Ghosts and Lightning (19 page)

—I just don’t believe in ghosts, Victor.

Victor shrugs. —Who knows is all I’m sayin.

I reach across the coffee table and grab the whiskey bottle. Another top up.

—Yeh tryin to give me nerve trouble, Victor?

—Ah no, Denny. Sure it’s a sin to be afraid in yer own home.

—Me ma used to say that.

—Never a truer word spoken.

We sit there in silence for a while with the sound o the wind in the trees and sip our whiskey. Was there a banshee for me ma, I wonder? An oul crone wailin by the skip outside the Cunninghams? Bollix. Just put that shite out o yer head, Denny; yill end up like mad Denise, yill be fuckin shittin when yeh get back home, sin or no fuckin sin. Somethin under the bed, Cúchulainn and banshees. For fuck sake.

—D’yeh wanna go down the grave? I say.

—Em …

—I can run us up in the car.

Victor bites at his thumbnail, then looks up at me. —Em. I … yeah. I mean … yeah. I
should
go up. Then he smiles. —Ah sure we’ll ramble up the two of us. Will we?

—Yeah, cool. It’s not far in the car. Stick on that tea before we go.

Victor pushes himself up off the chair and onto his feet, a big lankylimbed spider unfolded from its web.

—I’ll bring the whiskey with us as well, says Victor, smilin. —I know yer mother wouldn’t begrudge us a drop or two, Jack fuggin Frost be damned.

*

We pick our way through the darkenin graveyard and I feel like an old-fashioned graverobber apprenticed to his gangly stalkin uncle, the two of us weavin slowly between stones and statues, Victor stoppin now and then to look at the names and dates o the dead and sayin them back to himself softly and makin the sign o the cross. The place is already shut so there’s no one else about; we had to squeeze through a gap in the railings to get in.

—It’s over here, Victor. Beside that tree. See it there?

Victor nods and follows me, a bunch o white flowers he picked from his field clutched to his chest. A maze o graves of every kind. A small rusty cross at the head of a bed o half-sunk flagstones. A headstone shaped like a teddy bear. And then a gypsy grave, two marble horses risin from solid spray and between them eight small oval-shaped stones engraved with children’s words for a dead father.

We crunch our way down a little path and I stop and nod me head at a new plain white marble gravestone. Me ma’s stone. Shane bought it. He wouldn’t take any money off me or Paula; he wanted to own me ma’s death. Not that he had any time for her while she was alive. We stand, Victor and me, and watch the dyin light obscure the letters on the stone and fuck it anyway but I don’t know wha to think. It’s stupid to say that me ma died on me but that’s how I feel sometimes. There was somethin wrong with her heart, the specialist said; it was always goin to happen. The
specialist was a Pakistani fella and he was small with huge glasses and a turnip-shaped head. Actually, it seemed like they all were; it was like a clinical and immeasurably fuckin sad version o Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, with Pakistani doctors instead of Oompa-Loompas. There was somethin terrifyin about wha he said — it was always gonna happen. An unhappy fate, predestination. Fuck. She was fifty-five when she died and she was still a gorgeous woman. Up until then it had been me and me ma and Paula in the house. It was a home, things made sense. Then everythin was fuckin obliterated.

I know I was away when it happened but that didn’t mean I’d abandoned her. I didn’t. I was tryin to do somethin good, tryin to get on. I would’ve come back. It does me fuckin head in that I wasn’t there. And it does me head in that Paula was.

I was in a pub when Paula rang me, The Otley. There was some rugby game on, might o been the Heineken cup or somethin. I’d never usually bother with rugby but the Welsh are mad into it.

—I can’t hear yeh, I said to her. —I’m in a pub.

I stood up and headed for the toilets. They smelled o lemon and disinfectant. Yeh could barely notice the piss for once.

—Hello? I said.

—Jesus Denny are yeh there for fuck sake?

—Yeah, I’m here. I’m in a pub, sorry. It’s jammers –

—In a fuckin pub? In a fuckin pub when there’s –

—What’s up?

—Ma’s gone. Jesus Denny, yeh have to come home.

Paula made a show of herself at the wake, fallin across the coffin slaughtered drunk. She’d been whackin back
the vodka all day. Shane and Gino had to grab the coffin to stop it fallin over. I love Paula but Jesus, her and drink, she’s a fuckin lunatic. And at ma’s wake and all, that’s wrong man. That’s seriously un-fuckin-cool.

