Mackay noticed Thom for the first time. He was standing at the window, looking out at the snow falling. He had this sort of superior attitude, which kind of peeled away at Mackay’s brain.
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘You see, Sergeant,’ Thom said, moving from the window to the side of the officer’s desk, ‘we Middle East European countries eat Christmas dinner on the eve of Christmas, so you don’t need to count in myself, or the Danes …’.
‘Denmark has moved, has it?’ Mackay said.
‘Karl and Harry are personal friends.’
‘What about Henry? Isn’t Hungary stuck in the middle of Europe?’
Thom looked at Mrankowski, who said, ‘So, Thom will organise the supplies, the cook, and you will invite the Iraqi officers – especially Major Razak – and make sure they are served well, yes?’
‘Of course, Sir … will you be attending the Christmas Day dinner?’
‘Yes, certainly … it will be an official duty.’ He smiled and then added, ‘I will not let my hair down like with Thom.’
Thom said, ‘I have a Christmas tree for you.’
‘For my room?’ Mackay said, being deliberately obtuse.
‘The ballroom … we have the use of this for the dinner.’ He moved right next to the CO’s shoulder and said, ‘Now, about Devine …’.
Bull Nose.
‘Corporal Devine,’ Mackay said.
‘Yes. He owes sixty-seven dollars for international phone calls.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
The CO and Thom glanced at each other.
‘Because,’ the CO said, ‘he said that we were to refer the matter to you.’
Thom said, ‘I understood … understand that you are to pay for it.’
‘No. That’s a personal issue.’
‘He is your countryman,’ Thom said.
‘I’m not paying his fucking bills,’ Mackay said. ‘Take that matter up with the Irish admin officer in Baghdad.’
‘But …’.
‘There are no buts … “but” isn’t happening. Do I look like I came down with the last fall of snow, Thom? What the hell is your problem?’
The CO frowned, his eyebrows joined, and Mackay thought for a moment that he was going to come down hard on him, but before he could speak, Mackay stood, saluted and said, ‘Is that all, Sir?’
Thom clearly thought it wasn’t, and said that the bill had to be paid. The CO did a fluttery wave with his four fingers and said he would speak with Corporal Devine when he returned from leave. Meanwhile, the bill would be paid from petty cash.
The UNMO rooms were swept clean every day by a young Kurdish woman in baggy pants who, on her hunkers, brought a hard brush to the wine-coloured carpet. She also changed the bed linen daily under the watchful eye of her father, or maybe her grandfather. Mackay wasn’t sure, and couldn’t ask because the pair didn’t have a word of English between them.
He had thought of asking the old man in sign language, but thought maybe it was best not to go there: he could be her husband. They were in his room now, cleaning – he badly needed to use the loo, and he was glad to see they were almost finished. The loo had a portable frame toilet over the Arabic toilet, the hole in the tray, as the Canadians thought that squatting to crap was an insult to their dignity. Bull Nose said it was because their aim was bad. Mackay saw sense in that, and said that their frontier ancestors would be mortified at how sanitised their descendants had become.
After they’d gone, he showered and shaved and tried to formulate a plan for Christmas. He would delegate responsibility, of course, having learned how to do that from officers, who would do nothing for themselves if they could get away with it, much like his Auntie Mary, who used a walking stick to get around though she didn’t need to; she had better legs than a Gold Cup-winning steeplechaser. The thing was this, though: he didn’t want the day to go awry, to give the other nationalities reason to complain – he wanted to show that the Irish were capable of organising an event better than any German could. There was that, but something else, too: he hated Christmas. Hadn’t always but did now. Paradoxically, he was hoping that the preparations for it would help him to forget certain stuff.
Henry the Hungarian had offered to prepare Hungarian goulash for starters. Mackay thought he would take up his offer, and also while in the kitchen Henry could keep an eye on Muhammad, the Egyptian cook who was about as near to being a cook as a camel was near to being a horse.
