I couldn't help thinking if he knew it, why didn't he take me to the church and let his congregation see it happen right before their very eyes?
'Yeah,' the Rev said. 'God is a wonder-worker and no mistake. How do you feel son?'
'Better,' I said.
'Love-sickness is a terrible thing,' the Rev pronounced. I said, 'Aye.'
'But you're over her now,' the Rev said. 'Who?' I said.
The Rev laughed. 'Who indeed? Little Miss Nobody." 'Yeah.'
There was a break in the conversation, a deliberate pause for the Rev to think.
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'Wil,' said the Rev, 'I think to celebrate your return from the dead we should do something tomorrow.'
I was quick to take my opportunity: 'Like what - go to the range?'
The Rev said, 'The range?'
'Yeah.'
The Rev shrugged. 'OK, sure, the range it is. You can even pretend you're firing bullets into that Little Miss Nobody - let off some steam like I do when Mom gets on my nerves.'
The Rev was kidding around and thought he was hilarious but I didn't dare laugh because, see, with that last remark he was bang on target.
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30
Home, Home on the Range
The Rev kept both his guns at the range so how he was justified in keeping them for home defence purposes under American law was beyond me. If a prowler or a rapist or a serial killer came to visit for real he'd have had to jump in his Gay-Team van and drive for fifteen minutes there and collect them and drive for fifteen minutes back and by the time he got back his family would have been ogled, or fucked up the arse, or even cut to bits.
Now, you already know the Rev drove everywhere like that's what was at stake if he didn't get there on time. His life. His family. His immortal soul. Whatever. Never mind the dog collar, he was a truly maniacal driver-from-hell and no mistake. And that Monday morning, taking me and Derry to the range was no different.
'You fucking pissant ditwad motherfucker asshole!' was what seemed to stream out of his mouth for the full fifteen minutes it took us to get to the range.
What a high holy roller model - it was just too much! It killed us, like before, and we joined in once more.
When the Rev got out of the van he returned to normal. Me and Derry, we found that bit harder, because as sons we hadn't had nearly so much practice at it. When we
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were walking across the car lot outside the range some woman in a hurry nearly ran us over.
'You fucking ditwad!' yelled Derry at her and give her the bird.
She honked her horn at us.
I shouted at her. 'Fuck off you pissant motherfucking whorebag!'
We were all for trashing her car but the Rev wasn't having any of it. 'Boys. Boys. Less of the language OK! And get out of the road!'
We obeyed him and the woman got to drive away.
The Rev said, 'You ever hear of the saying "Do as I say not as I do?'"
We nodded. It was more than appropriate the way we saw it.
'Well you don't have to say as I say or do as I do,' said the Rev. 'At least not all the time. Yeah?'
That was the Rev's first big mistake that day.
What do I mean? I mean, it's one of those things a father like the Rev, a traditional, conservative patriarch should never say. See it strips him of the Father's (God's) cloak of power, the aura of infallibility he assumed in your childhood and used to control you.
Think about it - if the Rev as the father figure admits The Father can be wrong and do wrong and then gives you a gun - basically it's like handing you, the son, a licence to kill. It's like saying. You can be and do wrong too, son, as long as you do it the right way, my way!
Of course at fourteen, picking the Rev's handguns up from reception, under a sign saying gun-fun for all your family, I wasn't thinking exactly that: just something along those lines.
Out on the range the Rev clipped a loaded mag into the
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Beretta 9-mil and handed me it. Derry looked on, as I got my obligatory guest coaching session.
'OK, Wil,' said the Rev, 'being as you've never shot a gun before we'll go right back to basics.' He pointed at the safety. 'That's the safety. On - the gun won't fire even if you pull the trigger. Off - the gun will fire if you pull the trigger and no matter who or what it's pointing at. Keep it on until you have to fire. Yeah?'
'Yeah.'
The Rev pointed at the magazine. 'Pull that out.'
I did like he said, only I went one or two steps further for Derry's benefit - I flicked out the top bullet, put it in again and slapped the mag back in place.
