And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  Seán wondered if he could have a family like that one day. He could, y’know. Just because the adults in his life had failed him didn’t mean he had to follow in their footsteps. When he had kids, he’d make sure he did it the right way. They would be born into a loving, caring home where Mammy and Daddy loved them as much as they loved each other. His kids would never have to retreat to their room for safety, or creep around the kitchen looking for something to eat. What was his would be theirs. They would be happy children who would grow into happy, well-adjusted adults. They’d start families of their own and produce grandchildren for him, further evidence of the good he’d done in his life. And, as he looked at them, gazed into their innocent little faces, he would realise he’d finally done it. He’d escaped his past, not quite erased it but done enough to ensure it couldn’t hurt anyone else. These children would be untainted by his badness; they would know nothing of his youth. He would just be a sweet old man who liked going for walks in the woods, their granddad.

  20

  The drink hadn’t had the desired effect. His headache was still very much in situ; if anything, it was getting worse. He was starting to feel nauseous, too. In a situation like this, there was only one thing for it: out came the pills. He downed one and immediately felt better. In another half an hour or so there’d be no more headaches, no more bellyaches, just pure, unadulterated bliss. He took out his phone to text Pegs.

  “Hey man, how’s Wexford? I’m up the bank having a few cans and just took a yoke! Session when ye come back?”

  Pegs was probably too off his head to even find his phone, never mind read a text, but he’d see it eventually, possibly on the bus on the way back. Now that Seán had a pill down him, he began to reassess his plans for the night. He’d never taken one on his own before and thought it might get boring all alone, miles from town, without so much as a Walkman with him. Could be interesting too though, a fascinating sociological experiment or something like that. Right now it was best to wait until the drug took hold and take things from there. He might end up going into town; if he was off his head, it would hardly matter that he was on his own. Maybe he’d bump into Danielle? They hadn’t exchanged numbers, and there’d been no indication of it being anything more than a one-night stand, but they were good together and she knew it. It could be awkward, though, seeing her again, all dressed up, on the pull again. What if she was with someone else? That would hurt. No, he wouldn’t approach her if he saw her, she could come to him. But he’d probably stay here anyway, so it didn’t matter. Maybe tomorrow night, Dani, if you’re lucky.

  He stood up to piss, but before he could take a step he swayed violently to one side. Fumbling his way back to the bench, he contented himself with pissing from a seated position; it wasn’t easy, but he managed it. He’d only had three or four cans and a couple of joints, and the pill, of course, but none of that could explain the dizziness; he had been almost literally legless. He stood up again to test his limbs and once more the ground gave way beneath his feet, forcing him to sit down. His nausea was returning, too. A sudden retch almost brought up the entire contents of his stomach. It must have been the pills, those fucking Doves. He’d felt a bit iffy while coming up on them last week, but nothing like this. Just as well he’d bought that bottle of spirits, that would settle his nerves. He shakily unscrewed the cap and took a slug, but it didn’t have the desired effect. It just slithered down his gullet and sat in his stomach, acrid and burning. For fuck’s sake! It had to be the Es. They were getting him in a right state, but that just meant that the buzz would be even better when he finally came up. There wouldn’t be any stumbling and staggering then, just smooth, slick moves as he sauntered back to town and into Moody Blues.

  His phone went off: a text from Pegs. Seán fumbled in his pocket for the device and, feeling its familiar cold bulk, pulled it out of his pocket to see what his friend was up to. But, try as he might, he couldn’t read the text. He could barely make out the screen, which was just a green blur in front of his eyes. After a considerable period of time he managed to unlock the phone, but none of the icons were where they were supposed to be. Usually he could have navigated its interface blindfolded, but the more he focused the harder it became.

  “Fuck,” he said quietly.

  The voice no longer sounded like his own. Was it his own? Was there someone else here? He looked around for signs of life. But it was just him. Just him and the bench, and the river. He didn’t want to be here anymore; he was afraid. He just wanted to be at home in bed, but not in Daryl’s house, at his grandparents’ house. That was his real home, the only place he’d ever felt safe. He remembered staying over on Friday nights as a child, the fun he and his nanny had had. They’d sit by the fire, playing games and eating chocolate until it was time for him to go to bed. She’d carry him up, tucking him in so tight he could barely breathe and his feet were in danger of bursting into flames from the hot-water bottle. After kissing him goodnight she’d leave the light on in the hall, promising to come back in a few minutes to look in on him.

  “Okay, Nanny,” he’d say as he snuggled under the covers, tired but too excited to sleep.

  When sleep did come he went with it willingly, because he knew there were no strange men here, no one trying to take his mother away from him. In this house, everyone loved him.

  Downstairs, Noel had returned from the pub, and was cursing his wife for putting the boy to bed before he’d got the chance to see him. Ignoring her protestations, he’d march upstairs for a look, secretly hoping the little fella was still awake. He wasn’t, but Noel would tiptoe into the room and while Seán slept and dreamt of togging out for Fergie’s boys, his grandfather would bend down and kiss him gently on the forehead.

  “Love you, Seány,” he’d whisper, all sentimental from the whiskey. “Goodnight, lad.”