The tree arrived. It was the skinniest and most bare-leafed tree Mackay had ever seen – like the ones that people back home dipped into the skip after Little Christmas. He rigged it up in a small corner of the ballroom, facing a U of sofas and armchairs, and around these he placed three electric-radiator-style heaters, because it was unbearably cold. The ballroom had panoramic windows that looked out to the mountains and the city – when the lights were out it was as though the whole world had been
plunged into darkness. There were long seconds of pure darkness, and into this came a flash of torchlight, a scrambling to light candles, to take the bluntness of the darkness away, to encourage light to grow. Mackay didn’t like these sudden and unexpected plunges into sightlessness. He detested and feared these occasions; there was the blindness – his mother some years back, when he was just a boy, had gone to bed perfectly healthy and woke up blind, and her terror, her screams, had touched a nerve in his soul. It was the helplessness of that morning he hated most, the standing by, the doing nothing because there was nothing he could do. Being away from home for Christmas, he thought, doesn’t mean you leave everything behind.
Henry was getting carried away with himself. He used sewing thread to tie gold-wrapped sweets to the ends of the branches, and he bubbled over with enthusiasm, moving the chairs here and there a fraction, mentioning that a rubber plant would look well, straightening a straight tree. He loved Christmas. Mackay got to thinking he might do for the angel on top of the spruce, but then reproached himself. Still, he could see why Thom had crossed him off his list – the evening dinner was his show, and Henry would take over without even meaning to – but Mackay thought it best to have someone like him on board: his energy might be infectious. Besides, he hadn’t had much luck enlisting some of the others. Kachepele was in his room layered up in combat jackets and blankets, sitting on a chair surrounded by heaters, like these were some symbol to ward off the devil. His teeth chattered and he shook all over.
Other officers like the Indonesian and Malaysian were Muslims, and they smiled through their lack of interest in the whole Christmas affair. Later, Mackay pulled apart a box of crackers and removed the small plastic toys and inserted in their place small plastic crucifixes, and gave them to the pair when they were doing whatever they were at in the Malaysian’s room. Mackay had his doubts about them, and considered asking Henry if he thought they were bent. Only he wouldn’t use the word ‘bent’; instead he would say ‘lovers’ in case Henry was bent and took offence. Mackay didn’t try to enlist the help of the Canadians or the Norwegians, because it was these he wanted to prove himself to – the other Polish officer, the engineer, he wouldn’t involve either, as they had fallen out a while back after he asked Mackay, ‘How are things in Londonderry?’ to which Mackay’s response had been, ‘The same as in Russia Poland.’ That spat could have come to blows were it not for Thom, who at that precise moment got a very sharp pain in his chest, which went away in seconds.
In the kitchen on Christmas morning, Henry started preparing the goulash, Muhammad had someone peeling the potatoes, and several turkeys were steaming away inside the ovens. Mackay, meanwhile, arranged the tables alone; he put clean white sleets on the tables, glass candleholders, placemats, cutlery, glasses – later on he briefed the three waiters through an Iraqi liaison officer, whom Mackay liked because he hadn’t refused the offer of a hot whiskey, and nor had he i
nsisted on showing him photographs of his three wives and loads of kids like some of his colleagues had done. He thought it odd that they’d all married women younger than their first wife. Was that a law? He’d called home, too, speaking with his wife and his boys, his mother, which had saddened him into having another hot whiskey. And then another. There he stopped, because he knew when to – and this evening was special. A dodgy starter, a glorious meal, Irish whiskies with Christmas pudding. Flames dancing on the puddings. He didn’t rate the starter, but it would be okay, and besides, it was a Hungarian dish prepared by a Hungarian – what else could you expect? Irish stew?
Almost time. Evening was in. It was dark. People had been seated, even those who didn’t want to be there, wearing their Christmas cracker crucifixes around their neck, smiling, which convinced Mackay that they just had to be Buddhists. Kachepele was in his room, the heaters moved in closer to him. He had never seen snow before he arrived here – it had been a brief love affair for him, turned cold quickly, as it were. Thom, who’d said to cross him off the list, now sat beside the CO, sharing a joke. The goulash was hot, if bland. Toure was back to clicking his fingers again, doing it to the waiters, who didn’t seem to take any offence. Then, neither had Bull Nose.
