Ghosts and Lightning (23 page)

Maggit smirks and shakes his head.

—Yeh do, says Ned. —Like … the impressionists and cubists and all these. They all did things a certain way, they had things to say … well, to paint, in a new way. It’s –

—D’yeh hear this, Denny? says Maggit, turnin to me.

—Fuckin cubism. Bullshitism, more like. Yeh haven’t a clue, Ned.

—And you do?

—Ned, if bullshit was music, you’d be a brass fuckin band.

Ned looks like he’s gettin pissed off now, so I decide to wade in. Not on the fuckin art debate, though. The first thing that pops into me head is Ned’s ex Sarah, so I just blurt out:

—Wha happened to you and Sarah in the end?

I think Ned’s copped that I’m just changin the subject, but he seems happy enough to leave cubism behind. —Ah, complications, Denny, says Ned. —Complications.

—She was a weapon, says Maggit

—Wha?

—Don’t get yer knickers in a twist, says Maggit. —She was. She’d a head like a melted wheelie bin.

Ned looks at me, then back at Maggit. For a second I think he’s gonna say somethin about Maggit and Bernadette, the obvious comeback. Maggit’d go mad if he did that. He takes a breath instead, though. Calms himself.

—She had her good points, Maggit, he says. —Youse weren’t around when –

—Ned, the fuckin tide wouldn’t take Sarah Jones out.

—Yer a fuckin prick you, d’yeh know that? says Ned, quietly but with weight behind it, and he picks up the pace, leavin us behind.

—Very fuckin sensitive, isn’t he? says Maggit.

I don’t answer. I just phase out o the conversation; I’m not in the fuckin mood, like. Maggit can act the arsehole even at the best o times. I don’t know why he does it.
I mean, we’re all mates, yeh know? Why’s he so fuckin angry all the time? We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Have some fuckin fun, like, which is hard enough to do with the thought of impendin homelessness hangin over me. I feel like everything’s gettin in on me.

*

We march on for another fifteen minutes or so, corkscrewin up and round Montpellier Hill, leavin behind the view o Dublin for another one o the woods and mountains spread out below us. Maggit’s ticklin Ned, tryin to make him laugh. He probably knows he was out of order back there, but it’s not his style to just come out and admit it. After a minute or two they start a mess fight, kind o fencin with two old, mossy branches, and Ned accidentally-on-purpose wallops his stick over Maggit’s head. It explodes into bits o dead bark and wood-dust. Yeh can tell Ned enjoyed it, and Maggit takes it in good humour. Anthony whoops. Pajo’s gimpin along with his hand on his back.

—Yeh OK, Paj?

—Me back’s in ruins, Denny, he says. —Think I’m overcompensatin or somethin, cos o me quad.

—We’re nearly there now.

We walk a bit further, the sun well up above us now, beamin down just enough warmth that some of it gets through the swirlin wind. I’m just about to pull me runner off and smash the fuck out of a little stone in me shoe that’s been slowly drivin me mental when we finally crest the hill. We pass the trees and then the Hellfire Club itself emerges to our left, a huge black shape with its shadow tumblin down the mountain. There are two
big windows on the upper floor, black rectangles starin balefully out over Dublin, and a gapin maw for a front entrance. It’s surrounded by a little wood on three sides, but there’s nothin blockin yer view from the front, where the mountain falls away in a steep incline of loose rock. Yeh can see for miles.

The place is in bits now, like; a wreck, really. Hard to imagine wha it looked like in its heyday.

—Fuckin state o the place, says Maggit. —I could o just walked around St Marks if I’d wanted to see a burnt-out house.

—Jaysis, will yeh give over, says Ned. —Bleedin wreck-the-head today, you are.

Probably somethin to do with Anthony, Maggit’s pissy mood. Or Bernadette, rather. Like I said, though, best to leave it. Fuckim, like, as he’d no doubt say himself.

We plonk down our bags. We’ve a load o drink and enough hash to do us for the night. Ned’s always goin on about me smoking hash but sometimes I’m just in the mood for it. Won’t be goin near any o that till Anthony’s gone, o course. Paula and Teresa are headin back early, and they’re takin Anthony with them. We brung some Slimfast with us as well. Slimfast is ideal campin food cos it’s cheap and easy to make and fillin.

There are other people up here as well, which isn’t unusual. There’s a gang o dodgy-lookin teenagers in tracksuits and Nike caps hangin round, and a little troupe o Goths as well, a bit further down, huddled round a rock.

I stand and feel the wind whip around me, close me eyes. For a second or two I think I can hear music, an acoustic guitar bein strummed, maybe, but when I open me eyes there’s nothin, sight or sound.

