by David Keenan
For The Good Times
David Keenan
Is there not joy ineffable in this aimless winging? Is there not weariness and impatience for who would attain to some goal? And the swan was ever silent. Ah! but we floated in the infinite Abyss. Joy! Joy! White swan, bear thou ever me up between thy wings!
– The Master Therion, Liber LXV
Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore? It’s just impossible.
– Perry Como, ‘It’s Impossible’
This ‘new soul’ should have sung, not spoken.
– Friedrich Nietzsche, Introduction to The Birth of Tragedy
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Part One: The Swan, In Return
Part Two: The Best Decade What Ever Lived
Part Three: Bobby Sands Has Come to Pass
Part Four: A Word Set Teeth into Silence
Part Five: The Ocean and the Shore
Part Six: The Hood of The Snake, what is Miracle
Copyright credits
About the Author
Also by the Author
Copyright
Part One: The Swan, In Return
: I’m like an angel, come back into the past, to tell I’s Now, that it is here right Now, and that this is Christ Jayzus speaking from the cross, and the screws kept their distance.
He was telling I’s about Bobby, who was coming in and out of a coma. Bobby is echoing, He says to I’s, by means of time and space; Bobby is lagging.
Christ on a stick – what?!
This is His Father who has forgotten Him, the priest says to I’s. His body is here amongst us, lags, he says. His body is here all divided up amongst us. He points to the emaciated boys in the room, to all of the Jayzus to come, and it’s like a painting on the wall of a cell in heaven, remembering. And I’s are seeing it for themselves.
Ask Him for heaven, one of the lags says to the priest, ask Him how it goes in heaven. Lags, Christ Jayzus says to I’s, in the voice of a priest in H3, lags, He says, it goes without being. Then, speaking for Himself now: I am love in the angles. This is The Dead Zone: The Place Of Endless Echoes.
Father, He says out loud, Father, but it is Himself that is speaking. Sure is that yourself Father, He says, and He reaches out as if to touch Himself on the cheek.
And what the priest says is that Jayzus was with The Blanketmen and suffered as they did themselves, which meant that The Blanketmen would likely be in agony till the end of the world. And that a river of gold runs from a garden of Africa name of Belfast called the Free State. And IRA is called after Immortal Revenging Angels. And UDA is called after Under Daemonic Aires. And the earth has only been alive for two thousand year. But there’s an eerie atmosphere about the place.
*
And Jayzus Himself, from His place on the cross, which in pity is at the Heart of Time, speaks through the mouth of a priest in H3: this is an old one, lags, He says to I’s – He calls I’s lags, like echoes in time – so stop me if you think you’ve heard it before.
Pat and Mick, He says to I’s, this pale Jayzus that we can all see before us and that is lagging like Bobby only on the wall of a chapel in The Maze and not in a pish-stained hospital bed across the way, it’s Pat and Mick and they’re away on their holidays, Jayzus says to I’s, and He says it without speaking, without moving His lips or opening His eyes to all of the horror stood before Him, to all of the Jayzus to come, but to hear Him is as plain as the pale light rising beneath His skin, rising up and lightning His skin as if He is give birth to the moon, and His eyebrows raised in a pained expression, rising up at the suffering that His Father brought down on the world (let’s face it) so as they look like a child’s drawing of a bird and He says to I’s, two old muckers, Pat and Mick, are dandering along the street in America, in eternity, in New York, and they look up toward the sun, the sun is come beaming out of the heavens and they hold their palms up flat to feel the sun on their hands, to feel the sun in the centre of their palms they hold their hands up in salute, and Mick turns to Pat and he says to him, all in the voice of Christ Jayzus which is the voice of the priest and which is coming from Forever at the Heart of the Cross, he says to him, sure is that the same sun we have back in the Ardoyne? And Mick says to him, sure Pat I wouldn’t know, let’s ask someone, and at this point Jayzus takes one of His pale white hands from the cross and presses it to His face and you can see the wound in the centre of His palm, which is like a beautiful, delicate labia, and He puts it back in place without a word and everyone looks at each other like – what?!
