Cold Eye of Heaven, The (5 page)

She lifts an eyebrow. ‘Righ'…' she says, her voice full of doubt.

On the pavement outside the dry-cleaner's, Farley stands, one eye involuntarily winking; his right one, leaking again. He pats it with the back of his gloved hand. Cars parked all around him. The rear of a stationary bus farting out a long bloom of fumes. Farley stares at it for a while and wonders – what's he doing here? What does he want? He looks around; behind him is a row of shops. That's right, the shoe.

He heads into the newsagent's and immediately has to step back out to check the name above the door along with its position in the row of other shops. Both as they should be – yet inside the shop is all wrong. It's too small for a start. And the L-shaped counter has been replaced by a single short one blocking the entrance to the side corridor that should hold the barber, the shoemaker, the fella who cuts keys, a few others too, each at their own little higgledy station. Where's the speckled floor, the drifts of damp sawdust? The litter of sweet papers and lolly wrappers all over it? There should be things hanging out of the ceiling or thumbtacked all over the walls: fishing nets, plastic dolls, ropes of chewing gums like shrunken
golfballs. And how come, instead of the usual sour-faced oulones serving behind the counter, an Indian chap is smiling?

He stays in the doorway trying to locate himself. The Indian nods encouragingly.

‘You've changed the shop around?' Farley asks.

‘Excuse me?'

‘The shop, have you, you know, got rid of half of it?'

The Indian glances quickly behind him. ‘Em, no, sir. I don't believe so.'

Farley thinks for a moment. ‘Well, are you not doing the shoe repairs any more?' He pulls the shoe out of the bag and holds it up to show.

‘O, we don't do anything like that.'

A woman's voice behind him. ‘Can I get by you there?' and Farley quicksteps out of the doorway into the shop to make way for her. He shows the Indian the shoe again, pointing to the hole in the sole in case the chap's command of English mightn't be the best.

‘See, I'm looking to have it repaired,' he explains.

The woman says, ‘Ah now, you're goin back a bit, aren't you? It must be years since the shoemaker was in this shop – ah ah, showin your age there, you are.'

Farley looks at the woman; not all that young herself, if it comes to it but her eyes are smiley and he sees that she's speaking to him as an equal, as if to say ‘we all have our vacant moments'. She's holding a small fat child by the hand. The boy staring at the shoe. Farley feels like giving him a wallop with it on the back of his head. He struggles with the bag, trying to get it to take the shoe back as quickly as possible. His hands are shaking.

‘Well, have you a Mass card then at least?' he barks at the Indian.

Outside, the ground tilts as if it's moving away from him. And it feels as if he's slipping in slow motion – a patch of ice maybe? But when he looks down his feet are steady to the ground. He feels a bit lost. Like he's fallen asleep on the bus with a few jars on him and gotten off at the wrong stop. Everything is different and yet he knows it's still the same. The
roundabout is missing; that's it. The roundabout that should be there in front of him, in the middle of that crossroads, right there – is gone. And the pub across the road is all changed; painted a sickly colour for a start with a stupid-looking clock tower stuck on one side. His left arm feels numb – he swaps the bag over to the other hand – still numb. Out of nowhere the Berlin Wall comes into his head and he has to wonder now about the state of his mind, all the things muddling around inside it: shop counters, roundabouts and now – for fuck sake – the Berlin Wall. He sees the woman from the shop standing looking at him, the youngfella behind her, gloves flapping from his wrists as he plunges his hand in and out of a bag of popcorn.

‘Are you alright there, love?' the woman asks.

‘I've an awful headache,' he says, ‘sudden like.'

‘Do you want me to phone someone for you?' she says.

‘Who?' Farley asks.

‘Well, I don't know – a relative, a neighbour maybe.' He can see by her face she's beginning to regret that she stopped at all. The youngfella, munching on the popcorn, staring up like he's at the pictures.

‘Ah no. I'll be grand. It's going now anyway. Just came on sudden and now – that's it, gone.'

‘Ah, it's this bloody weather. What you should do now, is go into the pub over there and get yourself a nice hot whiskey – put a bit of heat into you.'

