And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  Jonathan panicked, redoubling his efforts, digging deeper than he’d ever dug before, but it just wasn’t there. He was running on empty; he had nothing more to give. The world around him became a blur, a sickening blend of colours and sounds. He was vaguely aware he’d crossed the line and that it was time to stop running, but no more than that. Paul came towards him, patting him on the back, offering consolation. Jonathan stared at him as if he were a ghost. Second place. He sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. He wished he could stay like this forever, or at least until everyone had left the arena; but a pat on the back and pair of hands under his armpits forced him upwards into the glare of the public; the third-placed runner, happy to have won a medal, eager to share the moment with somebody. Jonathan shrugged him off, every inch the sore loser. He wanted to get out of here. Now they were all crowding around, checking the electronic scoreboard, seeing what times they’d run. Through the haze Jonathan looked at his own time and then at the winning time; the latter was over half a second slower than the time he’d set in qualifying. Whitworth hadn’t beaten him, he’d beaten himself. What had happened? Why had his body failed him at the crucial moment? He knew precisely why. The disturbance from the night before had put paid to his hopes and dreams.

  Everything he had worked for, all that effort, all that toil ruined by the actions of others. His father, pissed drunk, roaring and shouting in the dead of night, so consumed by his own demons that he hadn’t stopped to consider the needs of others. Any ounce of concern Jonathan had for him evaporated as he gathered his stuff and made for the changing-rooms. He knew that if he looked up at the crowd he would see his mother, standing on her own, offering her support, but he couldn’t bear to look at her, couldn’t bear to see the pity in her eyes. Perhaps later, when the true enormity of his failure hit home, he would need her consolation, but right now he needed to be alone. He kept his head down, hoping to make it to the sanctuary of the changing-rooms without having to speak to anyone. Going underneath the stands, straight by team-mates preparing for their own races, past his coach, whose disappointment would be on a par with his own, he hurried to the sanctuary of the dressing-room, walking past them all without a word. One person tracked him all the way, forging a path through the throng until only a barrier separated him from the second-placed athlete in the 800 metres. He ran to greet him, to congratulate him on his marvellous performance.

  “Jonathan!” Malcolm shouted, hanging over the railings.

  The voice dragged Jonathan from his stupor. He looked towards its source: it was his father, looking none the worse for wear after his night of destruction. Jonathan went on walking.

  “Jonathan!” Malcolm shouted once more, certain that the boy hadn’t heard him.

  Jonathan walked on, head down, until he reached the changing-rooms. For the second time in a matter of hours, he ignored the plaintive cries of his father. He had no desire to answer them, not now, not ever.

  2003

  Seán

  1.

  The alarm sounded, rousing Seán from his slumber. He groaned involuntarily and groped for the clock. Half seven. Time for work. How much sleep had he had? Not enough, four hours at best. This was going to be a long day.

  He hadn’t intended to stay out all night. The plan had been to go to Forde’s for a couple and be home before midnight. But that was the problem with Thursdays; it felt like the weekend had already arrived. You’d just got paid, there was only one more day of work to go, it was all too easy to lose the run of yourself. They’d had their couple and were ready to call it a night when Pegs suggested they finish up with a few large whiskies. Never one to turn up his nose at whiskey, Seán had thought this a splendid idea, and from that point forth the night had took on an altogether different character. Naturally enough, they’d stayed until closing. It wouldn’t have been too bad if they’d left it at that. He could have been in bed by one; six and a half hours’ sleep, hangover gone by lunchtime; but as they were on their way out the door they met Paudie O’Brien, who suggested they go back to his for a session. Usually they wouldn’t have gone near Paudie or set foot inside his house, but you didn’t get many sessions in Dooncurra of a Thursday night and Paudie said he had loads of drink. That was enough for them.

  Even the fact that Paudie wasn’t long out of prison didn’t deter them. He’d just got himself into a spot of bother, that was all. Two years for actual bodily harm? Sure, that could mean anything. Paudie was a decent sort, a bit reckless but sound really. So what if he’d fallen right back into his old life upon release? Round-the-clock drinking, late-night brawls in the middle of town, dealing drugs with flagrant disregard for the authorities, stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down – he had to make a living too, didn’t he?

