by Kevin Barry
She lays her hand on her breastbone—brittle as a bird’s beneath the brocade of her blouse—and drums the tiny pads of her fingertips there.
Frank Screams.
Joe Director shakes his head and glowers. He is an angry old hog but he speaks quietly.
JOE Now listen up. You pair? Frank and bloody Sue. You pair are sounding like you’re sexually frustrated. You’d swear you’ve not had your bit. Have you not had your bit, Frank? Are you frustrated, Frank? I said are you?
Joe Director rises and crosses the circle and he thumps Frank hard about the side of the head; the boy whimpers and recoils.
Joe mocks the whimper; Sue mocks the whimper.
Frank rises onto his knees and shakes his head viciously at Joe and lets loose a dog snarl and weeps.
FRANK I’ve had my fucking bit!
JOE Oh? And what about you, lovely Sue?
Joe Director shimmies his hips in merriment as he pushes Frank back down with the palm of his hand to the crown of the boy’s head and now he roars—
JOE I said have you not had your fucking bit, Sue? I said have you not had your come-come, Sue? I said have you not had your fucking squirmy?
SUE Fuck off you fat diseased prick!
Joe slaps her face.
Frank Screams.
John is thinking: Nice crowd we’ve in tonight.
Sue makes a sex noise—a chocolate moan.
John is thinking: They’re here all week, folks.
FRANK I think John-John needs his fucking squirmy.
JOHN Okay! Kiddies! Hold up! Please! And fucking listen! Coz you want to know what I fucking think? I think you should all go and sign up for fucking accountancy college! I think you’re a bunch of fucking throwbacks! I mean it’s 1978!
FRANK We can see your problem, John.
JOHN Oh? Me? I’ve got a problem?
Joe Director sits again; his eyes blaze but he lights a smile and speaks softly—
JOE Oh you’ve got a problem, John. Believe it.
A silence holds for a slow beat.
The air feels restricted now—the room feels tight as a drum.
The night aches a slow moment beyond the high windows: it is Achill Island in the Maytime of 1978.
Streaks of nightgreen, iridescent, work the ribs of the water beneath.
Mountains lie in silhouette against the pale sky.
Somewhere a blackbird sings.
And now, unseen by the Ranters, a thumbprint appears in the pool of hardening wax on the Dutch patterned saucer.
John speaks coldly—
JOHN I really don’t think you’re up to this. In fact I think you’re a bunch of rank fucking amateurs. I think you’re working from a manual. I don’t think there’s any way you’re gonna break through here. I mean absolutely fucking no-how. Coz my old skin? I’ve got a skin on it’s like a leather fucking hide.
A breeze moves through the bare room again; there are sighs of sea.
JOE And nothing beneath, John?
SUE Nah, he’s just a fucking…
Sue bites on her lip as she searches out the word.
SUE Vacancy.
She closes her eyes—John feels a chill, a touch—and now her words come rabidly, super-quick, in a machine-drone:
SUE There’s nothing there, John, except the fear, all the fear you got in, we can all see the fear you got in, it’s everything about you is the fear and we can smell it, the fear and…
The veins of her neck rise to pulse in blue again.
SUE …all you want is others to give, give, give and justify all you’ve fucking done and said and you want us to say oh John, John, all your choices were the right choices, John, and you didn’t want to hurt nobody never but the truth is you’re a fucking sellout, John, and you’re a liar, John, and you’re just suck-suck-suck, it’s everybody else’s energy you feed on, John…
JOHN You’ll not break through here.
SUE …you’re just suck-suck-suck and you’ve let everyone down who believed in you ever and you’re that fucking over and you’re that fucking irrelevant and what you are, John-John…
FRANK Is you’re a whinging fucking wormbag, John.
Sue lets loose a Scream that shudders her rib cage under the slim fit of brocade; Joe Director nods in grim approval.
JOE From your sex is that, Sue-child.