Mackay thought that things were going well. The starters, most of them full, hardly touched, were being cleared from the tables. People were anxious for the turkey and ham dinner. And the fiery liquid toast to health, prosperity and happiness.
The power went. Mackay’s heart and eyes froze solid. A coldness stole into the darkness, a darkness that should not be present. The candles. He had forgotten to light them, and now people were bringing their lighters and matches to the wicks. He heard the striking of matches, the clicking of lighters, smelt the stink of sulphur – teardrop flames began to pulse against the darkness. There were a few muted conversations and some ripples of nervous laughter. No one was ever truly comfortable with blackness. But Mackay heard none of the chatter – he was thinking back to a Christmas morning when Santa had brought a complete and utter and lasting blindness to his mother. And how he had, even as a teenager and adult, not fully connected with nor tried to understand her trauma … all changed since his arrival in Kurdistan. He had told her this today.
House of Dara
So the old man left me the run-down hole in Connemara and a few euros in the bank. He was 69 when he died. I hadn’t seen him in twenty-five years. They spread his ashes at sea. It was news that went down well with my lithium. The last time I saw him he said he never wanted to see me again. He lived by his word. Insisted I had a distorted mind, like my mother. I didn’t like him. Neither did Huey, the Begging Buddha.
The cottage is in the wilderness, close to the Atlantic. It has a green corrugated roof, two bedrooms and whitewashed walls. The fields around the cottage grow rocks; no matter how many times I harvest them they keep growing back. There’s an outdoor toilet and two stone sheds filled with turf. Another is home for the stinking creatures he’d also bequeathed.
Two fields beyond mine, the land begins to taper in a coat of rushes and sand dunes to the edge of the sea. On blustery days you can see the waves dance high, tips of shoes white, froth of spent energy on the wet shore – seaweed thrown there too, like scarves of the lost at sea, calling out to the souls of the land. My father calling, I sometimes think.
The broken-down racehorse shares a shed with a grey donkey, and maybe they share stories too and swap questions. Like how come we ended up with a bloke with buttons in his earlobes, a ponytail, a hash-smoking fucked up degenerate, who’s 48 but looks older.
Huey Doolin and I went to school together, and we hung around a lot for a couple of years. Then we got caught up in the drift of places we had to get to, and I didn’t see him until last month. By Christ, I thought. There goes a changed man. He’d lost a ton of weight. His skin was clear; he used to wear serious acne. It took him a while to recognise me, for my face to register, but when he did he hugged the fucking breath out of me and said things like, ‘Where the hell have you been, Brother?’ and ‘Man, I was only praying for you last night.’ The Huey I’d left behind would have taken a swim in a sewer before saying a prayer. We had a right old natter, and he said he was glad to see my head was back in order.
Anyhow, this morning I pick him up at the bus station. He brought along two friends. I knew they were coming because he called me last night to say so. I was a little late in arriving, and apologised, saying I had to stop off at Tesco to buy some groceries. One of them has a face, and that’s why I thought to apologise. But it isn’t that he’s pissed at me for being late – his expression is natural. Born with it, maybe. I check him often enough in the rear-view mirror to know this for sure.
Huey sits up front. We eat up some miles before he says anything. Then he remembers to introduce Joey – the fed-up-looking one, and Tiger with the mid-length red hair. Feminine looking, and I wonder if perhaps he should be called ‘Tigress’. It’s something I would have said to Huey years ago – and for sure we would have cracked up. But Huey has changed, so I mind what I say – can we ever be soul friends again? I mean, you shouldn’t have to watch your words in front of a pal; at the very least you shouldn’t have to be overly cautious. He’s turned spiritual, and has told me a couple of times that he worries for me. I doubt his sincerity. When I was in dock, he neither paid me a visit nor answered my letters. I think he’s hoping that the medication fogs my memory.