‘I don't drink whiskey. Not any more. I drink two pints a week – would you believe that? On Friday, usually. The same thing this years and years. In fact, I didn't drink at all for a long time – bar the odd breakout.'

‘Well, a cup of tea then,' she says.

‘I will,' he agrees, because he knows she only wants to leave some sort of a solution behind her. ‘I've a few things to do first but then, a cup of tea.'

‘Well, if you're sure you're—'

‘The roundabout's gone,' he says.

‘What? O yea, that's gone this good while.'

‘O yea, yea, of course I
know
that. I just saying like. And the pub's different.'

‘That's right. They done it all up.'

‘They did yea. Nowhere for the men to stand though on Sunday after Mass.'

‘Ah no, that day is gone. Do you remember? Droves of them with their tongues hangin out.'

‘Yes!' Farley smiles. ‘The Berlin Wall, we used call it. Where they used to stand. The Berlin Wall – that's right! That's right.'

She gives a little laugh. ‘Me mother used go mad.'

‘“May I never lack the dignity” as a friend of mine always said,' Farley says. ‘He thought it was a shameful thing to do – I suppose.'

She nods her head a few times at him. ‘Well, I better be gettin this fella home.'

‘Ah yea, a grand little fella there, eatin his… Eatin his… His…'

She begins to walk off, dragging the boy behind her.

Farley calls after her, ‘Excuse me, you wouldn't know where I'd get a new sole?'

‘A new…?'

‘For me shoe.'

‘O, for your
shoe
,' she laughs. ‘Town I'd say would be your best bet.'

‘Thomas Street?'

‘O yea, Thomas Street should do it.'

‘Right. Thanks so. Good luck to you now.'

Farley watches her walk to the corner, the youngfella straining at the end of her arm to look back at him. He'd love to give him the two fingers, but he'd be afraid she might catch him. His eyes again; the halo of lights. He waits for it to subside. Better now. A bit on the weak side but nothing to worry about. He'd just slipped back into a past moment there for a while. And now he's back. Popcorn. That was the word he was after.

*

There's no answer from the priest's house. He thinks he can hear someone moving around in there and so presses the bell again, this time adding a double bang from the door knocker for good measure. Then he peers through the ridged glass panels on the side of the hall door. Inside the priest's coat is hanging on a rack, the housekeeper's red anorak beside it, her welly boots on a mat on the floor. On a long shelf by the wall a few letters and holy Joe pamphlets. There's a full-sized statue of the Virgin leaning against the opposite wall, taking up half of the hall in fact – a statue, if he's not mistaken, that used to be outside in the garden. On the shelf there's a smaller version of the Virgin, and another on the cill of a window halfway up the stairs, although he only has a restricted view of this one; feet standing on a bed of plaster roses. A shadow scurries over a door at the back of the hall that he presumes leads into the kitchen. Quickly he presses the heel of his hand on the bell, gives the door another sharp knock. Then he bends to the letter box and sends his voice in. He wants to say –
Hey you, I'm not blind, you know, unless I'm supposed to think it's them statues is moving?
But instead he says, ‘Eh hell-o-oo, sorry to disturb you, but I was just looking for the priest, to sign a Mass card for me.'

He listens. A door closes. A hoover begins to howl. Farley feels a ping of rage in his right temple.

He comes round to the church. The door is locked, the gates chained together. ‘Ah, for fuck sake,' he says aloud, holding onto the bars and staring in. ‘I mean, Jaysus, what if someone actually
needs
a priest?' A man comes up beside him, pushing a bike with one hand.

‘Alright there, Farl?'

‘Yea,' Farley says, ‘I was just looking for the priest, you know.'

‘I'm Timmo's son,' the man says as if he can read Farley's thoughts, ‘you remember Timmo?'

‘O yea, Timmo,' Farley says.

‘I work in the hospital.'

‘O yea, sure I know. I know that. Timmo's son. The hospital.'

‘I look after Jackie.'

‘Of course you do.'

‘How are you keepin in anyway – alright?' the man says.

‘Ah, you know. Not too bad. Bit of a headache earlier, but that's gone. And the oul eyes have been giving me a bit of trouble, other than that – not a bother.'

‘The headache's probably on account of the eyes. Better get them checked out, Farley, you need your oul eyes. Do you not wear glasses?'