'You sure you've never done this before?' the Rev said.
'I watch a lot of movies,' I replied.
That killed Derry. 'Hollywood has a lot to answer for!' he said behind us.
The Rev laughed, a nervous laugh. 'OK. Right. What you need to do next is you point the gun at the target up the range and squeeze the trigger. Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze. Yeah?'
I did like he said, kind of - I got into a pro's firing position and took aim at the shadowman target up the range. 'Like this?' I said innnocently.
'Yeah? Just like that. Now take the safety off and fire at will.'
I emptied the whole clip into the target. 'Fuck me,' the Rev said.
Because every shot was a head shot or a body-T shot to put the man down amongst the dead men like I'd been taught by the UFF.
Derry cheered. 'See that! He's a natural. Pops, a natural!'
The Rev just stood there in amazement. Then he
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looked at me kind of funny. Suspicious like. 'You sure you've never shot a gun before, Wil?' he said.
'Nah,' I replied. 'Why, was that good shooting?'
'Yeah,' the Rev said.
I clicked the safety back on. 'Then it's probably down to having such a good teacher, isn't it?'
The Rev liked his flattery he did. 'Yeah, maybe you're right,' he said. 'Yeah. Try it again.'
So that's how I spent the entire morning firing the Beretta, pretending to miss occasionally so the Rev would feel useful, until I knew all the quirks of that particular gun like the back of my hand.
While the Rev was away getting a soda (he said he didn't want to do any shooting) Derry came over to me. He was touting the .357 Smith & Wesson hand-cannon. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' he whispered to me.
'What's that exactly?' I whispered back. 'I keep seeing that fucker Seamus' face on my target,' he said. 'Yeah?' 'Yeah.'
I kept seeing Teresa's more than Seamus' but I wasn't going to tell him that. 'So?'
Derry held his hand-cannon up and, with his eyes gleaming gamma-green, said, 'So let's waste him. I mean, he threatened to kill you, Wil, to kneecap you.'
'He did, didn't he?'
'It'd be self-defence.'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah!' the Hulk roared, kind of quietly mind you, so's not to draw too much attention.
Our plan to get the guns home was a simple one, and as
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always, the simpler the plan, the better it works. It relied on one thing - the impatience of fathers to be getting back to do their own things, things they were good at, and not hanging around with their sons, which they're bad at.
When the Rev came back with his cherry soda, I was watching Derry have a go with the hand-cannon. Derry was a pretty good shot, nearly as good as me, so I didn't have to fake the praise too much.
'You've taught him really well too, Pops,' I said.
'Yeah,' the Rev said.
'Aren't you going to have a go, not even one?' I said.
The Rev shrugged and said, 'I've got a sore shoulder. I don't really feel up to it now.'
I knew what he meant was he wasn't going to show himself up to be worse than us but I let him get away with saving his ego. 'Well then, maybe we should get going, eh Derry? I mean it's not fair us just blasting away with your Pops sitting bored out of his mind on the side
lines, is it?'
'Nah,' said Derry and did like he said he would. He looked at his gun and said. 'But it'll take ages for us to clean the guns.'
That's when the Rev made his second big mistake that day. 'You can do it at home this week,' he said, like Derry knew he would.
When we got back into the van I said to the Rev as sincerely as I could, 'Thanks very much. Pops. I enjoyed that loads.'
'Yeah,' said Derry. 'That was great!'
The Rev smiled, then he got back to yelling at other drivers - so much he didn't notice that our pockets were bulging full of ammo.
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Back at the manse, me and Derry hid our stolen cache of ammo with his stash of sonic devil worship - under the floorboards in his upstairs room.
'Nice one,' I said.
'Yeah,' he said back.
When we went downstairs Tiara took great pleasure in telling me, 'Your Pops phoned while you were out. He says he wants you to phone him back immediately you get in. He sounded real pissed at you.'
I got the Rev's permission to phone home and, to keep up appearances, did like I'd been told. I knew it was about my Ma and I was in for a right bollocking though.
