And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  He began to sob; heavy, violent convulsions which shook his whole body. It felt good to submit to it, to let go. No longer did he have to pretend he cared. He had no pride, no self-respect. This was the real Seán McLoughlin, a wretched loser curled up in a ball, crying his eyes out. He didn’t ask for pity or concern, just to be left alone to wallow in the abject despair of his existence. He remained like that for some time, whimpering like a child, shivering and helpless. Then inexplicably he began to laugh. What an idiot he was, lying here on his bed bawling like a baby and over what? Lorcan, that little fucker? Jesus Christ. Daryl? The world’s most pitiful man! Get a grip, Seán, for fuck’s sake. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, embarrassed at the way he’d let himself go. He still had a lot to live for, despite the many obstacles placed in front of him. He was better than this, anyway, that was for sure. He didn’t have to hide away in his room like a terrified slave. He had as much right to be here as anyone. Why was he taking shit from Daryl? Who did he think he was, talking to him like that? Something in Seán snapped. He’d had enough. Now he felt like making a statement.

  17

  It would be just like his childhood fantasies, where he’d plunged the knife right into Daryl’s chest and watched with glee as the blood spurted out in high fountains, almost touching the ceiling. Except he wouldn’t actually stab him. He wasn’t that stupid. He’d just scare him a bit, make him understand that things were changing around here and that Seán McLoughlin was nobody’s whipping boy. Oh, he’d bring the knife all right, wave it about a bit and pretend he was serious, but he wasn’t going to kill him; he had more sense than that. He’d wait until Daryl begged for mercy, grovelled a bit, and then he’d back off. He would walk away, return the knife to its rightful place and head out for a couple of drinks. And when he returned later that night it would be to a different house, where he no longer had to live in fear. Daryl would understand then. He would see what happened when you pushed someone to their limits, and think twice before doing it again.

  Seán crept out of his room, making sure not to disturb Daryl. He was in the living-room now, eating by the sound of it. Seán plucked a knife from the block, wielded it and replaced it; too small. He needed a bigger one, the biggest. He went through them all, finally settling on a blade more suited to jungle warfare than household disputes. It was at least a foot in length and thick with it, thick enough to pierce a chest cavity and carry on through to the internal organs. As he held it, feeling the power, the strength it gave him, he wondered whether he might go through with it after all. Maybe he would fulfil his fantasy right through to the end: murder in the first degree. Or was it the second? He couldn’t remember which, but either would carry a long prison sentence and he didn’t like the idea of that. He could claim self-defence, but these cases were never straightforward. No, just a little fright for Daryl, that was all.

  He walked to the sitting-room, calm and in control, no longer afraid. Daryl was crouched forward, shovelling food into his mouth; lots of gravy, mashed spuds, meat, probably beef. It looked nice.

  “Enjoying that, yeah?”

  Daryl turned to look at him, mouth full, ready to skewer another sliver of meat. He grunted a response and returned to his dinner, not noticing the knife in Seán’s hand.

  “I asked you a question, Daryl.”

  He looked at Seán once more, irritated now. Hadn’t the festivities ended for the night? Hadn’t he already bested him? What was this nonsense?

  “G’way, boy.”

  Seán sprang into action, grabbing the plate and smashing it off the wall in one fluid movement. Then he shoved Daryl back into his chair and stood facing him, the knife pointed at his chest.

  “What the fuck!”

  “You can only push people so far, Daryl.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Seán.”

  It felt amazing, sensational, in fact. This was the defining moment in his life. Everything had been leading up to this moment, and from here on in nothing would be the same. He was no longer scared, he was in control. He was the master, and his demeanour said as much. He stood in front of his stepfather, feeling taller, bigger, and stronger, than he’d ever done before. Even his voice, usually a soft, well-mannered instrument, sounded different, its tone now one of authority.