*

Paula and Teresa and Anthony are gone. Ned flaps out an oul blanket and lays it on the ground while Maggit licks some skins and carefully fixes up a joint. He lights up and takes a long drag.

—Man, that’s some stuff, he says, his face contorted. He hands it over to me and I inhale a lungful.

Fuck sake.

It starts to hit me straight away; me head feels light and me vision goes a bit funny.

—Where the fuck did yeh get this mad shite? says Maggit.

—Off Tommy, says Pajo.

I hand it back over, me hand shakin.

—Mad fuckin stuff, that, I say. —I’m fuckin spaced already.

—Amateur, says Maggit. His already gaunt cheeks hollow and the tip o the joint glows a deeper orange as he pulls on it. He shakes his head and grins. Sinead takes a drag next. Smoke billows from her nose and she closes her eyes.

—Jesus, she says.

Ned looks at her, concerned.

—Yeh alright love, yeah?

Sinead nods.

—Excellent, she says, and smiles a wide, warm smile.

Sinead hands the joint to Ned. Ned looks at it and hands it to Pajo. I crack open a can and take a drink, leanin back into the cavity-ridden rock behind us.

—D’yiz know wha happened to it? I say.

All faces turn to me. I hadn’t planned on sayin anythin; it just popped out.

—Wha d’yeh mean? says Ned.

I scratch me chin. It’s bristly. Haven’t shaved in a few days.

—Em, the Club like. The place was burnt out years ago. D’yiz know wha happened to it?

—G’wan so, says Sinead.

—It went up in flames, like. Years ago. It was –

—Where’d yeh hear this? says Maggit.

—Just know, I say.

—G’wan, Denny, says Sinead.

I take a sip from me can. —OK. So just imagine, right, that the place is still in action, yeah? Yeh get fellas and girls comin up from the city every weekend for dances and gamblin and all this. Exclusive though, it’s not just commoners boppin up here, this is top o the range hedonism, upper classes only like. Anyway … actually, did yiz know this place was named the Hellfire Club cos o some fella called Jack St Ledger?

Headshakes and shrugs all round.

—Yeah, well, he was this Satanist fella. He founded this cabal called –

Maggit laughs.

—Cabal?

—Yeah, a cabal. A secret society like. They were called the Hellfire Club and they met up here. They were Satanists supposedly. Although mostly they just came up here and got drunk and high and –

—So we’re carryin on a grand tradition? says Ned, obviously delighted.

—Suppose so, yeah. Although these saps were readin the Satanic Bible and all the rest, yeh know? Evokin the Great Horned One and all this shite. So anyway the satanic ties became more and more, like, tenuous or wharrever, as
time went on, till all they were doin was comin up here to play cards and dance and ride and wha have yeh. They went like the clappers apparently, with all these mad drugs and that. They were on laudanum and opium, smokin stuff. Injectin cocaine. Everythin.

—Injectin cocaine?

Maggit, again.

—Yeah. They used to do that years ago. Sherlock Holmes did that. And before yeh say, I know Sherlock Holmes isn’t real, but that’s wha he did in one o the books. So it’s all goin grand anyway until one night this scruffy little fella turns up lookin for a game o cards.

I look round. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

—Well anyway yer man has money so they let him play. They think he’ll be a piece o piss, just some workin class eejit or somethin after stumblin into some cash. Course in the end he cleans the place out like, he’s fuckin untouchable.

—So who’s this fella? says Maggit. —Some kind o demon or somethin?

—Hang on will yeh? Fuck sake. So yer man’s a total pro, yeah? And everyone’s broke in a couple o hours. Course these snobby pricks aren’t impressed with a smelly gobshite beatin them on their home turf so they hold out on him like, tell him to fuck off back to his coal shed. Now, yer man –

—Coal shed? says Maggit.

—Yeah. Well wharrever like. His hovel then. Anyway yer man just sits there and takes the insults. Not a bother on him. He just says, I’ll be paid one way or the other, and he gets up and leaves and whumph! The table they were playin on shoots up in flames and in minutes the whole place is burnin. Totally blazin like. The doors and windows
are all jammed shut and they can’t get out. The whole lot o them are burnt to death and the place was left like …

I point at the Club.

— … that. Just a burnt-out shell.

—And wha about yer man? The smelly fella? says Maggit.

—Well, a youngfella and youngwan were comin up the hill, on the very same path we took like, and they saw yer man comin back down. Thing was, he was over in them fields there … the ones with all the rocks and that in them. Treacherous. And he was skippin along, hoppin and jumpin, cool as yeh like. Totally nimble and that. He was …

I stop. Bollix. I watch me audience, watch them watchin me, wonderin where I’m goin.