The phone rang for ages and all that while I thought if I could just get away with not talking to him . . . But then he answered, 'Wil, that you?'
'Hi Da.'
'Aye right,' Da said his voice tin-thin on the phone. 'What do you think you're playing at, son?' 'What do you mean. Da?'
'You haven't phoned your Ma in two bloody weeks!'
I tried to be conciliatory at first: 'I know, I know, and I'm sorry. Da.'
'Well sorry's not good enough. The woman's out of her mind with worry, and hurt. If you were here I'd tan your hide for you I can tell you.'
Tan my hide! No way. No way was he ever going to lay a finger on me, or even threaten to, again. That was it! 'It's a crying shame I'm not there then,' I said.
'What?'
'You heard me.'
'What did you just say to me? What did you just say to me, you wee fucker!'
There was nothing else for it so I talked over the top of his ranting. 'Listen, if Ma wants to give me grief you tell
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her to phone me herself. I don't want to hear it from you any more, alright!'
That's when I put the phone down on him.
Da phoned back right after that, so's he could have the last word but when Derry got it, I just said to him: 'Tell him to go and fuck himself!'
So that's exactly what Derry did. But he ad-libbed a few whispered swear-extras for good measure like ditwad and motherfucker and childbeater.
I think, against all odds, my Da must have gotten the message - that was the last I ever heard from him personally.
Derry took the phone off the hook, and kept it that way the rest of the day.
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31
Headbanged Pressganged
Me and Derry had to go to the Project group photo session whether we liked it or not. And we didn't! The pro-Taig Project was the enemy! But we couldn't say that. So we were going. That was Mom Horrowitz's word on the matter. 'But Mom? I said.
'No buts, Wil!' Mom was not to be shifted.
It was a doomed protest, trying to get the matriarch to change her mind in her own kitchen, but it had to be made. I couldn't tell her that both Derry and me were worried that either Seamus or Teresa would have squealed on me and my Alien ball-busting; or that potentially there could be another fight; but I could make her feel as bloody guilty as I could about taking us.
'We were hoping to go to Summerfest!' I said. Summerfest was this big wing-ding downtown that Derry had been telling me about. You could watch live bands, pig out, you know?
'You can't miss the photo,' Mom said. 'And besides Stacey-May expects you there to do that article.'
'Christ and a night!' I said.
'No blasphemy in this house, Wil!' Mom yelled. 'How many times do you need to be told?'
What made things worse was that we had to get our photo taken in our hopeless rainbow T-shirts.
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'This is getting to be like wearing a uniform,' I told Derry in the bedroom as we were getting ready. 'Yeah,' he said back.
'Let's do something with them, you know like?' 'Lose them?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'And what if we wear some old Metal T-shirts beneath them and put them on when we get rid of the others?'
'Cool,' he said. 'But the only Metal T-shirts Mom hasn't thrown out are my KISS ones and I've kept them unwashed under the floor for nearly a year. They probably stink.'
That's how we turned up at the Methodist church hall for the photograph. Looking the part like every other little Projectee. But most definitely not being it underneath, or smelling like it either.
When Mom Horrowitz had dropped us off in the car lot we snuck off into the bushes, took off the hopeless T-shirts and, left them in there. Thinking we'd been very clever we walked away from the bushes up to the bank upon which everyone was being gathered together for the photo.
When Counsellor Ciaran saw us in our black KISS T-shirts he was as horrified as we could have wished for. 'What are you two playing at? Weren't you told to wear your rainbow T-shirts for the photo?'
He marched us straight to Stacey-May.
Unfortunately, when she saw us she wasn't horrified. 'I might have known it would be you deliberately forgetting this year. Problem Child. Here, take this.'
She handed me a new glowing-white rainbow T-shirt.
I looked at the size: XL. 'It's the wrong size,' I said, thinking that would get me off wearing it.
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'Beggars can't be choosers,' was all Stacey-May had to say on the matter.
When I put the darn thing on it drowned me. The one she gave Derry was huge too. I'm convinced they were ones she'd had personally made for her XLard-arse self.