  “For years I’ve had to listen to your shit, Daryl, every day of my fucking life. I’ve been put down and mocked, bullied and abused. Well, no more. No fucking more!”

  He made a swipe at his stepfather, intending just to frighten him a little, but his aim was off. A thin streak of blood appeared on Daryl’s cheek.

  “Oops, sorry about that, Daz.”

  Daryl raised a hand to his cheek, felt the blood and looked at Seán. His expression was pleading, that of a man desperately trying to appeal to his tormentor’s sensitive side. It was one Seán had worn himself on numerous occasions.

  “So what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Daryl looked at Seán with wide eyes, mouth opening and closing but no words coming forth. It was just as Seán had imagined it, only better.

  “ANSWER ME!”

  Daryl started in surprise. “What – I – ”

  “The fucking tough guy, huh? The hard-man of Dooncurra; look at you now!”

  Cocky now, Seán juggled the knife from one hand to the other, as if pondering how the fatal blow was to be applied.

  “Fuckin’ tough guy,” he repeated as he juggled.

  The knife danced from one hand to the other and then back, and back once more. Seán wasn’t paying attention, indeed had almost forgotten about his weapon. Daryl hadn’t, though. Sensing his opportunity, he leapt forward, driving his fist into Seán’s midriff and knocking them both backwards. As they fell to the floor, Seán’s head collided with the solid oak coffee table, clipping its edge. His right temple hit it with a sickening jolt, knocking him unconscious. By the time he reached the ground he was out cold, his head lolling on his shoulders as it flopped to the carpeted floor. Daryl, his focus on being first to rise, pinned Seán to the floor, ready to continue his assault.

  “Now, ya little prick!” he said triumphantly.

  He launched a volley of heavy blows to Seán’s unprotected head, but the thick, clubbing shots were met with no resistance; his adversary was out for the count. Daryl had won, he was triumphant. He rose hesitantly from the floor, worried now that he might have gone too far. Seán was still breathing, as far as he could tell. He’d leave him for a few minutes and come back then.

  18

  Seán’s head hurt and he couldn’t see; worse, he couldn’t breathe. His mouth was blocked, and his nose too. He tried to suck in air but nothing came. Maybe if he moved his head, things would improve. He cranked it to the side and his passageways unblocked instantly. Oxygen gushed into his lungs. He could breathe again. He lay on his side in the middle of the floor, gasping for air, wondering how he’d got there. He focused on breathing, that was his main priority right now. His brain wasn’t working properly. He couldn’t think of anything but air and his need of it. Slowly, though, his sight began to return. Everything was fuzzy and brown, but it was an improvement on the nothingness that had preceded it.

  After some time, he couldn’t tell how long, his breathing settled down and he took stock of the situation. He remembered that he had arms and legs; it would be a good idea to try to move them. He stretched his legs; they worked. Then his arms; they worked too. Now it was just a matter of using them both at the same time. Slowly he hauled himself off the floor and took in his surroundings. He was in the living-room of his house. He should go to the kitchen and get some water. Moving towards the door, he was stopped in his tracks by a sharp pain in his right temple. He raised his hand to his head, to the source of the pain. It was tender to the touch but there was no blood. His whole head hurt, but the pain centred on that spot. It pulsed and throbbed under his skin, accompanied by a piercing ringing noise which was al
most too much to bear. He shook his head, trying to rouse himself, but that just made it worse. He tried to pull his thoughts together. What had happened? Why was his head so sore, and where were his shoes? Then he remembered the fight. He and Daryl had been fighting; over what? It hardly mattered. He’d been winning because he’d had a knife. That was where the memory ended.

