Ghosts and Lightning (14 page)

—Kasey. Yer alright though, yeah? I mean, yer –

—Sound, Dennicus. Sound as a pound. Or sound as a euro. Sure yeh can probably claim somethin for bein mad. Off the council or the government or somethin.

He points up at the sky.

—Silver linin, he says. —Always, Den. There’s always a silver linin. Anyway I’d better head. Stay cool Denzerino. Don’t let the bastardos bring yeh down.

The steam’s puffin up from the kettle and it’s like a parade o spooky jellyfish or somethin, chuggin up and out, each puff gettin bigger and hazier the nearer it gets to the smoke-stained ceilin and then it’s gone, exorcised or absorbed although there’s always more behind, pushin on the one in front, a puffin procession ghostly and never-endin. And the way it billows as well, it’s –

The kettle clicks and the little red light goes off. They say a watched kettle never boils but it just takes fuckin ages.

I take up the kettle and pull open the greasy press with me other hand. Grab a cup. And two more. Have to put the kettle back down cos it’s gettin heavy. Put too much water in, which me mate Pajo wouldn’t approve of cos it’s a waste o energy and wha have yeh, which is right I suppose. I burrow me hand past the digestives and Bisto and Pringles and fish a couple teabags from the battered blue tin in the corner o the press.

—Growin the tea leaves yerself in there?

That’s Paula. Watchin EastEnders in the front room with Teresa. Well for her, like. Talk about women o leisure. Yid have to surgically remove them two from the fuckin
sofa. Actually, nah, I take that back — Teresa works so I can’t say anythin, really. All the nice plants round the house are hers, as well; they’re the only healthy-lookin things in the place. Paula has no excuse, though; fuckin bone idle, she is.

—Wha did yer last servant die of? I say.

—Overwork, says Paula. The two o them laughin. Phil Mitchell’s threatenin someone in his gravelly, gobshitey voice on the telly. Hate that prick.

I pull at the fridge door handle and there’s that suck and give as the door pops open. Hardly anythin in it cept drink for Paula’s party. Paula and Teresa went to Kilkenny for the weekend, saw Falter Ego play, and now that they’re back Paula wants to celebrate the house’s new ghost-free status. She said the party’s gonna be massive, which means a massive fuckin headache. Shane’s deffo gonna hear about it. Symbolic or not, I think this party’s a bad idea. I should just fuck off, really, for the night, wash me hands of it.

Ah, I dunno. Seems like –

Fuckin hell, lookit this. Must be four dozen cans in here, at least. Heaven forbid anyone put food in the bleedin fridge, like. Bottles o wine as well, alcopops, a bottle o Baileys. Fuck. Foodwise, there’s a brick o rockhard butter squeezed between two six packs o Bulmers and a few carrots wrapped in misted cellophane on the bottom shelf. That’s it for solids. I take out the milk. Check the sell-by date.

Grand.

Pour it in and stir. Let the mini-whirlpools settle. Grab the jar o coffee from the top o the fridge. It’s beside the fruit bowl which to be honest has seen better days: the two apples in it are covered in them horrible squashy
pulpy brown bits and the less said about the shrunk, multicoloured orange the better. Fuckin hell. Me ma would never o let the place get like this; she was dead house proud. When me ma was cleanin up — say, doin the hooverin, or washin up or wharrever — she’d blast Rod Stewart on the stereo, and kind o dance around the place as she went. Paula used to love that when she was younger — she’d be up and dancin with me ma, soapin up the plates. Me ma’d said it was borin cleanin the place without a few choons, then sing along to Maggie May. Me da used to look at her like she was mad. Before he fucked off, like. Even after that, though, me ma never let things get on top of her. She was dead strong, she got on with things. She kept the place spotless and played her Rod Stewart albums. The house was alive back then.

I spoon the coffee into the last cup, Teresa’s cracked Thundercats one. Pour in the hot water and stir. The sun’s settin over the back garden. It’s dead overgrown out there now, all wild and webby. Grass to yer arse and nettles and stingers and lowhangin branches. Can’t even get into the shed anymore. Could be a witch livin out there, mutterin her nasty incantations in the gloom, hook-nosed and gammy-eyed, hair thick with spiders and grease. Layin curses on the house. Some foul, evil oul hag, a consort o the ghost.

Yer milk soured.

Yer Cornflakes chewy.

Probably why I can’t get a job, some witch’s hex. Well, that or the fact I never filled out them forms at the FAS office. Still though. Imagine. A witch surrounded by ancient rusty saws and bollixed hammers and shufflin in the dark, a wizened jaloppy-boned crone half-lost under a
mound o shiftin rags. Her eyes cat-like in the dark. A hiss and –

Jesus Denny. Fuckin give it a rest will yeh? I freak meself out, sometimes.

—D’yeh need a hand or somethin?

Paula.

—No, I’m grand. I’m comin.