Joe Director starts to play a motor growl on his lips, and he builds it to a great thrumming of sound, and a new rhythm is made, and John turns his eyes in, one to meet the other, in derision of a throwback scene; it’s nineteen seventy fucking eight.
JOHN Though it passes an evening, I suppose.
Sue rises, and she weeps again as she crosses the circle—the sound of her unwellness—and she roars hard into John’s face:
SUE You’re nothing but a fucking…
but John’s face is unmoved, thin-lipped, a sark.
JOHN I know. A vacancy. You’ve said.
Sue makes as though to spit at him but she does not spit; she retreats and sits again.
JOHN And maybe you’re not wrong, love.
Joe Director rocks back and forth on his heels; he looks gently at John. Sympathy coats his words like honey:
JOE You lost your mam, didn’t you, John?
JOHN Oh here we fucking go.
JOE It must have been a very significant event in your life. You’ve talked about it a great deal.
JOHN I was playing on sentiment actually, Joe. I was taking the piss out of popular fucking sentiment. Coz it’s like fucking junk. It’s fucking sedative. It holds you back and it keeps you down.
Tiny synapse burn of a moth’s wing singed by candle flame—a protein hiss.
JOE They said she liked the blokes, your mam? That must have been very hurtful, John.
JOHN You think I give a flying fuck about the crap that gets printed in crappy fucking papers, Joe?
JOE It must be very distressing, John. The intrusion.
JOHN You think I give a flying fucking toss about the News of the fucking World?
JOE How did it make you feel, John?
JOHN I know where I stand with them, Joe. I know who I fucking am. I know what’ll be thrown at me by fucking pigs with fucking typewriters.
Joe Director shows a palm and shushes.
JOE We’re just trying to peel that skin back, John. Relax yourself.
JOHN I’m utterly fucking relaxed. Trust me.
JOE In that case…
Joe gestures to Sue.
John’s heart beats quick and hard like a trapped bird’s.
Sue rises and crosses the circle and stands glowering at John.
Joe Director slaps the floor.
JOE Now have in, Sue!
She lays a palm softly to John’s face—he shucks free of it.
JOE Do you not like to be touched, John?
JOHN Fuck the fuck off!
FRANK Have in, Sue.
Sue strokes John’s neck with the petals of her fingers. They are that soft. A chill cuts through him again—he can feel the odd vibrations the girl is charged on; they are of the woodland places; she is elfin; in her fingers fused and pulsing the greens of England.
JOHN Actually you’re tripping me the fuck out here, love.
Wind-rasp; sea-sigh.
And Sue runs lightly a thumbnail across his lips.
JOHN I said would you please mind fucking the fuck off, love?
But she leans in closer still and aims a lover’s breath to the side of his neck—breath-of-sea—and she smells of chamomile, green youth, base cocaine.
JOE Have in, Sue.
FRANK Have in, John.
JOE Where did shy ever get you, John-kid? Fuck the little witch.
She comes closer again. She makes to kiss John—the un-shy poke of her tongue emerges—but John rises—John’s up—and he paces fast on the Amethyst boards.
JOHN I said fuck off!
But Sue follows him, walking swankily, with her palms laid on her tiny hips, all lady-like—La
dy Godiva, a swagger and sway—but it’s in mockery of him.
JOHN I said behave and back the fuck off, witch!
SUE Say you don’t want to do me, John.
JOHN Oh come on, love! I could be your fucking dad!
SUE What are you scared of?
JOHN Ten types of fucking gonorrhoea!
JOE Leave him be and sit for now, Sue.
Sue pouts and blows a raspberry taunt; she retreats and sits; her neat chin juts saucily; Lady Godiva.
JOE I think we need to remember that John suffers. Let’s remember that he’s a great man is John. Let’s not forget. He’s made a big difference has John. With his little TV appearances. With his little wafty speeches and his fucking chants and…
John shakes his head and smiles. He drifts to the corner of the room where the candle burns; he looks at the flame and on the saucer of delft the hardening beads of wax—there is a thumbprint in the wax.