‘Just for reading and the telly and driving and that. Well, when I used to drive. So just for reading and the telly now.'

‘Better get them checked anyway.'

‘Ah I will, I will. But I'm too busy now. Maybe next week.'

‘Bad bit of news that, about Frank Slowey.'

‘Yea, it was alright.'

‘An interesting character. Very intelligent, I always found.'

‘O, he was. He was that, alright yea.'

The man blows down into his fist. ‘You shouldn't be standing around in the cold, Farley. The next couple days'll be tough enough on you. Anyway, listen I'll see you at the funeral – right? I'm working tonight so I won't be going up to the house.'

‘The house.'

‘You know he's reposing at home?'

‘What?'

‘He's reposing at home, there's no removal.'

‘O, I know that, of course I do. So the funeral's…?'

‘Tomorrow. Ten o'clock Mass.'

‘Tomorrow, that's right. I wasn't sure if they said ten or half, you see.'

‘Well, now you know.'

‘I do. Anyway, I better be, I've a load of things to do. Up to me eyeballs.'

‘Ah, take your time, nothin is that important.'

‘That's all very well to say. But see, I have to get the Mass card signed. And like they won't even answer the door around there. And then. And
then, I've to go down to Thomas Street for a new sole and that, and come back and collect me suit and your woman, the housekeeper that oul bitch is pretending not to be in and like I can hear the hoover and all. As if I'm a fool or something. These people. Who do they think they are? Just who? They should be trying to win people over, not the opposite – am I right? I mean, they'd take a statue in out of the cold before they'd give a fuck about another human being.'

Farley stands gulping at the shock of his own little speech.

The man puts a hand on his arm. ‘Relax, Farl. He's not the only priest in the world – is he? There's a church in Thomas Street, you know. Churches all over the city.'

‘Sorry, sorry. It's just… I didn't mean to sound disrespectful but you know?'

‘You're upset, Farl. Don't worry. It's understandable; you've just lost your pal. Look, do whatever it is you have to do, but try get a little rest – wha? God knows you worked for the man long enough.'

‘I was a partner in that firm, you know.'

‘That right?'

‘Yea, I was made a partner. I didn't just work for the man, you know. You don't believe me?'

‘I do, of course. I just never heard that before.'

‘Well, it's true. A partner. For years. And not one of them. Not one of them would bother. Well. Never mind all that.'

‘Look, when you're finished in town, get yourself home and have a snooze by the fire. I'll tell Jackie you were asking for him and see you at the funeral – right?'

‘Yea. O, bye now. And tell Timmo I was, you know, asking for him too.'

The man looks at him funny, then gives him a half salute and pushes off with his bicycle. Farley watches till he's out of sight.

He crosses the road, heads towards the bus stop and wonders – whoever Timmo's son is, he must be well in with the Sloweys all the same, if he was thinking of going up to the house. But at the same time
he couldn't be
that
well in, if he didn't know about the falling out. Timmo? Timmo's son? And who's this Jackie is again?

The bus is jammers. He's sitting upstairs, as he always does because he likes looking down on other people's gardens, giving them marks out of ten for appearance. He's sitting upstairs in the solid, stuffy air, the windows fogged with the breath of strangers and some little bollix down the back smoking a cigarette – but who's going to say a word to him? One vacant seat on the right, two thirds of the way down. Farley goes to it, then settles himself in by the window, Clery's bag on his lap; the shape of the shoe, the corner of the Mass card – everything in order. Grand. Around him people are talking into mobile phones. Mobile phones are beeping at people. One girl roaring at the top of her voice: ‘So I just said to him, yea? Is that righ'-is-it? Because if you fucken tink I'm puttin up with that you can go and fuck right off and you and your scabby bleedin oulone.'

Farley tries to remember when this started to happen – people shouting on the bus, letting everyone know their business; turning their minds inside out, broadcasting every thought in their heads.

Near the front of the bus, two large African women, startlingly dressed, sit across the aisle from each other. As they speak, huge hats like big paper bags plonked on top of their heads, nod softly to each other; flax yellow to scarlet red. That's how it should be. A quiet conversation, a little bit shy, a little bit open; let people eavesdrop because they want to, and not because they've no choice.