by David Park
The day drags slowly on to its conclusion in an unrelenting sequence of point and counterpoint, of people arguing a case, their voices tightly edged with the conviction of their correctness. He feels the clammy fingers of their self-righteousness clinging to his consciousness, battening itself to his increasingly weary being. He thinks of his conversation with the American painter who in his twenty minutes talked of Che Guevara and the Sandinistas, of September the eleventh and political iconology. Of how he works from photographs so long hours are not wasted in sittings. He asks himself now what he has to lose. But he’ll let Sweeney check him out and then make a decision. He looks round the panelled walls with their portraits and thinks that one day his own might join them. His eyes drift to the windows but already outside there is a wash of grey and the bright burn of electric lights. Soon it will be time to go home. The thought spurs him to one last burst of energy and full concentration. He notices how even Crockett looks a little weary, his face greying with the fading light outside, blue dregs of colour pooling under his eyes. It feels like being back in school and sneaking glances at the clock to see how long it is to the final bell. His stomach rumbles and he presses his palm against it to smother the noise. He wants his tea but knows that even that is a long way off and that first he must endure the wedding-suit torment.
When the time finally comes and he climbs into the back of the car dusk has dropped suddenly over the city and the night air pinches at his face. Micky has the windows down and he wonders why until he catches the unmistakable smell of fast food.
‘Hell’s bells,’ he says. ‘It smells like a burger bar in here. Have you been at McDonald’s again?’
‘Sorry, Francis, I got a bit peckish,’ Micky says, trying to fan the smell out through the open window. ‘I had a cheeseburger with bacon. Did the business like. Filled the hole.’
‘I want you to drive us back up there again and I want you to get me one.’
‘Very cultured,’ Sweeney says.
‘So you’ll not be wanting one then,’ he says. ‘And give that joke a rest, will you, it’s wearing a bit thin.’
‘What about the cholesterol then? Clog your arteries that stuff will,’ Sweeney says. ‘And if we get caught in traffic we’ll be late for the fitting.’
‘It’ll only take ten minutes and Micky’ll nip in for us. If we don’t get something to eat now it’ll be after seven before we get fed. I can’t wait that long. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’
As the car drives off the lights in Stormont seem to burn sharper in the gloom. Down below the road is hung in parallel strings of amber beads. They are hitting the rushhour traffic and they have to wait a while to find a gap. His head is sore and he feels his breathing becoming shallower so he sits back in the seat and shades his eyes with his hand.
‘You want me to arrange an appointment with an optician?’ Sweeney asks.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll give it a while longer, see how it goes.’
‘It’s not as if anyone’s going to call you Specky or anything,’ Micky says, half glancing over his shoulder.
‘Shut up, Micky, and just drive the car,’ Sweeney tells him and his voice is suddenly sharp-edged. ‘And turn on the news.’ Then in a whisper he asks Gilroy if he’s feeling OK.
‘Just a bit tired,’ he answers. ‘Who would have thought that sitting on your arse all day and listening to people rabbit on could leave you done in?’
‘Maybe you need a rest – get away from it all for a week or so. Let some of the younger ones take up the reins for a while.’
‘You trying to pension me off?’ he asks as he shades his face again, this time to block the gaze of a motorist sitting alongside in slow-moving traffic. ‘They’ll think I’m not up to it, think I’m too old. They’re like a bunch of vultures waiting for the first sign of weakness. What did any of them ever do in the struggle? Nothing to get their hands dirty. Too busy getting their university education and all their fancy degrees. Some of them weren’t out of nappies when we were putting everything on the line.’
‘I know,’ Sweeney says. ‘There’s no respect for the past any more from anyone. And if you fall over they’ll put me out to pasture as well. But maybe you need a rest, maybe it would help.’
They pause and listen to the radio report of the day’s session of the new Truth and Reconciliation Commission. A rural killing of an off-duty UDR soldier. They look at each other but there is no recognition of the name or the story. It reports the statement of the volunteer who killed him. Both men chorus the words over the radio’s voice. ‘I was a soldier fighting in a war. At that time I believed the victim represented a legitimate target in that war. I deeply regret the pain and suffering caused to his family …’
‘You’d think they could think up some variations just to make it sound spontaneous,’ Gilroy says. ‘This was always a bloody stupid idea.’
‘Don’t know why we ever signed up to it,’ Sweeney says.
‘Because we had to. Because we sang so loud about having the truth on everything they ever did that we stumbled blindly into the net and then it was too late to get ourselves out when they turned round and asked for our truth. Maybe it’s time to let the dead stay dead, move on instead of digging them back up every day. It’s like having a ghost permanently on your shoulder. You’ve heard of Hamlet, haven’t you?’ Sweeney nods. ‘Well apparently there’s this thing in it about being blown up by your own bomb – hoist by your own something. What’s that guy looking at?’
‘What guy?’
‘The one driving the Renault.’
‘He just recognises you, that’s all. He’s on his way home from the office, no worries. Are you sure about this burger?’