  But if he’d woken up on the floor with a sore head it seemed unlikely he’d won the fight. Where was Daryl now? Was the fight over? He didn’t want to hang around to find out, he was in no mood for fighting. He went to his room, ignoring the pain in his head and the dizziness. He had to get out of here. It was only when he saw the bag of cans that he remembered what he’d been doing. He’d been getting ready for a night out, a big night in Wexford, in Ambience. There was a bus at 7.30. He had to be on that. His shoes were nowhere to be seen so he pulled on a pair of trainers, hoping the bouncers at Ambience would look kindly upon them, grabbed the cans, his phone and his wallet and went back out to the hallway. He felt fine now. It was going to take a lot more than a bump on the head to keep him away from that bus.

  He stepped outside. It was dark now, too dark; darker than it should have been. He pulled out his phone and turned it on. The luminous green background came to life, the time displayed in stark black numbers in the foreground: 7.55. He was too late, he’d missed the bus. He wouldn’t be going to Wexford. But maybe it hadn’t gone, maybe Pegs had made the driver wait. He called his friend.

  “Pegs?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are ye gone?”

  “We are, man. I told you we were.”

  “Oh, did you?”

  “Yeah. Is everything all right, Seán? You sound a bit weird.”

  “I’m okay, Pegs. I was just fighting, that’s all.”

  “With who?”

  “Daryl.”

  “That fucking prick.”

  “I was winning, though. I had a knife.”

  “What the fuck, a knife?”

  “Yeah, no one was stabbed, though.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Lockie. Where are you now?”

  “Just walking, might head down by the river.”

  “Take it easy, okay?”

  “Of course I will, Pegs.”

  “Might ring you later.”

  “Grand.”

  He hung up. The river, that was a good idea.

  19

  In order to get there, he first had to walk along the main street. There were other ways of getting there, but that was the quickest. Once he reached the end of the street, he could duck down a laneway and carry onto the river. The town was already busy, as another Friday night swung into action and the crowds flocked to the numerous pubs dotted along Dooncurra’s prime thoroughfare. People hurried past him as he walked, all clacking heels and expensive scents, making arrangements over the phone, planning the night ahead. Seán kept his head down, hoping he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew. His headache was getting worse and now he felt faint as well. He could still walk well enough, but his footsteps were light, almost floaty. Just focus, just focus, Seán. He still had his cans, but if he were to spend the night by the riverbank he would need something stronger; some spirits and maybe a few more cans, just in case. There was an off-licence at the end of the street. He’d go in there, get the booze and disappear into the darkness, away from prying eyes.

  As soon as he walked into the shop he felt worse, much worse. The lights dazzled him, causing his head to spin and his legs to turn to jelly. Just focus, just focus. There were people around him, loud voices shouting at one another from opposite ends of the store. He ignored them, keeping his head down, focusing on his task.

  “Howya, Seán,” said a voice.

  “Fine,” he croaked in response, not looking up.

  “Jaysus, boy, you must have been on the booze all day, were ya?”

  Seán tried to laugh but it came out wrong, a strange, strangled utterance.

  “Fuckin’ hell, boy, you’d want to go home for yourself,” the voice continued.

  He walked down to the fridges, his sight blurring round the edges. Two more cans would do. He opened one of the doors and pulled out the first cans he touched; it didn’t matter what they were. Now he just needed a bottle of something. There were bottles on the wall to his left. He took one down from the shelf. It was brown, it would have to do. With his purchases in one hand and his existing bag of cans in the other, he headed for the counter.

  Reaching into his pocket for some money, he put what he found on the counter, hoping it was enough. The cash register rang and he felt his change being pushed into his hand.

  “Want a bag, Seán?”

  “Nah,” he managed and headed for the exit, for the sanctity of darkness.

  Once he was back outside, he felt better. It had just been the lights and the noise in there that had sent him into a daze. He was fine now, he really was. It still felt like someone else was propelling him forward, like he wasn’t really walking; aside from that, though, everything was okay. Even his headache had improved, his head just felt numb now. The only real pain came from his temple, which continued to pulse away like a second heartbeat. He reached the riverbank and stepped onto the track which ran alongside it. He was safe. No one would bother him here. He’d walk further than he’d ever gone before and settle down for the evening. It’d be great. He’d get pissed, take some pills and meet up with the lads later.

