Beatlebone

by Kevin Barry

  The sound engineer, Charlie Haimes, rights himself for the last of the work, a new tape to loop and the last tracks to separate, and John is singing inside—he’s tra-lah-lahing—and now two kids appear on Tottenham Street, a boy and a girl, and he is long and thin with a mess of hair and she is tiny and they just idle there, and they’re looking this way—aren’t they?—with a slouched and watchful air, and inside John is singing, and the boy leans into the girl and he speaks to her, and she agrees and they move on again, and there is something about them that unsettles the sound engineer Haimes because about the boy there is something wolfish and about the girl there is the sense of an elf.

  ———

  Charlie Haimes enters the studio and kicks the steel door shut behind. Bolts it. He spools a tape on the Telefunken M12 Magnetophon—tape tension is constant, no need for brake solenoids—and John sits crouched and smoking with a blanket around his shoulders and Charlie rolls the tape, and John begins—

  ———

  [transcript]

  and if i have nothing left to say—well okay—because when i have nothing left to say—[indecipherable]—there was an enormous fucking egg on the rocks—is it rolling charlie?—i can see it very clearly in fact—brownish actually with yellow speckles on—do i sound like i’m going to fucking sing, charlie?—i’m on my island at last—an enormous fucking egg the size of me head and bigger again an egg that big a baby baboon might step out pinkarsed—smeared light and blue void—[indecipherable]—i will keep my distance from that fucking egg—it seems to move just a bit—something’s got to crack and something’s got to give—i’m not having in with that fucking egg—say a newborn john steps out and spits the mucusy bits away—pale and moonfaced—skinny new john with an heron’s legs and a reedy chest—a hairless reedy art college chest—poetical—tubercular—it grows worse by the hour, my love—i’ll give it some richard fucking burton shall i?—boskier—what’s fucking bosky when it’s at home?—my words are fucked and all over—in the city my head feels big as a melon—too much noise—on the island my head feels tiny as a pea—i could belly across the rocks and tip my ear up against that giant egg—news therein I daresay—shells and walls and caves and holes and rooms and hollows—here’s a word—encasement—not one to linger on, doctor—close my eyes—i could walk the rocks for a while it would kill a fucking hour like a tall dark bird as the last of the daylight goes on an ink-black stick-bone night-dark heron’s walk—oh let’s get richard fucking burton in altogether, shall we?—they say the welsh are thieves, don’t they?—at least in liverpool they do—count the silver once richard burton’s fucked off again—all this chatter—i mean, really!—as I still can I will—boskier!—[indecipherable]—i’m on my fucking island at last—close my fucking eyes—walk a slow curve around that fucking egg—the giant egg shimmers and rocks a bit—soft throbs or thuds of life therein—the past is about—the black skin of the water moves—i’m as well to walk on—flower-brained and heron-eyed—just leave me fucking be just leave me fucking be on my own fucking island at last—at the bottom of the sea there are a million tiny rooms but no doors no locks no keys—it’s the past that gets locked in—the sea is moving its inks about—close my eyes as i walk i’ve gone inside the past again—slip inside the old house then—uncle’s come up the stairs—uncle travels on a broken lung—wheezes like a busted accordion uncle maudlin’s travelling lung—the way his lips make the words and the news they bring—she’s gone, john—motherless waif left on the docks or some such violin fucking thing—she’s gone—put a hole in my arm and let all the money in—a rabid fast snare here? and building?—the stars hang down like blue fruit—lovely?—the past is about—ye cracke is my boozer it smells of dirty girls and beer—i am made of bile and nerves and broken glass—i’ve got such a screechy, such a girly laugh—the war room at ye cracke—keep it fucking down, john—midnight by the churchbells—fucking some girly in a doorway someplace—back arse of bold street—a knee-trembler—the city is held in the palm of its own lights—oh to be on an island by night—the birds home in like rueful thoughts—thank you, charlie, it is nice—there’s a great lairy bird on patrol—don’t give me the nazi fucking eyes, pal—i’m the intruder on the stones and grass—there is no salve and there is no fix—she is on the dark side of every passing moment—this is my disease—she’s a shadow just beneath my skin—julia—and the island seems to move or give in the night’s black wind—[indecipherable]—let me go back there, mr. haimes—close my eyes—the island by night—the giant fucking egg groans—rouses from a sour dream—there’s a strange green light across the sky—green as a starling’s coat—iridescent—this is going fucking beautifully now—a sea-holly or an ivy’s green—ivy as of a churchyard in november—the past is about—rain in liverpool, a november, about the time of all souls, in the midweek, it’s late in the morning, i should be in the schoolhouse but i’m not—i’m in a churchyard having a fag under the dripping ivy—the way it’s dull but glossy the way its own lights are trapped within—i’ve got a throb on but one must not attend to that in the out-of-doors as it sets a dangerous precedent—next thing you know you’re wanking off all over—there is rain on the island by night—there is no way to mark time out here but day for night and night for day again—the years might go past—the rain tastes of salt and earth—the giant fucking egg groans—who’ll step out from that egg in a bit?