He nods, even though the idea already seems a bad one, but increasingly he feels the need to kick back against his day and there is, too, a sudden crazed sense of frustration at having so many limits imposed at the very moment when he should be able to embrace his freedom most fully. They reach the McDonald’s opposite the hospital and the car swings into the busy car park. There are people everywhere, family groups, teenagers in football shirts.
‘I think we should make this quick,’ Sweeney says.
‘No probs,’ Micky answers, steering the car into the drive-through.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Sweeney shouts, pushing himself forward on the seat.
‘The drive-through’s the quickest,’ Micky says, his eyes flitting in and out of the mirror.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Sweeney shouts as he places both his hands on the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Get out of here.’
But it’s too late, already a car has entered behind them and so there’s no way forward or backwards. Gilroy says nothing at first but slumps back into the seat, then says, ‘Funny to be killed over a burger. Especially one you didn’t get to eat.’ The pinpricks of pain behind his eyes are growing sharper, deeper.
‘At least there’s not far to go to get to a hospital,’ Micky says, drumming his fingers on the wheel while the car in front sits motionless.
‘Micky, do me a favour,’ Sweeney says, ‘let someone with half a brain do the jokes.’ Then glancing sideways at Gilroy he adds, ‘Tomorrow he can start looking for stolen dogs.’
‘It was my fault,’ Gilroy answers, ‘don’t take it out on him. Keep your eyes open, Micky, and as soon as it’s clear get us out of here. Forget the burger. Just foot to the floor.’
An arm stretches from the serving window and hands a bag in to the driver. The car moves slowly forward and they follow it bumper to tail until they are out in the car park and then they cut sharply on to the main road.
‘Micky, turn up the radio,’ Sweeney orders and when the volume has risen asks quietly, ‘Francis, are you all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gilroy says, pressing his thumb and first finger to his eyes. ‘Just a little tired, maybe.’
‘You need to see a doc. I’ll arrange it if you want. We can find the right
person.’
‘I’ll let you know. Something to eat and a good night’s sleep would go a long way to seeing me right.’
Twenty minutes later they’re entering the city centre. The car radio has been switched off and a brittle silence has settled, separating each from the other and making them loath to be the one to break the fragility of its hold. Their eyes stare blankly out of the car at the city which has almost drunk the day and finds its final dregs laced with a lingering sadness. It rises through the dusk and haloes the motionless heads of those travelling home on yellow-paned buses; it drifts aimlessly in the blurred slur of neon that skims the pavements and roads and brushes the pale faces of those whose hurried weariness reveals nothing but the imprint of their longing for home. Gilroy tries to look up beyond the frazzling fretwork of neon, past the offices where moon-faced ghosts sit still frozen at computers, and tries to see the sky but the buildings are too close together, too garishly dressed in their own light, like the young women who will link arms and claim these same streets in a matter of hours.
They arrive outside the wedding shop and as soon as he gets out of the car, Gilroy glances up and lets the cold night air splash itself against his face. He stands still, looking at the frosted white light of the windows and the ivory sheaths of dresses. The brightness hurts his eyes and he turns his gaze to the sky where he finds respite in the purple and whorled bruise of darkness that feels strong enough to envelop this sickly glitter of whiteness and smother it in the blackness of its embrace. He doesn’t want to enter but Sweeney’s hand in the middle of his back gently propels him forward. ‘The sooner we get this over, the sooner we get to eat,’ he says. Gilroy nods but lets him lead the way. The door is held open for them by one of the shop assistants. Inside there’s a group waiting for them. He sees Rory and Michael but not his youngest son Peter. Justin is standing beside someone he doesn’t recognise and laughing at some joke his companion has made.
‘Where’s Peter?’ he asks Marie as she comes towards him.
‘You’re late – we thought you weren’t coming,’ she says, angling her head and staring at him, her face tightened with accusation. ‘Peter’s on call and had to go back to the hospital but it doesn’t matter, Michael’s the same height and size so we can go by him.’
‘Hi, Franky,’ Justin says, stretching out his hand. ‘How you doing? This is Edmund, the best man to be.’
He shakes hands with both of them and resists the urge to pull their arms out of their sockets. Edmund is printed on the same press as Justin, right down to the glasses. He thinks they’re standing smiling at him the way they might smile at an animal in the zoo.
‘So how’s London then?’ he asks, loosening the knot of his tie.
‘Busy, busy – we’ve a lot of new big contracts,’ Justin says. ‘Important clients so the pressure’s on to produce.’
‘That’s good,’ Gilroy says, not knowing what he’s saying good to. ‘First time in Belfast, Edmund?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Edmund says and Gilroy looks at him to see if he is taking the piss but in his face sees only a polite nervousness. Edmund’s head continues to nod slowly in silent affirmation of his answer.
‘You in advertising, too?’ Gilroy asks.
‘No, I’m in property – not sharp enough for advertising.’
‘You’re a builder?’ he asks and over Justin’s shoulder sees Rory and Michael smile and squirm a little.
‘No, I invest, develop, that sort of thing.’
‘Very good and how long have you known Justin?’