I hook the handles o the teacups with me index finger and grab the coffee with me free hand. Push open the front room door with me arse and shuffle in backwards. The place is messy and stale and sad-lookin. Reeks o cigarettes. There’s kids still playin on the road outside. Heads n volleys or somethin. Paula’s head on Teresa’s shoulder, their feet tucked under them on the sofa, Teresa’s socks white and Paula’s mismatched pink and blue.

—Thanks, Denny, says Teresa.

—That’s lovely, says Paula.

—No prob. Your turn next.

I can see Pajo strugglin at the front gate as I set the cups on the coffee table. First o the guests, unsurprisinly. Ever eager to kiss sobriety goodbye, our Pajo. He’s jugglin a packed Spar bag and tryin to reach the lock, a deep and serious look on his face.

—Go out and help him, says Paula, eyes still on the telly, cup o tea clasped two-handed below her chin. The drums start thumpin on the telly. Phil Mitchell looks vaguely befuddled or angry or both and the map o London fades in.

*

—Dance music?

—It is a party, Denny, says Paula.

A thumpin beat’s poundin from the speakers and Paula straightens up from the CD player. She waves an empty CD sleeve in front o me. SUMMA CHOONZ 4 WINTA BLOOZ, it says. Free with the
Daily Star
.

—Yeah. Dance, though?

—Yes. Dance music. For dancin to. There’s no way The Clash or The Ramones or fuckin Johnny Cash is goin on tonight.

—Wha about Mastodon? I say, just messin, like.

—Them with the mad fuckin demon singin? Supposed to be singin, anyway.

—It’s progressive metal.

—Bit o Leonard Cohen, says Ned from the armchair, winkin at me, his hands danglin over the six-pack between his feet. —Just in case we start feelin too happy.

—No way, says Paula, roundin on Ned. —No chance. Don’t even mention Leonard Cohen tonight. He’s banned. Fella’d put bleedin years on yeh.

Synths kick in. Bit o bass and a stream o sampled YEAHS. Hate that stuff. I knock back the last o me Guinness and set the empty on the CD player. I can’t get me head round music with no guitars in it. Ned shrugs his shoulders and mock sighs.

—Ah we’ll be grand, Den. Get enough o that Guinness down yeh and she can stick the bleedin Spice Girls on. He sinks back into the armchair and knits his hands behind his head. —Fuck it like. Sure it’s all relevant art isn’t it? I mean, Famous Blue Raincoat on one hand, Spice Up Yer Life on the other. Can’t fault it man. All good stuff.

—Well when yeh put it like that. Is Sinead comin up?

—Should be, he says. He pulls one hand free and looks at his big, colourful watch. Presses a few buttons. —Depends wha time she can clock off college at. Exams like.

—Cool.

—Yeh heard from Maggit?

—Yeah, I say. —He said he’ll drop up later.

—Sound. The old gang, wha?

Yep. The old gang. Some things never change, man. Never.

*

The place is startin to fill up. Paula and Teresa are throwin shapes and tossin their heads beside the fireplace, cans miraculously still in the maelstrom. Pajo’s standin in the doorway, face set and serious, shuckin his shoulders and wrigglin his fingers as he spews some no doubt half-mad tale at Kasey, hunched and longhaired on his haunches below him. Kasey’s head’s tilted and noddin sagely, a can o cheapo Dutch Gold hooked and danglin from his index finger. Two urban seanchaí deep in their impenetrable musins. Or a couple o half-drunk wasters, take yer pick. Four o Paula’s mates are squashed onto the sofa, gigglin and pawin each other and jiggin up and down in time with the beat, drinks held up and out in front o them. Three girls and a fella. One o them’s Charly, who lives not far from us. Just round the corner from The Steerin Wheel, actually, which is dead handy. She’s gay as well, most o Paula’s girl friends are, and she’s black but she was brought up in Dublin and she has a stronger Irish accent than me. Paula introduced the other two but I’m after forgettin their names already. Bollix. The chap has a
feminine look and voice, and his legs are crossed kind o girlishly. Donal or Donald or somethin, I think Paula said. Proper, expensive-lookin haircut as well.

The girls are all pretty in their own way but the one on the end’s an absolute stunner. Curly, liquorice-black hair and a darkish complexion. Her Adidas tracksuit isn’t exactly doin anythin for her, like, but not even that can do her much damage. Does she look foreign or somethin? Spanish, maybe. Or Italian. Eyes cool and pennydark. Donald or Donal leans and whispers somethin into her ear. She smiles and ducks her chin, laughs with her bottom lip between her teeth.