The wake was awful, that was probably the worst of it. I’m tellin yeh, interminable isn’t the fuckin word. Tick fuckin tock. We had to keep the windows open in the front room, the fella at Massey’s funeral parlour said so. It was freezin. I remember Maggit in the kitchen, a pile o sandwiches in misted cellophane on the table and the cigarette hangin from his lip, bobbin as he spoke. He had a can o Guinness clutched to his chest and his newly shaved head made his jug ears look more prominent than ever. He was sayin member the time we were kids and we threw eggs at the Flaherty’s house and then Mr Flaherty stormed round foamin and rantin, sayin to yer ma yer fuckin son’s after peltin me gaff with eggs and yer ma goes back into the kitchen, grabs a handful o raw sausages and rashers and throws them at him, sayin there yeh go, yiv a fuckin breakfast now.

And I do remember.

Jesus, course I do.

I take a deep breath and Victor kneels down slowly and his knees pop and crack. He places the wild white flowers on the grave and pats them but the wind catches them and they go flyin across the neighbourin graves and into the dark.

—Ah Jaysis lookit me flowers. Ah God.

Victor takes a few steps after them and stops.

—Don’t worry about it, Victor.

Victor takes another step and then turns back to me. —They were good flowers.

—I know.

—Snowdrops. Victor looks at the grave and blesses himself and clears his throat. He kneels back down and lays his palm on the little green pebbles.

—I miss yeh very much Kate but sure yer in a better place now and we’ll be soon enough to follow yeh, he says, and he turns slightly and looks up at me. He’d be comical-lookin cept for the big sad eyes.

—Sure it’s a lovely oul grave anyway, isn’t it? he says. —Very dignified.

I nod me head. —C’mon and we’ll go.

Victor stands up.

—Yeh can stay with us tonight if yeh want, I say.

—Ah no, Denny. It’s one thing comin to her grave, it’s another stayin in her house. Ah no. Sure I’ll make me own way back to the caravan.

—Victor, Balbriggan’s twenty miles away. Yill be found dead. I’ll give yeh a lift.

—Grand so. Yer a great oul skin Denny I’m tellin yeh true. As good a youngfella as there is.

Victor pulls the whiskey bottle from his duffle coat and hands it to me and I unscrew the cap and drink and the first snow flies slantways through the dark.

*

We’re back in Victor’s. I stick
As I Lay Dying
by William Faulkner and a biography of Eamon De Valera into me bag.

—I wasn’t lookin for swaps or anythin, I say. —Them books I brung are just presents, like.

Victor waves his hand. —Ah not at all, Denny. A swap’s a swap and I’m happy to do it. Sure that’s wha they did in ancient times instead o money. Ten hens for a sheep.

He seems to mull over wha he’s just said.

—Or would yeh say a sheep’s worth ten hens? That might be a bit too many hens.

I shrug and Victor points at me bag. —That Faulkner one’s a bit mad now but stick with it. It’s very good. Me mother is a fish and all this.

—Wha?

—Yill see.

—Right. Are yeh sure yeh don’t wanna come up to the house for the night? Will yeh be alright here in this weather?

—Ah I’ll be grand Denny. Not a bother.

—Well. I’ll see yeh so, Victor. I’ll drop up again.

—Safe journey home now Denny. Mind yerself on them roads they’re treacherous oul things altogether.

I hoist the bag up onto me shoulders and step out into the night. When I turn back Victor’s still in the doorway, a tall black shadow in a neat rectangle o lemon yellow light, the sky above the caravan filled with fallin snow.

*

The wipers are shuckin the snow back and forth off the window and the car in front o me’s nothin cept two dull red eyes in the wild grey night. Cohen’s croakin about bein an ugly hunchback and yeh can picture him on a stool with his guitar, the smart haircut and the well-set face lined with sorrow and unwanted wisdom and –

Jesus this is a depressin fuckin album.

I hit stop on the tapedeck and collapse back into the seat. Cohen’s class, don’t get me wrong, but I suppose Paula’s right; time and fuckin place, man. Can’t be doin with downer stuff at the moment, sat here with the car bumblin and chuggin in stasis, eager to be home.

God, I miss me ma. I miss her somethin fuckin terrible.

A fella in a high-vis jacket jogs past, head ducked against the snow, and slips into the little toll bridge security hut thingy up ahead.

I reach over into the back seat and rummage through the bag and pull out the De Valera biography. His face is pinched and worried-lookin on the front cover and he’s wearin his oul spidery fine-rimmed glasses. An older De Valera, way after he was bombed to fuck in the GPO. He looks dead like Alan Rickman, actually, the actor who played him in Neil Jordan’s film. Specially the nose.