—He was wha? said Maggit.

—He was … kind o … it was kind o goatish like, the way he was movin. Skippin like. Actually, look … I was supposed to say earlier that someone saw his feet under the table and they were hooves.

Me moment in the limelight and I’m after ballsin it up. Class, Denny; well done.

—I knew he was some kind o demon fella, says Maggit. —It was obvious like.

—Well you can tell the stories next time then Dickens. Yeah?

Sinead laughs. Ned’s smilin and Maggit’s kind o scowlin, the way he does. I hop up.

—I’m goin for a slash, I say, as much to flee the scene o me botched tale as to relieve me bladder. There’s a corner in one o the rooms in the Club where everyone pisses. I pass the Goths and duck under the blackened lintel and into the Club. It’s fuckin manky. Beer cans everywhere.
Bits o blanket and crisp packets. Totally filthy. The walls are covered in graffiti. So and so loves so and so. Blah-blah was here, such and such a year. Must o seen thousands come and go, this place. DEAD DUBLIN BY NIGHT is scrawled over one o the walls in yellow paint. I head up the scummy stairs and into the big room on the left-hand side. There’s a corner at the front that’s smelly and visibly stained. I walk over and unzip. Splashy-splashy. There’s a window next to it and I can see Ned and Sinead and Maggit and Pajo sprawled out on the blanket in the deepenin dark. Sinead’s drinkin a mug o Slimfast. Smoke’s curlin up from the new joint in Pajo’s hand. And there’s Dublin again, spread out in front o me. Looks tiny, really, when yeh can see all that water out there as well.

I’m a bit unsteady on me feet from the drink and the smoke. Bit frazzled, like. Makes the shadows seem somehow full. And then out o nowhere I feel a kind o chill on me. Like somethin’s in the room with me. Visions of a runty, hairy face. Clip-clop on the stone floor and music somewhere behind it. Me spine comes alive and I turn and piss onto me runners.

Nothin there.

Fuck.

Stories though, man. The way they work on yeh. They’re a kind o spell, aren’t they? Or a prayer, maybe, some o them. An article o faith. How the fuck else can yeh make sense o things, like? Yer fucked without them. There has to be meanin. It’s not just all fuckin … like … evolution or wharrever. Cells and impulses. There’s got to be stories as well. This happened and then this happened and then this happened. And it all meant this.

It all meant this.

*

We get utterly wrecked in the lengthenin shadow o the Hellfire Club. By the early hours o the mornin Dublin’s a puzzle o tiny lights in a sea o nothin below us. Everyone’s in ruins, dead to the world. The teenagers are long gone. The Goths got pissed off with our singin and scarpered an hour or so ago. It gets cold — freezin, like — so we head into the Club. I wrap Ned and Sinead in the blanket and they fall asleep like one big bulky two-headed creature. Pajo follows me and snuggles up beside them like a pup.

—I’m wasted, says Maggit, back out beside the rock. —I’m a fuckin loser. I’m a loser, Denny. Amn’t I? A complete fuckin cunt, a sad fuckin sack o shite.

—Shurrup, I say, and lead him upstairs, the two of us slurrin and stumblin. I plonk him down in a corner under the window.

—Night, night, I say.

He’s frownin in his sleep.

I make me way into the other room. The one with the spine o the ancient chimney. So dark, here. Me head’s spinnin. There’s a draught whooshin down the flume, clean and cold. Patchouli. And then I get that feelin again, me spine hoppin. I knew I would, somehow; knew this feelin would come back. I stand there, for ages it seems. Dunno wha the fuck I’m doin. I press me face to the wall and close me eyes. I run me palms along the bumpy, grimy stones, then turn round in circles and laugh and come back to the chimney, sink to me knees on the shitty cruddy ground, compelled, and peer up the flume … up, up and into the inky tunnelled blackness above me. Stars in a small blue-black square. Smell of old soot and coal. Jesus, can yeh imagine wha it would have been like, burnin to death
here all them years ago? Fuckin horrific, man. Faces slidin from skulls. Skin bubblin and cookin. Hoofs clip-cloppin outside.

I turn on me phone and it says that I have two more missed calls. Both from Shane. I can’t believe the fuckin prick is actually tryin to throw us out. Shane and Gino, it’s like … It’s like there’s somethin wild in them. Some mad and ancient impulse. Even now that they’re older and they’ve wives and jobs, it’s still there. They were mental when they were younger. Proper lunatics. Shane was always a bit more savvy and Gino that much more savage, but the two o them were off their heads.