‘Same school, same uni. Long time. That right, Justin?’
‘Too long. Knows all the dark secrets,’ Justin says.
He’s going to ask another question when Marie pushes in and pulls him by the cuff. ‘We need to get on with it,’ she says. ‘Time for the interrogation later.’ Then turning to her prospective son-in-law and his friend she says, ‘Ever since he got his job he thinks the whole world owes him an answer.’
‘Minister for Children and Culture,’ Justin says. ‘Very impressive.’
‘Keeps me busy.’
‘You know what Goebbels said about culture?’
Gilroy looks startled and turns to Sweeney but there’s no answer in his face. ‘So, remind me, what did Goebbels say about culture?’ he asks but before Justin can answer, Rory comes forward and rests an arm on his shoulder.
‘He said that whenever he heard anyone talking about culture it made him want to reach for his gun. Now let’s try these suits on and get this over with.’
On cue the manager and his assistant produce the suits and start to direct them to the changing area. As he’s handed his, Gilroy looks at it, then looks at Sweeney and rolls his eyes.
‘It’s not so bad,’ Sweeney says but as he heads for the changing room, Gilroy pulls his sleeve.
‘What was he talking about? Was he calling me a Nazi?’
‘No, Franky, he wasn’t calling you a Nazi – he was making a joke about culture. And don’t make this guy Edmund any more nervous than he already is or he’ll be shittin’ his pants.’
He turns round to see Marie nodding encouragement at him and shooing him on with her hand. In the changing cubicle he pulls the curtain tightly closed, sits on the stool in the corner and tries not to look at himself in the mirror. There’s the sound of zips and shoes being taken off in the other cubicles. When he bends over to loosen his laces there’s a pain in his back that makes him wince. He catches the tightened purse of his face in the mirror and tries to steady himself by pressing the splay of his hand against the glass. When he lifts it away there is a momentary print like a cave painting, before it fades into nothing. He removes his jacket and drops his trousers, not bothering to hang them up but kicking them into a corner, then puts on the suit.
‘All right, Da?’ Rory calls.
‘No problems,’ he says. ‘Who picked this outfit?’
‘Who do you think?’ Michael answers.
‘I suppose we should be grateful we’re not wearing kilts,’ Gilroy says, slipping on his shoes without tying the laces.
‘Everything all right, gentlemen?’ the manager asks, his words mixing with the spicy scent of his aftershave.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he answers but feels foolish as he looks at himself and as he straightens it feels as if he’s given away his dignity. He sits down on the stool again and lets the side of his head loll against the glass. Give your only daughter away and do it dressed like a clown. Give your daughter away to someone you know nothing about.
‘What’s keeping you, Francis?’ Marie calls. ‘Everyone’s waiting for you.’
‘I’m coming,’ he shouts as he stands up. Is it his imagination or does he feel a little dizzy? He’s too hot and into his head come images of Atlantic breakers, of the salted freshness of sea air washing over him. When he steps out of the cubicle it is not Marie he sees but Christine and she is standing smiling at him, pleased with the suit and enjoying his discomfort.
‘Where did you come from?’ he asks. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to see this until the wedding day.’
‘It’s my dress the groom isn’t supposed to see. You didn’t think I’d leave you to your own devices? Suit looks good; love the waistcoat. But it’d look even better if you could bring yourself to smile a bit.’
‘Smile?’ Marie says as she moves closer to her daughter. ‘A smile would crack his face these days. Must be part of the image.’
Behind her the two assistants are checking cuff lengths and securing buttons, their hands moving silently and quickly like card sharps dealing waxen decks.
‘And you’re going to have a lovely buttonhole to set off the suit. We chose the flowers earlier today,’ Christine says as she comes close to him and touches the waistcoat lightly with the tips of her fingers. His eyes rest on the smallness of her hands, the shiny ostentation of the engagement ring.
‘Suppose the flowers are costing an arm and a leg,’ he says as she palms his waistcoat flat. ‘A
nd that’s my stomach. Nothing I can do about it.’
‘You could go on a diet for my big day.’
‘He will not,’ Marie interrupts, ‘he’s already lost enough weight this past while. If he keeps going he’ll be skin and bone before this is over.’
‘And don’t be talking about money,’ Michael chips in. ‘Whatever it costs it’ll be a bargain to get her off your hands.’
Her hands are small, pink-nailed, perfect – the hands of a child, they push him in the small of his back or tug at his sleeve. Always insistent, never taking no for an answer. Directing him to wherever it is she wants him to go. Bossy, demanding little hands, never accepting procrastination or excuse, desperate to show him her latest hiding place or special den. Always building dens or little rooms – under the kitchen table, under the stairs, or in the corner of the yard roofed with a sheet or tablecloth. And she always loved to furnish them, to equip them with all the necessary comforts. Never one for roughing it or going without. He glances at Justin checking his appearance in one of the full-length mirrors and smoothing one of his lapels. Need to earn a lot of money, Justin, to keep her in the style she expects. Need to know how to keep her happy when some unseen wind blows through her mind and makes her restless.