JOHN Here we fucking go.
John walks back to the circle and sits again; he smiles—it’s as though he can take it.
JOE …his hatred for his own self and all that he’s made of because he’s nothing now, not anymore he’s not, he’s just a fucking richman worm…
Joe closes his eyes to make the words: Joe Director is charismatic, hog-fat, dark-as-fuck.
JOE …a spawky fucking Irish peasant worm with his new money and his faggot hands and…
JOHN Oh fuck off!
SUE We’re getting closer.
JOE …his fear, all the fear he’s got in…
JOHN Oh fuck off you fat fucking goon!
FRANK Truth is cruel, John.
JOE Is that a little colour in your cheeks, John?
JOHN You don’t fucking know me!
John rises again and he moves towards Joe Director, and now Frank lets loose a Scream, and now Sue thumps the floor with her palms, and Screams.
JOHN You don’t know the first fucking thing about me! I said not the first thing! You want to remember I’ve been down this road many fucking times. I’ve spent months going at myself and bloody hard and with the fucking best of them. I’ve been harder on myself than anyone else could ever fucking be! I’ve sat with Dr. Janov him fucking self. He was my friend! In California…
Sue stretches the word, a mockery of him—
SUE Cali-fo-nee-yah!
JOHN And you can fuck off and all with your daft fucking tits and your daft elfy fucking eyes!
JOE Have a go, Frank.
Now Frank rises—Frank’s up—and he comes close to John; they are face-to-face, chest-to-chest.
JOHN Oh back off, child!
JOE Go, Frank.
The boy shimmers with the threat of violence.
FRANK You’re just a whinging fucking bitch!
SUE Tell him, Frank!
JOE Be a fucking man, John! Stand up!
John pushes Frank hard at the chest and he screeches at the boy and Frank stumbles back, and now he retreats, and sits again; he smiles.
John breathes hard—with his hands on his hips—and he looks at them.
The way they stare back at him, smugly, expectant, amused: a family of three.
Outside, the waves’ slow boom and collapse.
Something gives.
JOHN Do you really want to know what I am? Do you? Well I’ll tell you exactly what I fucking am. I’m fucking anxiety. And I’m fucking lust. And I’m a fucking booze hound and I’m a fucking dope fiend or I was and I’m a fucking sad Scouse sentimental bastard and I’m the most competitive prick on the face of the planet actually and I’m a jealous greedy black-hearted English cunt full of bitterness and fucking poison and fucking rage and I’m the sweetest fucking angel, too, while we’re fucking here and while we’re fucking at it or at least sometimes I am and that is who I fucking am and that is what I fucking am and yeah I miss me dead fucking mam and yeah I want to piss on me dead fucking dad’s fucking bones coz he didn’t fuck her enough and he didn’t make her fucking happy and you know what that makes me?
A delighted silence—three breaths are held.
JOHN It makes me fucking special fucking no-how!
JOE Exceptional, John.
JOHN Me dead fucking dad? I tell you now I want to go down to fucking Brighton or wherever that twat’s laid to rot…
JOE Oh this is very nice.
JOHN …and I want to scrape his peasant fucking eyes or what’s left of ’em from the sockets of his skeleton head and tear his fucking bones apart with me fucking teeth or what’s left of his fucking bones…
JOE I’d suggest more of this, John. Plenty more.
JOHN …and yeah, you’re right, Joe, I can’t get over what I’ve fucking come from and I…
JOE Would you like to burn off some base, John?
JOHN No, I fucking wouldn’t coz I don’t do that no more and I don’t do fucking junk neither and I don’t hardly drink neither! Coz I’m a good little boy who bakes the bread and has a fag and minds the kid and minds his business and minds his own fucking yard.
JOE Do you get sour thoughts often, John?
John goes to the window—
He leans out and tries to suck all the air from the night.
He feels a breath on his neck but it cannot be.