—i’m in on business i’m in on executive fucking business to haunt the rooms of my own black self—the past is about—over the ice fields of quebec we flew—four voices in a great dark hall—montreal—those sexy rascals—lah-de-dah, lah-de-dum-dum-dah—screams and mouths like black maws like the mouths of tiny birds to be fed—what if the giant fucking egg cracks and the past steps out?—i’d like five minutes back, not more—set me down on bold street—on the island the night crowds in and i scream but it gets swallowed up again—slap my head off this rock for a bit?—what if there’s not much time left after this?—all the black chatter that goes on—walk awhile across the dark and stones of it—there are lights on the hills on the mainland—this exiled prince on scepter’d isle, handsome, beak-faced, and heron-thin—i’ll have a fag in a bit—i am so many miles from love and home—the night birds shriek and grumble—the black water moves—where you lie down is the centre of my world, my love—i wanted to fuck you eleven ways and did—crossing the causeway is like crossing the moon—great boulders and stones and the black water moves—the starlight runs on cold engines—birds in conference the length of the night—a huge grey bird hides its head beneath its wing but fans it back slowly to show the evil eye as i pass—something regal, isn’t there?—i’ll have a sitdown—auntish moment—darling mimi—i lean back into the night sky—it’s terrifying, of course, this fucking sentiment—so crucify me up top of fucking bold street then—sell fucking tickets—is there not such a thing as agency? my sweet english fucking arse there isn’t—there’s maggots under the rock with more agency—there’s pigeons up the town clock—but you can be for a while whoever you decide to be—that’s all—where I walk is the centre of the fucking universe—this is what you must always believe—have you got that, kids?—what did it feel like in sefton park?—he’s a gimp and she’s a skittery a nervous a scattered young thing—did she call him alf or did she call him freddie?—he’s doing all the voices—the way she fixes her hair—he wants to have in—she wants to let him in—did he drop the hand first thing?—on lark lane i will walk you home again—they are so far from me now and gone—across the fields of the sea—it’s harder to think about him than her—the cold is deep in my blood and bones—walk awhile under the dying stars—the morning comes across the water—the giant fucking egg groans—the giant fucking egg cracks—he climbs out in red raw skin and greasy feathers—his blistered black beseeching eyes—alright, freddie? alright, kid?—he lies among the rocks in his feathers and bones and cowers from me there—alfred?—his first war face—and i have nothing left to say—lay my hand to his face—he si
ghs a tiny breath onto my palm—he grows smaller with each breath that I take—i have nothing left to say—take me away from here—put me back on bold street—let me walk the street in the crowd—the bombed-out church—the starlings mobbed above the ropewalks—a fair-minded breeze lifts the cup of a skirt and shows the back of her knee—she is not a showstopper but still—bold street moves—a mam and a dad and a sticky-faced kiddie—the bawl of the child as it comes past—he’s pig-ugly him, missus, there’s a case here for your coupons back—a weary widow on a ritual traipse—it’s all ahead of you, love—and a toppling quiff above a dummkopf face—a whiskied old fart in his green and piss-stained gaberdine twill—the lyceum—the tunnel for central station—bold street—the chinless wonders and the gin-blossom noses—i might have a show coming soon—i might get to play out again soon—if it works out with mr. knowles in ecclesworth—who’s a cunt—or mr. eccles in knowleston—fifteen bob and a root up the arse—the street moves—there are pale sisters by cripp’s—they’re having a bead at the girdles and the dainties—if i burn the eyes on hard she’ll sense it and turn, the prettier one—she turns—alright?—perky noses, sisterly grins—bold street moves—the way the knit of her collarbone turns as she goes—a cat watches from the lyceum steps—all the calm of china in its bone-white eyes—the busy faces—the pug faces—the lancashire-irish—the eaves of the stores and the eaves of the churches—i’m by the fucking lyceum—i’m by the window of cripp’s—i’m the natty cocksparrow—the turn for the tunnel for central station—the sisters again—they whisper and turn again—the prettier’s hand is held over her mouth—her face is pale and interested—her hand is white and tiny—a glove of bird bones—i’m by the lyceum—i’m by the turn for the tunnel for central station—military click of high heels on the stones of bold street—the city rumbles beneath—its limestone air and secret reaches—the scent of the girls’ voices is on the air—their voices are coloured yellow and racing green—their voices come from the hollows of the woods—by the steamy window of a murderous caff a gummy old coot commits an act of murder on a plate of black pudding and chips—hello, tony? hello, taff—i walk the street in the crowd—pub voices bounce from the tiles and brass—sexy cured tobacco voices—ladies of special vintage—the painted lips and map-lined faces—the bowl of the town fills up with night—out there is the green moving estuary—out there are the devil-haunted hills—the first stars light the cold estates—i’ll make a nonsense rhyme for my dandy lips—oh to be a suburban jack, fit for the mirror and fit for the rack—the turn for central station—the white cat smiles—and listen?—the world is still this faraway evening, as hushed and hollow as an empty church, and we can be quiet now if we want to be.