  If you were to meet him in the pub, you’d think him one of the friendliest fellows on the face of the earth. He’d buy you a drink, join you at your table and instantly become the life and soul of the party, regaling all present with his roguish tales of high jinks and tomfoolery. Then he’d take over, getting louder and louder, shouting at you, shouting at everyone, thumping you on the back, almost shattering your spine with his fist. His stories would become more sinister, the glint in his eye telling you that a new story, with a similarly macabre finale, could be created at a moment’s notice. He’d order a round of double brandies for the table, watching you as you drank, making sure you didn’t waste a drop. That charming man you’d met less than an hour ago was now a liability. You and your friends made eyes at one another, trying to think of ways to ditch him, because you knew he was nearing his tipping point. Things would soon turn nasty, and you didn’t want to be around when they did. If you were lucky, he’d accept your excuses and allow you to leave without too much fuss. But if you weren’t, and he took offence to your premature departure, well, you’d be drinking your next double brandy through a straw.

  On the face of it, then, heading back to Paudie’s for a Thursday night session wasn’t the brightest idea, but it was somewhere to go, a place where they could keep on drinking. Seán had never been to Paudie’s house, but he’d heard stories about it. Inherited from his grandmother, it had once been a cute little cottage, with a well-tended garden and a homely interior full of kitsch trinkets and photos of happy, smiling grandchildren; a lovely Nanny’s house. Then Paudie assumed ownership and within weeks it became a den of iniquity, the go-to venue for every drunkard within a five-mile radius. The garden, once Mrs. O’Brien’s pride and joy, became a dumping ground with empty bottles and cans strewn all over it. Bike parts, rusty engines and old washing machines took the place of hydrangeas, lilies and forget-me-nots, the few remaining flowers wilting under a nightly dousing of urine from disorientated winos. That was just the outside; what lay beyond was anyone’s guess, but a front door hanging off its hinges, broken windows and crumbling brickwork hinted at something far from cosy. This situation had worsened during Paudie’s spell in jail, the local winos all but moving in and claiming it as their own. That arrangement had come to a premature end upon his release, however, his unexpected return home and the ensuing fracas leaving two of Dooncurra’s more loveable souses hospitalised for an unspecified length of time. After that, people were reluctant to call to the house uninvited. The open-door policy was no more. Paudie still entertained, still had guests over, but there was some indication that he was trying to make the place a home once more, to return it to its former glory.

  He hadn’t done a great job, though. It was still a shithole. Once he’d managed to get the door open – ‘just a second lads, there’s a knack to this’ – and led them inside they gawped at their surroundings; it was as if someone had gone to the local dump and built a house right in the middle of all the waste. You had to wade through the rubbish to get from one room to the next, and when you got there you wished you’d stayed where you’d been. There were signs of better days: patches of carpet here and there, pink and thick, no doubt chosen by his nann
y; a three-piece suite, again pink but in a lighter shade; and wallpaper, ornately patterned, matching the colour scheme perfectly. The mantelpiece bore one lone picture, a smiling Paudie, maybe twelve years old with his beloved nan, the glass cracked across the front. These were gentle reminders of a happier past, of a time when people lived here rather than existed, but they were ultimately overwhelmed by the carnage, the stacks of rubbish, the brown stains all over the walls and the indefinable odour which caught in your throat if you breathed in too deeply.

  Remarkably, the house had electricity, although it wasn’t much use without heating or appliances. It did afford them some light, though, via the naked bulb which hung miserably from the living-room ceiling. Predictably there was no television, but Paudie did have a battered little radio with a tape deck. As soon as they saw it they knew what was coming: traditional Irish music, and lots of it. True to form, Paudie procured a tape from the inside pocket of his denim jacket, and within seconds the Chieftains were singing loud and proud through the radio’s tinny speakers.

  “What the fuck are we doing here, lads?” Seán whispered, careful not to upset their host who had disappeared to find the drink he had promised them.

  “Ah, relax, Seán, will ya. This is great craic,” Pegs replied, his knees hopping up and down, mimicking the playing of an imaginary bodhrán.

  “For fuck’s sake, Pegs, don’t encourage him. He’ll have us all on our feet singing the national anthem at this rate.”