He opens his mouth to Scream but he cannot.
He turns back to the circle: a family of three.
Sue turns her hands to display on the insides of her wrists the raw scars and the welts there.
Frank Screams.
John is thinking: What the fuck is this exactly some suicide fucking death cult fucking caper?
And Sue Screams so hard she brings a green bile up.
JOE That’s a useful effort is that, Sue.
The Barnsley or the Blackburn of him; the Lancaster busman of him; and Sue rises—Sue’s up—and she goes to the window and spits all the bile and spew away.
The birds outside fall silent as the night thickens.
Sue returns to the circle. She is placid again. John watches her carefully as she sits down on the boards.
Now John returns to the circle and sits, too.
He is worn, pale, drawn, opened.
JOE Let’s talk some more about your mam, John.
JOHN Oh come on. I mean, please. I’m thirty-seven years old. I’m fully fucking grown. Do I really need to yodel on about me dead fucking mam and me dead fucking dad all the time? Is it not enough that I live back there half the time? Back in nineteen thirty what-fucking-ever? Can I not just get on with my life now?
A sally of breeze comes through the room; the flame of the candle wavers and rights again.
Joe Director speaks but softly—
JOE Why don’t you tell something about them, John?
JOHN Oh, I see. We’ve moved on to the tender bit, have we?
JOE Well why not?
Joe Director works the quietness that settles on the room.
He holds John’s gaze and loads trust on the line that runs between them—the weight takes and holds.
JOE What’s to be afraid of, John?
Frank’s head falls onto Sue’s shoulder and with her fingertips she touches his face and he shudders.
SUE Oh come on, John.
FRANK Tell us something, John.
The silence holds for a slow beat; then—
JOHN Are you lot for fucking real?
JOE You know that we are. Come on, John.
JOHN Oh fuck off.
JOE Come on.
JOHN You’re really serious?
JOE Come on.
Something gives; the room lightens; John deflates.
JOHN What kind of fucking thing?
JOE First thing comes to mind.
JOHN About them?
JOE Yes.
JOHN I don’t fucking know.
JOE Anything? First thing?
JOHN They were tiny.
JOE Oh?
And John is in the drag of the past.
JOHN He must have been what? Five foot blood
y three or something. Coz he’d worn leg braces as a kid. He was a regular fucking gimp arse. Fucking Freddie. And she was smaller again.
JOE A neat little pair. Where’s it they meet?
JOHN This I know…It was Sefton Park.
JOE A roll in the bushes?
JOHN I don’t fucking know, do I? I mean whatever you weren’t supposed to do, that’s what she’d go and do…They were excitable little people, my mam and dad.
JOE Excitable how?
JOHN They’d get carried away on a notion. They’d make lots of fucking plans. They were daft bloody schemers.
JOE Kind of plans?
JOHN They were going to open a pub together. Or was it a café? There’d be music and dancing and all sorts. It would go on all night. Some kind of bloody cabaret was the notion.
JOE Tell about him.
JOHN He’s from Irish. He’s got left in the Bluecoats like a fucking orphan. I could do you the violin.
JOE Why’s it his mark’s on you still?
JOHN How should I know?
JOE Why’s it both their marks on?
JOHN How should I fucking know? Coz they played the fucking banjo?
JOE The fucking…
JOHN Banjo. I know! The pair of ’em played fucking banjos.
Joe Bloody hell. And did they sing?
JOHN She’d do her Vera Lynn. He’d do his Al Jolson.
The vaudeville halls; the North-of-England. The Lancashire-Irish. The pug faces. The waft of sick and ale. The fagsmoke. The sawdust. The smell of piss and chips.
JOE What happened to them?
JOHN I don’t know. Whatever it is that happens to people.
JOE She fucked around on him?
JOHN You’ve been reading the nasty papers, Joe. Tinpot guru sat on Achill Island with his Daily Mirror and his bag of shite cocaine cut with fucking rat poison.