The car radio is on an Irish language channel – I’m never really bothered what station is playing. I just like to fill the car with some noise, and it doesn’t have to be loud. Once the silence is smothered, I’m happy. Huey looks over his shoulder and asks Tiger (his surname is O’Toole, and I think to say Tot, but …) for the CD. After he gets it, he asks me if it’s okay to play, and I say, ‘Yeah, but the player isn’t working.’
I’m driving a beat-up car that failed its NCT, and all week I’d been trying to figure out ways to make some money to have the repair work done. Sure I have no rent to pay, but I’ve got to eat, and I have a horse and a donkey to care for too. My euros are running low. The old man left me in a situation – he’d given me things worth little, but yet worth something. Coolderry is sooooo fucking remote.
Huey says nothing about the player. He hands the CD back to Tiger and asks Joey if he’s okay. Joey doesn’t answer. His surname is Reagan, and he has deep-set eyes and narrow shoulders. He’s the youngest in the Ford Fiesta, and he looks to be the most troubled. More than pissed off, I begin to suspect.
Just as we arrive at Teach Dara (House of Dara – my father’s name), it begins to drizzle. Tiger asks if he can watch TV: Survivor. I’ve no set. I used to, but binned it one night when the reception was pretty poor and there was a soccer match on I had been dying all day to see. I get easily frustrated when things don’t pan out right for me.
‘Nice,’ Huey says, stepping inside.
But he means basic, small. Quaint too, perhaps.
Tiger says, ‘Where’s the loo?’
After I tell him, he says, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Very fucking … you know … poor … sort of,’ Joey says.
Huey says, ‘Do your business, lads, we’re starting after we have a cuppa.’
‘Starting what, Huey?’ I say.
‘I’ll give you a hand in with the groceries and explain it to you.’
The lads hurry in to say there’s a horse and a donkey out in the field, and I say they’re mine. I can be possessive about things that I don’t really want. The three of them go outside, and I stare through the small window above the sink – they’re fussing over the animals, feeding them handfuls of grass, petting their ears, flanks. Cracking jokes. They even delay when the rain turns hard. Joining them, I lead the animals into their shed, give them some hay and nuts. Joey asks me for their names, and I make them up on the spot, ‘Valiant and Neddy.’ Wel
l, you can’t very well call your pets Bastard and Fucker in front of guests.
‘You’re blessed to be living here,’ Huey says, leading the way into the cottage.
‘A beautiful smell of the sea … it’s so … so invigorating,’ Tiger says. He touches his cold sore with his tongue.
Joey grunts. I’m not sure if it’s in agreement.
At the table, I ask if anyone wants a beer or ham sandwiches. They look at each other, and then Huey says, ‘We’re not here to drink alcohol, Robbie. And we’re vegetarian. I gave up eating meat years ago.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Sit,’ Huey says, smiling broadly like a Buddha.
I really want a beer to kill the strange feel of strangers, but Huey says, ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’
I’ve done a little of what he’s doing now – but I didn’t take to it back in the day, and I’m quite sure it’s not for me. All that sort of shite does is to summon ghosts.
Huey blesses me, my home, and asks the spirits to increase my bounty, to protect this space, to cleanse it of negativity. Then he begins to say, ‘Om …’.
This is what they … we … do. Chant. I could never imagine myself sitting in my father’s home, holding hands with lads around a table, saying mantras.
In the well of silence Huey leads us into, inviting us to contemplate, to invite our spirit guides to contact us, I fall asleep. They think I deliberately snored. Huey wags his forefinger in my direction, ‘You should have respect. I am trying to help you here.’
Tiger says, ‘Yes, we all are, everyone has respect for Master Huey.’
Joey grunts.
Master Huey? I think.
‘I think it’s time we were leaving,’ Huey says.
I can’t read his face. It’s in neutral.
‘Ring for a taxi,’ Huey says to Tiger.
‘No, wait here … I’ll drop youse in. But I genuinely fell asleep. Seriously like …’.
Deadly Confederacies Page 20