Listen, lags, Jayzus says to I’s, don’t give way to wonder, I will pick out your eyes you bastards, He says to I’s, and He goes back to His thing about the two muckers Pat and Mick, and the sun in the sky, and how they’re in a new country, in a new life altogether, and they stop the first person they meet, and they ask him if he knows whether that’s the same sun they saw in the Ardoyne long ago, the same sun sat up there in the sky throughout the whole fucking shooting match, and now the figure on the cross is lagging in and out of reality, and the first person they meet is speaking in the voice of Christ Jayzus, which is the voice of a priest in the H Block at the beginning of the second hunger strike, in the spring of 1981, and He says to them, sorry, lads, but I wouldn’t know if that’s the same sun that you saw in the Ardoyne; I’m a stranger here myself.
They say that Jayzus’s final words were something to do with His Father. But that’s the last any of The Boys ever heard from Him.
*
This is the story of Adam’s Apple, son, this is how they all became scundered about being naked in front of each other, because up till then life was fucking beezer, my friend, only they couldn’t mind anything at all because of that they had no lingo, all except for body lingo, and for making sounds like songs, maybe, like musical sounds, a wee bit, I think, but not actual words, that is until Adam takes a bite of this fucking apple and it meant he could speak the English, just like that, up until then every day had been the same but then Jayzus Himself, or more likely his da (let’s face it), let a snake loose in the garden and the snake was the first thing what could talk but it was lonely because nobody else had words that they could use with it, so as the snake tempted Adam to eat this apple, he didn’t even know it was an apple till then, he thought everything was a part of himself, he didn’t even know how a snake was a snake, so we’ll never know how it did it, but basically the snake says to him that the apple was something different from himself and that if he wanted to he could eat it and find out the names of everything, including his wife, who at that point he had no idea was called Eve. After that, he began remembering.
*
Take a look at this photo, would you. Take a look at the state of Tommy. He looks like a fucking negro. The only negro in Belfast. Where the fuck did he get that tan? And those ears. That’s me on the left. Silk handkerchief in my top bin. One hand in my slacks. The other arm wrapped around the ladies. I mean would you take a fucking look at that would you. We all thought we were Perry Como. A good dose, a good dose of Como, that’s what Tommy says to us, stick that fucking record on and let’s get ourselves a good dose because it’s Como or nothing, lads, and we’d go to the wooden record booths they had in the shops where you stood in there and you smoked and you ran your hands through your hair and you spat on the floor and when Como came on through a little speaker in the corner it was like a wee fucking time machine that would take you off to some other Ireland or some other Italy, some California or wherever the fuck your man Como was singing from, some other heaven, in other words. And fuck Frank Sinatra. He was a dissolute cunt. But Como never cursed, never smoked nor drank. Plus he was always faithful to his wife.
*
The photo is from Ellen McFadyen’s wedding. That’s Barney in the middle there, and that’s his wife Shona. Poor Shona McFadyen. Died long ago and it was a shame. Died of cancer, and that’s Patrick on the far right. Shot through the heart, on his own front lawn, by some bastard, after he was grassed up by his girlfriend if you can fucking believe it. But wait till I tell you. And there’s Tommy next to him. Look at him standing there. It’s true that we were the handsomest boys in the Ardoyne. All the women loved us, the old dears looked at us like are these guys out the movies or what, the wee kids gazed up at us like that, beaming. It takes me right back there just looking at this fucking thing; happy days.
*
The photo was taken right after the thing in Dundalk. Me and Tommy had gone down there to take care of business, a couple of chatsbys down our trousers, looking like a pair of gangsters. What bollocks we had. That was the surest way to get by the peelers; walk in like you own the place. The peelers treated us like rats, waiting for us to sneak in the back door or shin up a drainpipe, nip down an alley in a black balaclava and a pair of camouflage slacks. Instead we turned up wearing cravats and with gold watches and with Italian handmade suits. That’s the reason they used us. We could’ve sold cheese to the French.
*
We were to do this guy in his house, this dirty lowlife snitch bastard getting plugged in his own home; it had all been arranged. Tommy knew him and he had no reason to suspect that anything was up. We were bringing him a bottle of Bushmills and a trout, this big fuck-off monster trout that Tommy got from a guy up The Shamrock. That’s how we did business. Show me the fella that can resist a big fuck-off trout pulled fresh out the river. So as we turn up. Bobby, his name was Bobby, this cunt Bobby. He opens the door and he’s pleased to see us. He gets Tommy in a headlock and starts rubbing his hair with his knuckles. His second name was Burns. Bobby Burns. Everybody used to call him Fat Burns. Just for a joke, like. Tommy starts play-fighting him. Cracking all these jokes and he’s laughing the whole time, Tommy was really playing with the cunt and laughing, like we were there to shoot him in the head but there was still enough leeway to take the pish.