I squash past Pajo and Kasey and into the kitchen, catchin Pajo mutterin somethin about ectoplasm on the way. Kasey says, check under the beds. For fuck sake. There’s two more female unknowns leanin against the kitchen table and chattin to Rochey from up the road. He’s like a fuckin shark for this kind o thing, Rochey is; he can taste any perfume in the air in a five-mile radius. He smiles and winks as I pass him, his arms thick and veined. Proper gym rat, Rochey, mad into that MMA stuff and on the juice and everythin, chest bulgin beneath the show-offy pink T-shirt. I pull open the fridge and grab another can and out the open front door I can see a big red van pull up across the road. Scatters the kids. The door slides back and that new fella ducks out. Dunno where he’s from. He looks Middle Eastern or somethin, his tanned face and arms pokin out from his shiny yellow high-vis vest. He leans in and says somethin to whoever’s still hid in the dark o the van before it pulls off. I snap open me can and take a swig. The two girls Rochey was chattin to walk past me and head upstairs.

—Denny, says Rochey, grinnin.

—Wha?

—C’mere. Check out the talent. Her there. She’s a fine thing, isn’t she?

Rochey points surreptitiously through the door and I amble over. He’s pointin at the girl in the Adidas tracksuit. She’s sittin on the edge o the sofa now, cigarette in one hand, can o lager in the other, laughin raucously at Pajo, who’s performin a skittery jig somewhere between breakdance and epileptic fit. Everyone else is standin round, clappin and breakin their shite laughin.

—Isn’t she? Her there. Savage bit of arse. They’d have to dig me out of her.

—She’s nice, yeah, I say, feelin annoyed at his fuckin terminology. I mean, she’s nice, but … I dunno. The way fuckin fellas go on. I mean, I’m a fella as well, like, but … ah, wharrever. No point in sayin anythin to Rochey, anyway. Not unless I want me brains sprayed all over the wallpaper. Probably go all fuckin roid rage on me, the malletheaded prick. And anyway, she’s probably gay, the Adidas girl, so Rochey’ll be in for a knockback if he tries anythin.

I gulp at me can and Rochey whacks me on the back and saunters into the front room, towards the Adidas girl. She’s just lookin up at him and the beginnins of a smile or howayeh are twitchin on her lips when I turn back into the kitchen. Ned pushes past me and into the hall, natterin into his mobile. I’m feelin the first effect o the drink now, a slight, nice wooziness. Quick glance at the clock and it’s twenty past ten, and a new, hundred mile an hour tune blasts from the stereo inside. Laughin and screechin from Paula and her mates. I grab another can from the fridge and Tommy Power comes shufflin up the garden with his
girlfriend and a UN relief package-sized tray o lager. He nods at me and winks and eases the tray onto the kitchen table. Rochey pops his head into the kitchen and him and Tommy whoop and shake hands. Tommy’s girlfriend pulls out a chair and sits miserably.

—Yeh alright, Denny?

It’s Ned.

—Yeah, cool.

—Yeh look distracted.

—Wha?

—Isn’t that wha they say in films?

—I’m grand. I’m not distracted-lookin am I?

—Right then. Yiv a big sour puss on yeh. Ned takes a sup from his can. —Might never happen, Denny.

—D’you know half o these people?

Ned shrugs. —No. Well, you and Paula and Pajo. And Kasey.

—And Rochey.

—Yeah. Who let the steroid machine in?

—Invited himself. Like most o the rest o them, probably.

—D’yeh wanna head off somewhere else, Denny? I don’t mind.

—Nah. Well, I wouldn’t mind headin but … yeh know? Wouldn’t know wha the fuck’d happen. No use leavin Paula in charge cos the place’ll be in fuckin ruins.

—Fair enough. Look, just get a few drinks down yeh and yill be grand. It’s that bleedin hash and the pills, Denny. Has yeh paranoid. Best thing yill ever do is give that shite up.

—I’ve done pills about twice or somethin, Ned. I’m not a pillhead.

Ned knocks his head with his knuckles.

—Yeah, but yiv got fuckin hash plants growin in yer lungs. Clear head, Denny. That’s wha yeh want. Won’t get anywhere when yer hepped up on fuckin goofballs half the time. Need proof?

—G’wan.

—Stick yer head round the door there. One word and two syllables.

—Pajo?

—Fuckin Blockbusters, Mr Cullen.

*

Darkness over the estate and the streetlights are on, givin everythin that weird, washed-out quality. Shadows deep and dark and freakishly long. Place is absolutely packed, now. Had to get out, felt a fuckin panic attack comin on. I’m leanin against the garden wall, Guinness in hand, stressed out. Hate when I get like this. Although it’s probably due to the hash, to be honest. I never used to smoke the stuff until I came back from Wales. I just tried it and it does calm yeh down. But it gives me the creeps sometimes as well. Ned’s right, I have to knock it on the head. And fuck it as well, I still can’t remember that girl’s name. Typical o me, that. I mean, it’s not that I forget names, exactly, it’s more that I forget to remember them. Although to be fair I probably wouldn’t even say anythin to her if I could remember her name, I’d be … I dunno, maybe I would say somethin. Actually, I’m probably subconsciously forgettin her name so I have an excuse to stay away. Wouldn’t surprise me. And then again, she could be an alco or a junkie or somethin. Or she could be spoken for. Or, like I said before, gay.