  That was Hooch, a workmate of Pegs’ who had been hanging around with them a lot lately. After some initial misgivings, Seán had warmed to the friend of his friend and now considered him a friend in his own right. They shared the same hobbies; football, music, drinking and drugs. Were of the same age and social status, and had a similar outlook on life; here for a good time, not a long time. Their friendship, while a surprise to them both, was, in many ways, written in the stars.

  “Comfy, lads, are we?” queried Paudie as he returned to join them.

  “Grand now, Paudie, thanks,” replied Pegs, not looking up from the joint he was busily rolling.

  “Ah yeah, a few tunes and a few drinks; sure that’s all you need, isn’t it, lads?”

  “’Tis, Paudie,” said Hooch solemnly.

  They sat in silence for a moment, Seán wondering whether to compliment their host on his home and thinking better of it; Hooch sipping from his can, pausing, and then sipping from it again. Only Pegs seemed entirely unperturbed by the situation, amiably nodding his head to the music and burning the hash into the joint, as if he spent most nights hanging out with the local sociopath.

  Finally, he sparked it up, took a couple of drags and passed it to Paudie.

  “I don’t smoke that shit,” their host retorted, aggressively downing another can, his third since they’d arrived half an hour earlier.

  He stood up, wiped the beer from his long, straggly beard and announced that he’d be back with some ‘real booze’ in a couple of minutes.

  “Fuckin’ hell, lads, why did we come back here?” asked Hooch, stifling a giggle.

  “He’s not right in the head, lads, I’m tellin’ ye,” said Seán, nervously looking over his shoulder. “If he starts on any of us, we all jump on him at the same time, agreed?”

  He looked to his friends for reassurance, but all he got was a big stoned smile from Pegs and an ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter’ look from Hooch. Neither of them seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, that a word out of place could see them buried in the garden with the rest of Paudie’s victims. He could be heard clattering away in the kitchen, pots and pans crashing against the walls, the occasional ‘fuck’ as he struggled to find his ‘real booze’.

  “That’s probably where he keeps his tools, lads,” Seán whispered. “C’mon to fuck, let’s go.”

  “Relax, Seán, for fuck’s sake,” said Pegs. “He’s just gone off to get more drink. With any luck, he’ll have some vodka or something.”

  “FOUND YA, YA BASTARD!!”

  Paudie’s voice sounded out triumphantly from the kitchen; whether it was alcohol or a murder weapon he’d located they couldn’t be sure. He returned, kicking cans and rubbish as he went.

  “Look at this, lads,” he said proudly, holding up a bottle full of clear liquid.

  “What is it, Paudie?”

  “Poitín, lads. Poitín.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Seán.

  “This is the kinda tack we need, lads, fuck that hash shite!” said Paudie, scouring the room for glasses. “This’ll fuckin’ sort ye. Men from the fuckin’ boys now, I tell ye.”

  They watched his shaved head bob up and down as he ducked and dived through all the junk in search of some drinking glasses – Sean saying a silent prayer that he wouldn’t find any.

  But he was not to be denied, and after a long, dramatic salvage operation he emerged with a chipped pint glass, a child’s beaker and two mugs, their handles long since departed.

  “Now, lads, we’re set.”

  “Erm, can we give these a wash, Paudie?” asked Hooch hesitantly.

  “Ha, ha,” Paudie cackled, uncorking the bottle. “Can we give them a wash? Ha, ha.”

  Hooch took that as a ‘no’ and remained in his seat, trying to ignore the ring of dirt around the rim of the mug. Paudie poured a healthy measure of the poitín into his glass and signalled to his companions to hold out their various drinking vessels.

  “Now, lads,” he said when he’d served everyone, “this is the real shit, SO FUCKING DRINK UP!”

  Seán jumped at the sound of his voice. He’d been lost in thought, wondering how they could extricate themselves from this grave situation, but now, under Paudie’s fierce instructions, he did precisely as he’d been told. He knocked the drink back in one, its acrid fumes attacking his nose before the liquid had passed his lips. He waited for it to hit him. But there was nothing. Maybe he’d got away with it? This poitín stuff was fuck all. Then it came. A fiery blast; beginning in his throat, rolling down into his chest, burning his lungs, carrying on into his stomach, poisoning it, and ending by cutting off the oxygen supply to his brain.