'Now get in line, people,' Stacey-May said as the photographer set up his camera. 'I want the little people at the front and the big people at the back.'
I wasn't going to be one of the little people - I was no Taigy leprechaun - so I went up the bank to the back of the crowd with Derry. Unfortunately, all boys big or small. Prod or Taig, Scots, Irish or American, like to be thought of as big, so that's where Seamus and Peter and Merrick and Joe were standing too.
'What are you doing back here, Carson, you dwarf?' said Seamus.
'Fuck away off and die,' I told him.
'You fuck off you fucking Proddy dwarf!' said Peter.
Things were in danger of escalating prematurely into something so, to jeers and leering cries, me and Derry swallowed our pride and walked down the bank to the front.
All things in good time.
As soon as everyone was in line, Stacey-May shouted out, 'Cheese!' and hey presto, the photo was taken.
Wouldn't you know though, the photographer said someone up the back had gone and spoiled it by sticking their fingers up behind someone else's head (Peter or Seamus no doubt). We did it again and someone else had pulled an ugabug face (Big Michael likely). Again and someone else had been hoking at their nose (I'd lay money it was Helmut). And again - two halions raised their right hands in the Metal 666 salute (that was us, Kids In Satan's Service, the Metal Mafia).
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We had to do one more cheese before the group torture was finally over!
My own torture however, was to go on.
I don't think Stacey-May ever moved so quick in her life as when she came over at the end of the shoot to take my hand and have me off to the side for her interview.
'How long's this going to take?' asked Derry.
'Not long,' she told him. 'Run along and play with yourself somewhere.'
I saw Derry scowl at her, but I wasn't going anywhere - except where Stacey-May wanted me to.
'Why do you want me to do this interview, Stacey-May?' I said.
'Maybe it's because you aren't like all the rest,' she said.
'What do you mean?'
'This lot were all selected from the middle class for their leadership abilities.' 'They were?' 'Uh-huh.'
'And you don't think I was?'
'I know you weren't,' she said smiling down at me. 'That's what makes me interested in what you have to say.'
'That's great, that is,' I said all insulted. 'What's the smell?' she said. 'That you?' 'Nah. It's my KISS T-shirt.' 'Stinks.'
I shrugged. 'Yeah.'
You'll never guess who Stacey-May collared for her other victim?
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Yeah - the Taig-bitch from hell - skinhead Teresa! I couldn't believe it!
But Teresa refused point-blank to do the interview. 'Not with him,' she said to Stacey-May, and walked away to join Seamus on the bank.
If I'd had the Beretta then . . .
Stacey-May wouldn't let Teresa get away so easily though. She called her back over and went to work on her. 'Why won't you do the interview with Wil?' I overheard Stacey-May demand. 'I thought you two were friends?'
'We were,' I heard Teresa say, all sorrowful like. And the way her voice sounded aw, it almost broke my heart all over again.
'Then why?'
I could see Teresa was nearly in tears. 'No reason.' 'Good. So you agree to do the interview?' 'OK,' said Teresa.
At that moment I felt sorry for her. Feeling returned in a rush. An uncertain tenderness. Followed by empathy. Then I remembered her kissing Seamus in front of me and I felt empty, like I was in the Void again.
'No way,' I said to Stacey-May, pointing at Teresa. 'Yes way. Problem Child.'
I folded my arms tight. 'Nah, and you can't make me!'
'I have a noon deadline for Friday on this so you're it or else I'm going to have to tell Bishop Clement O'Riley about your second fight in Great America.'
'You'd stoop to blackmail?' I said.
'Uh-huh. Works for me when nothing else does.'
The clever bitch! She had me by the balls.
Needless to say the atmosphere was a little tense when
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me and Teresa had to sit down in the church hall and under duress, talk about the Troubles with Ulster. We sort of represented them, see, in a metaphorical sense. We weren't speaking to each other or looking at each other or anything. And we were intent on winding each other up with our answers to political questions: well, I know I was.
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