I light up a cigarette and take a few puffs and flip open the book on me lap. The pages old and thick and slightly yellow. There’s a big red stamp on the inside cover sayin PROPERTY OF BALBRIGGAN LIBRARY. I tease the little ticket out o the pocket and Victor, yeh wily bastard, it’s four and a half years overdue.

This is a joke, man. A fuckin joke. I stare out the window and shake me head … I can’t believe this … I fuckin knew somethin like this was gonna happen.

The car’s outside the garden on its roof. It looks like a fucked beetle, wheels and rusty metal guts in the air. It’s surrounded by a gang o kids. I drop me Cheerios and squash on the runners Paula got me yesterday and race out o the house and into the light mornin rain. I push past the kids and give the fuckin heap o shite a boot. One o the lads laughs.

—What’s so funny? I say.

—You, he says.

Cheeky fuck.

—Did youse do this?

—No. Did you?

His mates snigger.

—D’yiz know who did it, then?

Fuckin desperation here, I know; I’ve more chance o gettin a straight answer out of a Fianna Fail councillor than these poxy kids. And anyway I know full well who did it: the gyppos. And that cunt Maggit’s still off gallivantin. Wha am I supposed to do, like?

Fuck it. I turn and head back up the garden. I should probably just get rid o the motor. I’ll just drive the thing
up and be done with it. I mean, it’s only a shitty little rustbox anyway and the gyppos don’t seem –

—I like yer runners, mister.

I turn round. —Wha?

The lads are laughin, nudgin each other.

—Yer runners are gorgeous.

He makes a floppy-wristed gesture and I look down at me new runners. Actually, now that these little bastards mention it, they’re quite sparkly and vaguely effeminate. And there’re little hearts on the laces.

I hurry back into the house.

*

On the phone to Pajo:

—Is Maggit back yet?

—No, no sign of him.

—Fuck sake.

—What’s wrong? Did somethin happen?

—It’s upside down.

—Wha?

—It’s upside down … on its fuckin roof, like.

—The car?

—No the fuckin house. I’m sittin on the ceilin.

—OK, OK. Chill, man.

—There’s a load o kids out lookin at it. Fuckin gawpin, the little saps.

Silence for a few seconds, then:

—Denny, did yeh hear anythin last night?

—No. Why?

Silence again.

—Wha?

—Sounds weird to me, like. Odd. I mean … I don’t want to add to yer woes, Denny …

—Wha are yeh shitein about?

—Well … d’yeh think they, like … they might o cursed the car or somethin?

—Jaysis, would you stop. Were you smokin somethin this mornin?

—Yeah, but … still, I’m just sayin, like. If yeh didn’t hear anythin …

—Here, can I ring yeh back? I’m callin the X-Files. Yeh fuckin sap.

I end the call and click on the kettle in the kitchen. I need a cup o tea. Wha a load o bollix, like. Nothin ever goes right for me. Never. I mean, I get a car … and let’s face it, the car’s fuckin shite; a total fuckin banger … and it gives me a bit o fuckin pleasure, like, a bit o fuckin freedom … and wha happens?

It’s typical, this. Totally. That shite with the Triads (so-called Triads) was Maggit’s fault as well, and so was everythin else, ever. The chap’s trouble. And he’s turned into a selfish cunt, as well. I mean, there was a time he’d fight for anyone, he was a socialist, an environmentalist, the lot.

But now he’s just a big-eared cunt.

*

Pajo’s after comin over for the night. It’s the wee hours o the mornin and we’re havin a stakeout.

—Bags Charlie Sheen, Pajo says.

—He’s not in Stakeout, his brother is.

—Are yeh sure?

—Yeah. What’s his name … Estevez somethin. Emilio Estevez.

—Right. I’m him, then. You can be the oulfella.

—I’d rather be Richard Dreyfuss anyway. He’s a better actor.

—Yeah, he’s about ninety though.

I shake me head and get up to make another cup o tea. Pajo’s sippin his cappuccino, a little drop o whiskey in it. I’d drink coffee as well but I hate the stuff. I keep a packet o cappuccino sachets in the press for Pajo, though, cos he’s a fussy bastard with certain things and won’t drink tea. Anyway, we’re sittin up to keep an eye on the car, we’ve a good view from me bedroom window. Me room still looks like it did when I was a teenager — Undertaker posters on the walls, a big Che Guevara flag over me bed, rows o books on me shelves. I have the kettle and the milk and that up here, and biscuits and ashtrays and the whiskey bottle for Pajo. Pajo may be a Buddhist but he still drinks like a Catholic. Although, maybe he’s better off. I wish we lived in ancient fuckin times, so I could worship the sun or the moon or somethin … somethin that’s actually there, actually worth-fuckin-while.