  Part Nine

  THE CARNIVAL IS OVER

  The island was fucking exhausting. He didn’t last for long out there. Now he waits it out at the farmhouse in the hills. Soon the car will come to bring him to the airport—Cornelius—and soon he will be in the sky again. He sits in a hard chair by the webby kitchen window—in the webs he sees a languid man. He has the place to himself and the day is not without its graces: a duck walks across a puddle in the yard. Appears to be on very serious business. A dog is yowling somewhere far off. They might never think to find me in these demented reaches. He drinks strong tea and smokes a fag—stay fucking busy, John. Bridge off all the silences and the gaps.

  Soon he will be able to make something new. He will make something delicate and fine and odd. It’s all going to work out beautifully. Because he is our fucking hero still. He can see down the hills and to the water. Time slows just enough for its workings to show—just oddly, here and there, as it will do in the Maytime. The moments bead into each other, one by one and neatly, but sometimes they reverse and spin back, too, and this explains plenty. It turns out you can play with it a bit. You can make time spin back towards you. He breathes deep and feels out the serpent length of himself. A vitamin sadness fills his lungs. Where might I get to if I persist with all this? Getting fucking Saviour notions again. He can see the tiny details and he can see the broader sweep. There is rain now on the roof slates and a concertina wind. The Irish coast sits down there in its drizzle and murk. You wouldn’t know where the fuck you are nor when.

