towel and he screams again.

  ‘Do not fucking touch anything in this house. Scumbag.’ I shake my hands a bit, wipe them on my jeans. He is so angry I’m afraid he might pull the trigger by accident. He goes out the door with the gun still trained on me and he waits in the laundry bit and waves me through. I decide this is the time. If I’m gonna go – I have to do it now. He won’t have the balls. I open the door into the hallway and pull it as hard as I can after me. It slams. I hear him shouting. And I run. His hands are full with the gun. As I race past the sofa I lift t
he Stanley knife and pocket it. I get to the front door of the flat. By this time the Major is out of the laundry room and putting the shotgun up to his shoulder. Which means he’s standing still and I’m running.

  ‘Stop or I’ll shoot,’ he screams. The front door takes two hands. My back quakes expecting to be shot. The lower handle and the Yale lock. I get both open – all the time waiting for my head to explode. But he can’t do it – he doesn’t have the guts. And I’m through the door and running down the central stairs about four at a time. Steadying myself with my hand on the banisters. And out the main door and leggin it across the lawn to get cover from some trees and bushes. The speed I’m going. It’s a bright day full of sunshine with a blue sky. I’m high on adrenalin. And after a night with a mouth full of dust it feels great. I want to yell ‘Fuck you, Major. Fuck the Brits.’ I zigzag through the wood as far as the road, looking at where my feet land, avoiding tree roots, kicking dead leaves. The sunlight flickers as I’m dancing down dips and sprinting up slopes. I spot the white of the van in a lay-by about half a mile away. I hear a police nee-naw in the distance. By the time I get to the lay-by I’m completely knackered. My Da is in the driver’s seat facing the house and Uncle Eamon’s having a look through the binoculars at what he thinks is a sparrowhawk hovering over the motorway. The police Land Rover trundles past heading for the big house. I’m coming up behind the van and they don’t see me. I bang the side.

  Uncle Eamon opens the door and looks down at me.

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘Niall,’ shouts my Da.

  I jump up into the van. I can hardly talk for panting. ‘Get outa here.’ My Da switches on, indicates and we start driving.

  ‘He caught me.’ And I tell them the whole disaster.

  The next morning was Saturday and we were all standing about in the Market.

  ‘What have they got on us?’ Eamon says. ‘What can they prove? Was anything taken? It wasn’t “breaking and entering”. For there was no “breaking”. And no “entering”. If anything the boy was “exiting”.’