I watched him mock-wrestling this clown on the sofa. I looked into his eyes and I could tell it was all real. He was completely there. At that moment I idolised him, so I did. He was my hero right then, Tommy was. Then he gets up, cold as you like, and there’s a mirror above the couch. The guy’s lying there laughing; this cunt’s cracking up. I’m unwrapping this huge fucking trout, this fucking dinosaur. I don’t know where they found this monster, it was like a fucking Plesiosaurus. And suddenly everything starts moving in slow motion.
I catch Tommy as he’s looking at himself in the mirror – just for a split second – a split second that seemed to last forever – and his eyes are smiling, I’ll never forget it, Irish eyes just smiling right back at himself; everything they say in the songs is true. And he fixes his hair. He licks his finger and he runs it through his hair and he fixes his parting. All in this film that has slowed to the point where you feel like you could live in it forever. And then he pulls the chatsby out his trousers in one big sweep and he looks down at Bobby and he smiles and he looks back at himself in the mirror and he pulls the trigger and he blows this guy away without even looking at him.
Three shots in the head and the guy’s face is a fucking mess. I says to him, ah for fuck sake, Tommy, why didn’t you put a fucking cushion over his head or something? But he grabs me in a headlock and starts playing with me the exact same, wrestling me around the room and rubbing my hair, like I was taking things too serious, or what.
We run outside and we’re getting into the car. We can see people pulling their curtains over. Everybody knew what was going on, nobody wanted to get involved; good job. But then we see these two unmarked cars at the end of the street. We’re in a dead end and these two cars are blocking off the road. It’s the fucking peelers, Tommy says to me. To this day I don’t know if it was or not but he immediately comes up with this idea, it was insane. Tie me to the roof of the car, he says to me. You have got to be fucking kidding me, I says to him, what in the name of a mad idea is that, I says. Tie me to the fucking roof of the car, he says to me, and I’m not about to argue with him when he’s like this. I run inside and I’m looking through all these kitchen cupboards trying to find a piece of rope but I can’t find any so as I run out the back and I tear the fucking washing line down and I rush out the front and Tommy’s lying on the roof rack of the car with a chatsby in his hand. Tie me down, he says to me. And make it fucking tight.
All the time the cars at the end of the road are just crouching there. There are people in them but they’re just crouching there, watching us. The whole place is silent, is eerie. They’re waiting for back-up, Tommy says: fucking move it.
I tie him to the roof rack and then he says to me, drive step on the fucking gas: let’s go. I head off down the road full tilt toward these cars and I can see the faces inside them, just staring at us in disbelief. They’re trying to unlock the doors. Trying to get themselves out in time. And Tommy’s just firing away. The windows are popping and people are screaming and we go sailing through and I ram one of the cars out the way and I can hear Tommy shouting up above, I think he’s been hit but I keep on driving. We’re charging up the main road at this point with this maniac tied to the fucking roof and that’s when I realise: he’s singing. The fucker is actually singing to himself while tied to the roof of the car. And he’s singing Como, lay your head upon my pillow, hold your warm and tender body close to mine, all the good stuff. Nobody will ever forget it. Tears were rolling down my face. I’m getting choked up now just thinking about it. He’s out to seduce the pants off the world, I says to myself.
Later that night we went up to the Bow Bridge, up at the Whiterock, and sat there underneath it, smoking fags and watching the swallows that had their nests in the girders flying in and out and making that song they have, that summer song, and everybody was coming in and asking if it was true what had happened and Tommy’s sitting there like a movie star, not even reacting, just smoking and listening to the birds and the women are crying and all these hard-case IRA men are shaking him by the hand and one kid even got him to sign a plastic bullet. What are you going to write on it? I says to him, and he looks at me and he winks. For the good times, he says, and the pair of us cracked up laughing like the mad Paddy bastards what we were.