  He walked for a few minutes, feeling happier the further he went. Along the way he passed a group of kids, younger than himself. One or two nodded in recognition, another might have asked for a cigarette, but he wasn’t in a talking mood. He continued on his way, determined to find perfect isolation, and after twenty minutes of walking he found it. No one came up this far, except maybe the fishermen.

  Satisfied that he’d gone far enough, he looked for a nice spot to while away the evening, somewhere he could set up camp until he returned to civilisation in the small hours. A few minutes later, he found precisely what he was looking for. The path broadened out to reveal a small picnic area with a couple of benches. It wasn’t so dark here; the moon shone down, bathing the area in a gloomy pall. This was the spot. It was perfect.

  Sitting on one of the benches, he popped open a can and set about rolling a joint to accompany it. The headache had returned and he felt dizzy, slightly woozy too; that wouldn’t last long, though. Once he got them Doves down him, he wouldn’t feel a thing. He gazed out at the river, at the water shimmering under the moon’s milky light. It was so peaceful here, the only sound that of faraway traffic as it brought people to and from the public houses of Dooncurra. Cars full of happy people dressed in their finest garments, excited to be going out on the town. Once they reached their destination, they’d spill out of taxis, giggling, then head inside to be greeted by smiling, welcoming faces. Their night would begin with merriment and warmth and end in dishevelled confusion a few hours later. That was how his nights ended, anyway. These folk were probably different. Normal people didn’t overdo things, content just to have a few jars. They got tipsy, maybe even a little drunk, but no more than that, and when the taxi pulled up at the prearranged spot, they were ready and waiting to go home. They clambered inside and were ferried back to loved ones, to mothers and fathers who’d been lying awake in bed listening for their return. These sensible drinkers with loving parents would wake early the next morning, around the time Seán was usually weaving his way home, and stumble out of bed to join the rest of the family at the breakfast table.

  “Oh, here she comes,” they’d tease, as Carol, the mad wan, gingerly tiptoed into the kitchen.

  Talk would turn to the events of the night before, Mammy and Daddy captivated as Carol told them all about the fella she’d kissed, a fine cut of a lad from out the country somewhere.

  “Are you meeting him again tonight?” they’d ask.

  �
��Jaysus, I’m not,” she’d say with forced embarrassment, and they’d all laugh.

  That was Carol for you, kissing blokes right, left and centre; never anything more than that, though. Right now she was just enjoying herself, playing the field, not looking for anything serious. Her studies were her main focus. She hoped to become a barrister, but that wouldn’t happen unless she got her degree. She worked hard all week, harder than most of her peers, so she was entitled to enjoy herself once the weekend came. And after she’d qualified there wouldn’t be much time for nights on the town. There wouldn’t much time for anything by then, and the weekends home would become less frequent too.

  When she did come home she’d bring Fergal, her new boyfriend, and he was a gas lad altogether, a real charmer. He’d immediately hit it off with Carol’s father, the two men taking up residence in the living-room, watching the rugby, setting the world to rights while the women did whatever it was they did. He’d quickly become part of the family and everyone, especially Carol’s father, would be overjoyed when the wedding was announced. First, though, they’d have to build a house, you couldn’t forget that; there was a certain way of doing things, after all. House built, wedding over, Carol would set about starting a family of her own, and soon the weekend visits home would include a husband and child; her parents’ first grandchild, and boy, would they spoil him. He’d be the star of the show, entertaining them all with his funny little ways, his granddad’s nose and his nanny’s smile. Then Thomas, Carol’s younger brother, would emerge from his slumber. He was an adult now and had recently started going out on the town with his friends, following in his sister’s footsteps. Now he was the one being ribbed about his Friday night shenanigans, getting teased as the love-bite he thought he’d concealed was spotted by his observant sister.