  ———

  He walks for a while in the hills above Mulranny. It is very quiet. He walks by the old railway line. Now it has cleared and the day is lit. There are no people anywhere to be seen. Shades of the railway line move at an unseen thrum. He sits and rests for a while in a scooped-out hollow of the hillside. The breeze snaps and dies and there is perfect quiet across the sky and blue of bay. Something moves. He sits as still as he can and dares hardly to breathe. In the far left field of his vision if he does not move at all maybe the hare will not disappear. He read once that the hare augurs darkly in the Irish mythology. From what he can remember there is fuck all that augurs brightly in the Irish mythology. The hare is no more than a couple of yards away. It is so close he can see reflected in its startled eye the grey stone of hill and blue of bay. It looks out across the flank of the hill but it cannot see him in the hollow. Its nose is a soft purse leather and it twitches to find the strangeness on the air but it cannot place him. Do you not hear my heart racing? A crack of the breeze snaps the tall grasses—everything is immense. He sits perfectly still and grins madly—he is nothing but the grin. The hare rises on its hind legs—it stands mannishly. Actually quite a handsome devil. It is poised in every twitch and sinew to run but still there is this strangeness on the air it cannot twig. Oh Jesus fuck let this moment hold across the sky and blue of bay. The hare turns its nose a tiny mechanical clockwork nidge. It surveys the fields of the Maytime in the hills above Mulranny. From the hotel far below comes a sudden clanging—the kitchens—and the hare takes off as quick as light moves and its pumping run sounds out the hollows of the hill. Fuck me. He gets up and walks for a while again. He goes on down the beach and has a fag. There are further Victorians on the beach. He calls a salute to them as he passes by—

  Alright?

  —but they just shyly, stiffly wave.

  ———

  Back in the farmhouse.

  Cornelius enters, red-faced, and in a fluster—

  This is not a happy day for the Mercedes, John.

  Oh?

  Exhaust is crooked on it again. There’s a man in Mulranny might fix it and drop it up to us tonight but he is not a reliable man and he suffers from fainting fits.

  I see.

  The worse news is I think the van’s on the way out as well.

  Tea is made. They wait on the man from Mulranny. There is dangerous talk of black pudding sandwiches.

  ———

  He paces the yard. He thinks about what to say to his love, exactly, and he thinks about holding the kid. He has a fag to batten down the emotional bits. He leans back against the wall of the farmhouse high in County Mayo and the Atlantic rolls down there—a Mesmeric—and if you close your eyes you can fall into its black drift and turn and you can be wherever you want to be.

  ———

  On Bold Street he walks the street in the crowd. He wears a drape jacket in midnight green with a velvet collar of dark cherry, or call it cerise, and high-waisted drainpipes in a navy-black mottle cut an inch above the ankle to show leopard-print socks and crêpe-sole brothel creepers in a desert-brown and most delicate suede and his hair is greased and fixed to hold on a ducktail finish and the curl of his lip spells seventeen and he’s that fucking sharp except he’s got his mum beside. A tadpole kid passes by on a rusty bike. The kid jerks a foot to the kerb and turns the bike sideways to block the path. He looks hard at John. He says—

  I heard there was a nigger boat done over.

  She goes right up close to the kid. She fronts him. The way she stands there, stone hard, and says—

  Fuck off.

  And the kid fucks off.

  ———

  The man from Mulranny does not appear.

 
Do you see now the way I’m half my life down the far end of lanes waiting on thundering bastards who don’t show up, John?

  Well this is it.

  The van also has given its last.

  We’ll take it by foot, John. We’ll find out what’s happening with the Mercedes at least.

  They walk down the mountain. They are headed for Mulranny. They walk the country by night. They come to the water and follow the long, dark, turning sea road. The world tonight is a monochrome dream. A pockfaced moon browses the road and bay. Cornelius raises his glance to curse it—

  Fucken thing, he says.

  There is an odd drag from it.

  As long as we’re not steered by it, John.

  The birds of the night chorus in a hedgerow like fat young lawyers—a prosperous choir. Onwards—this sentimental journey. One honky step in front of the other. Now the road comes up as though on a riser and the sea opens out above the rocks and a swarm of moving lights passes through the water—a shoal?

  Precisely so, Cornelius says.

  It electrifies, but the road turns again as quickly inland to the dark stone empire and the hills of the night. There is a figure up ahead, a shade.

  Fuck me, he says.

  Now, says Cornelius. This particular lady, John?

  Yes?

  A hundred and twelve years of age and hoppin’ off the road.

  Okay.

  ———

  Good evening, Margaret?

  Cornelius, she says, and does not turn her eyes at all.

  This is Kenneth, Margaret, a cousin of mine home from England.

  How are you, Ken, she says, and does not turn her eyes at all.