  “Fuck,” he gasped, struggling for breath. “Jesus!”

  He looked around at the others to see if they were experiencing the same, but he couldn’t see anything except a whirl of colours and misshapen objects. He was blind now; thanks a lot, Paudie. He bowed his head, covered his face with his hands and took some deep breaths. Gradually he felt his senses return; he could hear the Chieftains, he could smell the dirt of Paudie’s house and, if he focused, he could just about see.

  “What the fuck is that shit?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Good man, young McLoughlin,” Paudie laughed. “That’s the real shit; I told ya!”

  Seán looked at his friends, neither of whom had finished their drink. Hooch had taken a sip of his before putting it to one side and Pegs having sniffed the contents of his mug, had cried off completely.

  “Only man among ye, lads, young McLoughlin here! Fair play to ya, boy.” Paudie rose from his seat, offering Seán his hand. He gripped it firmly, pulling Seán to his feet.

  “Fair fuckin’ play to ya, boy!” Paudie growled, shoving his face right into Seán’s. Pegs and Hooch looked on in concern, but there was no aggression in his actions, only admiration.

  “Only fuckin’ man among ye,” repeated Paudie, holding Seán’s arm aloft. He poured them another measure of the drink, just himself and Seán, the two men of the house.

  That was where Seán’s memory ended. He recalled singing and shouting, a little dancing and then more shouting, but that was all. He couldn’t remember getting home or going to bed, but he had got there, so it wasn’t all bad. Now all he had to do was get up. He made to move, but stopped abruptly; the slightest movement of his head had caused the room to spin violently, and only by remaining completely still
did it come to a halt. This was never a good sign. Given the choice he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep, but he wouldn’t give Daryl the satisfaction. His stepfather would absolutely love this; Seán crying off work with a hangover. He’d bleat on about it for weeks, citing it as further proof of Seán’s weakness and his inability to behave like a real man. Seán felt sick though, really sick. This was no ordinary hangover. He wrestled with his emotions, weighing up the cost of taking the day off, measuring the grief he’d get from his stepfather against the pain he felt now. He’d almost decided to go back to sleep when the decision was made for him.

  “Come on, Seán, get up. It’s quarter to eight.”

  He hadn’t heard Daryl get up but he was out there, readying himself for his own day of work. He obviously knew Seán had been out the night before and was taking great delight in his condition.

  Seán tried again to move and this time the spinning wasn’t as bad, but now his stomach turned and twisted in a way it had never done before. He lay there motionless, waiting to see if he was going to get sick, but nothing came. His stomach felt empty. Chances were he’d already been sick. He hoped it hadn’t been in the house.

  “You getting up, Seán?” came Daryl’s voice from the hallway.

  If he didn’t rise now the fucker would be in here asking questions, and he didn’t need that.

  “Yeah,” he croaked back, the sound hurting his head.

  Lying there moaning and groaning wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It was like taking off a plaster, you had to do it quickly and without hesitation. He took a deep breath and sat up in one swift motion, swinging his legs out of bed at the same time. The pain in his head intensified to such a level that for a second he thought it might explode. It was too much to bear; all he could do was concentrate on not dying. He’d never had to do such a thing before but he thought he made a good fist of it, and it must have worked because after a minute or so the pain eased, leaving him dizzy and light-headed but alive. Getting to his feet was the next challenge. He did so unsteadily, fighting the urge to sit back down, and stood in the middle of the room trying to get his bearings. Only now did he realise he was still fully dressed in his work clothes; a ‘uniform’ which consisted of a black pair of trousers, black shirt and grey tie. He’d at least managed to kick his shoes off at some point during the night, or at least he hoped so; they’d cost him fifty euro and he was fucked if he was buying another pair solely for work. But there they were, at the end of the bed, safe and sound. Better still, there, on the floor, was his jacket, a bit dirty but present and accounted for. It seemed that he’d made it back relatively unscathed. True, he had a hangover quite unlike anything he’d ever experienced and he had to go to work, but all things considered, it wasn’t a bad result.