*
The next day we’re at the wedding in the photo. We’re with Patrick and Barney and this cunt McManus, you would not believe this cunt: knob-end. Tommy’s got Patricia with him. She wanted to take him to America. She wanted them to have a baby, but first she says that she wanted them to save up enough money so as they could bring her up in New York. They didn’t want to bring up weans in Ireland, not with the way things were. Who could fucking blame them. If they had gone back then, Tommy would have been on the silver screen in Hollywood by now, there’s no doubt about it.
Patrick was a real snob of a fella. This cunt wouldn’t take public transport anywhere even though back in reality he was a promotions man in a fucking supermarket. You know the guy what comes up to you when you come through the door and gets you to take a nip of whiskey and a wee bite of a fruit scone? That’s your man Patrick when he wasn’t plugging boys for the Ra. But he was a good cunt to know. That was where we got the knock-off booze.
Barney looked like one of them Italian pit bulls, only with a moustache. First thing he says to Patricia is he pulls up his shirt so as it’s just his poor suffering chest with the bruises and the purple scars all over it – some of them scars are written on my brain till this day – and he says to her, go ahead and punch me, love. Go ahead and punch me, darling, he says to her. Of course she doesn’t want to do it. What breed of woman wants to punch a man in the fucking chest the minute she’s met him? But everybody’s half-blocked and shouting and Tommy says, fucking bang him one, so as she goes ahead and she swings for him and he just thro
ws his arms wide and he says to her, I didn’t feel a fucking thing, he says, and he walks off, like a fucking maniac.
*
None of these boys could read or write; they was all basically illiterate. I was the youngest but at least I had been to school. People like your Tommys, your Barneys, your Pats. All these guys. Their das had them out working since they were seven year old. You should have seen the wedding cards they gave to Ellen and her husband Desi, who was a midget, basically. There were commas after every word, like, this, see, it, would, do, your, fucking, crown, in, or another classic was where they had every word underlined for some unknown reason. Either way, there was barely a word spelt correct between the three of them. It was like they were guessing how the English lingo worked. But it was no problem, because Ellen and Desi could barely read themselves. There was a big banner up in the hall that even spelt their names wrong. Above the door it said Live Musice. Between us we had rewritten the entire fucking world; not bad for a bunch of uneducated Irishmen.
*
Longhairs came late to Belfast. It was 1972 before I ever clapped eyes on a hippy, but there he was right enough, sitting on the ground at a bus stop on the Lisburn Road in the blazing sunshine, with his bare feet and an acoustic guitar round his neck with a piece of string; I could barely believe my lamps.
So as some longhairs turn up at the wedding, some hippy bastards, and they stand out like plums. Tommy starts to making jokes. Look at these fucking women, he says, and he’s doing this comedy walk, mincing up and down. I’m sure I recognise one of them but I can’t place him. At this point I don’t know any of the boys with the long hair. Then this guy who I nearly almost recognise comes over with some of his longhair pals and he walks up to Tommy. Are you Tommy Kentigern? he says to him. Tommy says to him, who wants to know, fucking Bob Marley? and he turns round to us and he’s all laughing and winking. The guy is just looking at him. What are you talking about? he says to him. Bob Marley is a Rastafarian. I don’t give a fuck what you are, Tommy says to him. Tommy’s confused, Pat says, he means Bob Dylan. Don’t fucking correct me, Tommy says to Pat, and he turns on him. I mean fucking Bob Marley, he says. What songs does Bob Marley sing? the guy asks him and there was something in the way he says it, something arrogant in his voice, that made me recognise him for who he was. Ah fuck, I says to myself, it’s only fucking Mackle McConaughey, this guy’s a commandant in the IRA. A killer, a hero, a serious guy. I put my hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy, I says to him, take it easy. Take it easy, he says to me, what the fuck is wrong with you? Then he turns back to Mack. Bob Marley sings the song about the wind, he says to him, don’t fucking try to cheat me. It’s Bob Dylan what sings the song about the fucking wind, Mack says to him, cool as you like. Look, I says to the both of them, who gives a fuck about Bob Marley and Bob Dylan. Excuse me if I’m wrong, I says, but you’re Mackle McConaughey, are you not? One of his longhair pals steps up to me. Who the fuck are you? he says. I’m Samuel McMahon, I says to him. Sure, I thought it was yourself, McConaughey says to me. Suddenly he’s all friendly, like. How’s your ma? he says to me. Ah, she’s grand, I says to him.