  Then he’d creep back downstairs, wondering if the oul’ wan might let him have a leg over given the night that was in it.

  21

  How long had he been sleeping? He couldn’t tell, but he wished he were still asleep. He felt terrible. The pain in his head was worse now, much worse, and the ringing in his ears had reached fever-pitch, shattering the peace and quiet of his secluded location. Putting his hands over his ears didn’t help; the noise continued, unabated. Movement of any kind made everything worse. Seán lay there, moaning softly, as the world closed in around him. His thoughts became scrambled as he tried to piece together the last few hours of his life. How had he got here? Why was he lying on a bench in the middle of nowhere? Was that the river over there? It looked like it. Had he come here after work, with Pegs, maybe? Where was Pegs now?

  If ever he needed his friend, it was now. Pegs would sort things out, he always did. Seán tried to call out for him but the sound was lost, drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He was scared now, scared beyond belief. He began to pray, unable to hear the words but hoping that they’d reach their intended target.

  “Dear God, I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done.

  Please let me get through this and I’ll never sin again.

  I know I’ve said stuff like this before, but this time I mean it.

  And I know I haven’t been very holy up to now, but that will change too.

  I’m sorry, God, really I am, but I’m not a bad lad, am I?

  There’s worse than me out there, we both know that.

  Just let me see the morning and I promise that I’ll never take drugs again.

  I’ll tell my mother I love her and be nicer to Kevin

  I’ll even try and get on with Daryl.

  Please God, just this one time and I’ll never ask for anything again.

  Please, please, please. I’m sorry, God.”

  As his lament to the almighty died out, he lapsed into sleep once more. It was better than being awake, he embraced it with open arms.

  He dreamt of Leanne. They were holding han
ds and walking on the beach. It was night-time, and they had the entire seafront to themselves. The ocean lapped gently against their bare feet, tickling them. Leanne giggled as she kicked some water at Seán and ran away, laughing, hoping he would give chase. He did, catching her easily, grabbing her by the waist and dragging her down into the soft, warm sand. He lay on top of her, looking down at her face, so beautiful, so vulnerable. He wanted to fuck her to death and cradle her in his arms, all at the same time.

  “Seány,” she whispered.

  He knew what she wanted and he gave it to her, wordlessly, without effort. She sighed contentedly. They were as one, their bodies connected, both wishing they could stay like this forever. Neither of them pushed or thrust against the other, they were content simply to be. Their mouths met in the darkness, again with no pressure. To do so would have been to push the other away. They breathed in each other’s air, connected in every way possible. This was where he would remain for eternity, where he’d always wanted to be.

  “Seány,” she murmured again, her voice echoing inside his head.

  Once more he understood. He understood her every need and desire. It was his duty to fulfil them. He forced himself deeper inside, straining but remaining as gentle and as still as he possibly could. All he wanted was to crawl inside her skin, to become a part of her, have her heart beating over his, her lungs inhaling the same air. She tugged at his hair, encouraging him, letting him know that it was time and she was ready. He let himself go, relieved to have given her what she wanted; he never wanted to disappoint her or let her down. Leanne sighed appreciatively. Taking it as a sign, he came up for air. The cold wind immediately blasted him, chilling him to the bone. He tried to envelop himself in her arms once more, to return to the warmth and comfort of her touch, but she no longer wanted him. Her eyes were vacant and uninterested, even contemptuous. He reached out and pawed at her, pleading with her to take him in her arms once more. She looked away, waiting for him to depart. She had no use for him anymore. He felt sick, disgusted by her betrayal. She had used him for her own sordid needs and now wished to dispense with him as if he were nothing.

  Bile rose in his stomach, forced upwards by his rage and sorrow. Leanne raised her hands to protect herself, apologetic now, trying to reason with him; but he would never harm her, not intentionally. She was his life’s blood, without her he was nothing. No matter what she did, no matter how badly she hurt him, he would always nurture and protect her. He couldn’t control this though, something bad was about to happen; it was flowing through him, the badness, ready to come to the surface. He tried to speak, to tell Leanne to run, to get away from him, but the only sound was a muffled burbling, a suffocated plea. He tried to move his arms to push her away, but they flapped around aimlessly like a fish fighting for its life on dry land.

  “LEANNE!” he screamed, the word almost causing his head to explode.

  She turned her head away, fighting with him now, wanting to escape but unable to do so. He stared into her face, hoping to convey his message through sight alone, and there staring back at him was Alice, the young Alice, the one he’d betrayed. She shook her head in silent recrimination. It tore his heart asunder.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, but to no avail. She was gone too.

  “Why are you sorry, Seán?”

  Danielle was there now, her pupils dilated, the size of saucers. She was chewing a piece of gum.

  “Dani,” he said with a frightened whimper, “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry, Seán?” she asked, still chewing.

  “I’m sorry, Dani,” he said and fell into her arms.

  She took him and consoled him. There was nothing sexual in her gesture, she wanted only to mother him, to protect him against evil.

  “Don’t worry, Seán,” she said. “I’ve got you now.”

  When he awoke it was almost dawn. Was it over? Not quite. Soon though. He could no longer see; he was completely blind, but he could still hear. Birds sang nearby, the dawn chorus. It was pleasing at first, all these little creatures coming to life, introducing themselves to the world. Hello, little birdies, how are you this morning? Then the pain returned, the maddening, inescapable throbbing in his head. The noise of the cheerful birds bore into his skull, each separate note drilling a hole in his tender, aching temples. There was nothing he could do to stop it or them, they were a part of nature, part of God’s beautiful kingdom. The noise continued unabated, reaching a pitch so high that it became white noise. That felt better, he could tune out it now. The last thing he wanted to do was stop the birds singing, to interfere with God’s plan for the world.

  His other senses stirred momentarily. He sensed dampness on his head, around his ears. Had it been raining? Perhaps, but the rest of him didn’t feel damp, just cold, incredibly cold. Wait, there was dampness elsewhere too, around his groin, he’d soiled himself. And around his face on the bench where he lay. He’d been sick. The stench was overpowering, his face pressed right into it so that it covered his mouth and nose. It was the smell of death and decay, the final expulsion of a body about to breathe its last. Soon he would join that filthy, useless matter, unless someone came to help him. No one would come, though; he’d made sure of that by walking so far out of town. He made one last effort, tried to rouse himself, but there was no response, nothing was working as it should. It was over. All hope was lost, the fight knocked out of him. It had all been for nothing, all that railing and raging. This was where it had got him, on a bench listening to the birds, lying in his own waste. He crawled back inside his head to the white noise and waited for it to stop.

  Now that he’d accepted his fate, he began to feel better about it all. It wasn’t so bad here. He had his own little spot where no one could get him. Soon the pain would disappear and he would go somewhere else. It would be nice there, he could feel it. But his mother! Oh, his poor mother, what about her? He panicked for a moment and thought about resisting, thought about holding on, just in case. But it was too late for that now, far too late. She’d just have to manage. Sorry, Mammy; sorry for everything. Sorry for being such a burden and messing up your life. Be good now and don’t get upset, don’t cry, because I’m going somewhere good, a place where people like me. I’ll be happy there; they’ll look after me, they’ve promised they will. Maybe one day we’ll see each other again, wouldn’t that be grand? There’ll be no Daryl there, no Kevin; it’ll be like old times, just me and you. We’ll chat and joke, tell each other that we love one another and go for walks in the woods, and it’ll last forever. So see you soon, Mammy. I’m off now. I’m just going to stay on this bench a little while longer and wait for the birds to stop singing.

  22

  Sergeant Gerard Toomey drove slowly through the housing estate.

  “Do you see it yet, Dymphna?”

  “No,” she replied, staring intently through the window.

  The sergeant sighed. He hated this. He’d only just started his shift when they’d got the phone call: a body had been found up by the river. A young fella, drugs probably. They’d gone out there in the shivering cold to meet the ambulance crew; all of them sipping coffee and talking in low voices. The body had lain on top of a bench. He’d barely looked old enough to drink, but he had been drinking, and quite heavily by the looks of it; there were cans scattered all around him and an empty whiskey bottle too. A couple of greedy crows had been perched beside him, pecking at the vomit, grateful for the unexpected meal. He hadn’t choked on his own bile, though; the blood seeping from his left ear pointed to another cause of death. Well, that would be a job for the pathologist. Gerard was just a lowly sergeant; what did he know?

  It was his job to find out who the kid was and then inform his next-of-kin. Not for him the dissection of organs in a laboratory, oh no; he only did the important stuff, the good stuff. The Social Services card in the kid’s wallet revealed that he was a Mr. Seán McLoughlin. Gerard knew a few McLou
ghlins around town; Patrick McLoughlin often drank in the same pub as him. Maybe this kid was related to him. God, he hoped not. Further inspection revealed drugs: a small amount of hash and two Ecstasy pills. That explained things. He’d seen kids die from these tablets before; heart-attacks, strokes, all sorts. This lad had probably taken dozens of them, fried his brain and died a horrible, lonely death.

  The sergeant thanked the ambulance crew and told them to take the body to the mortuary. He’d be in touch later, but first someone had to tell the parents. He’d never understood why it had to be the guard’s job to tell them. Could it not be the doctor’s job, or the priest’s? Far better for someone with a gentle heart to break the news, and Gerard’s heart was far from gentle; he’d seen too much in his life to possess one of those. All he could do was deliver the news with as much sympathy as he could muster.

  He was in luck this morning, though; the new girl, Dymphna, was on shift with him. She was a frumpy kind of thing, not what the lads had been hoping for but keen, very keen. They were all like that at the start.

  “Have you ever seen a dead body before?” he’d asked her.

  “Only my granddad’s,” she’d replied, unable to avert her gaze as the medical staff bundled Seán’s corpse into the body-bag.

  “Such a feckin’ waste, huh?” the sergeant said, as they rolled the trolley into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors shut.

  “Yes,” she replied numbly.

  She’d better liven up, thought Gerard, she’s got some talking to do.

  23

  “There it is,” she said. “Number nineteen.”

  “That’s the one,” he said, pulling up the squad car outside the house.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “Last thing we need is you getting all hysterical.”