Lamb (13 page)

‘Naw,' said the boy. ‘The only bit I can remember is just before. Just before it starts.'

‘I was reading about it today – in a bookshop. Trying to find a cure for you. It said that. About the things that happen before.'

‘It's weird.' Owen closed his eyes as if trying to recall the feeling.

‘Are you hungry?' asked Michael.

‘Starving.' Owen clicked his teeth together.

‘Then I'll order you something to eat.' He said it in a posh voice. He picked up the telephone and raised his eyebrows as he thought a posh person would do, but when he spoke into the phone it was in his own voice. He apologized for being late but explained that he had mentioned it to the waitress earlier on. When he put the phone down they both laughed. A silence came between them. Still the rain rattled at the window in salvoes driven by the wind.

‘Sounds a bit like the Home,' said Owen, nodding in the direction of the storm. Michael nodded. They both looked at the window and the reflection of the bedside lamp on it, flexing under the pressure of the gale.

‘What do you mean by weird? The bit you remember?' Michael asked.

The boy paused, not knowing what to answer.

‘Weird,' he said again.

‘Like what?'

Owen thought for a long time. The deep thunder in the chimney continued.

‘Do you know when you are writing on a blackboard – and the chalk slips – and you scrape your nail up against it?'

Michael gave an involuntary shudder.

‘No. No, it's not like
that
. It's like that only it's
nice
.'

Owen moved his hands, trying to explain.

‘It's like that only it's a
nice
feeling. Everything is right. Everything's in its right place . . . it's the right colour, the right smell. Sometimes I get a smell that . . . It's beautiful . . . '

The word coming from Owen sounded strange. The curtains stirred even though the windows were tight shut.

‘The whole thing is . . . beautiful. I . . . I be happy. Just say . . . somebody who really
loves
the sound of his nails scratching down a blackboard, then that's what it's like. I be
that
happy.'

Owen stopped talking with a shrug and a twist of his mouth. They were both quiet.

‘It sounds a bit daft,' said Michael eventually.

‘It's hard to explain.'

‘So it seems. But I think I understand what you're getting at.'

‘I would like to be like that all the time,' said Owen. He sighed when he had said this and for a moment Michael saw him as a sick boy. The hard man image had fallen away from him and he lay back with his thin wrists upturned.

‘A permanent fit?' said Michael.

The boy nodded.

‘Sometimes I feel like that,' he said.

‘Now?'

Owen smiled at him. ‘No,' he said, ‘not now.'

The bed creaked as Michael leaned back on to it.

‘Right – let's say I'm your fairy godfather and I can grant you three wishes. What would they be?'

‘A million quid and . . . '

‘No – real things. Things you'd like to do.'

Owen thought, then said,

‘To fly – '

‘I said real, edgit.'

‘ – in a plane. That's real isn't it?'

‘O.K.'

‘ – to be able to swim – eh,' he opened his mouth, thinking, ‘ – to score for Arsenal at Wembley, and play the guitar.'

‘That's four.'

‘Well, then, my first wish would be to have four wishes.'

‘Sneaky,' said Michael. ‘But only one of them is real. The rest have to be taught. That involves work.'

‘Not if you're a fairy godfather.'

‘You're daft, son,' said Michael, smiling at him.

Another silence fell between them which lasted for some time. Michael broke it by telling him about the fugue. That people travel for weeks without knowing what's going on.

‘We're a couple of fuguers,' he said, laughing again.

‘Watch your language, Brother Sebastian.'

A round-up of the day's sport came on the radio and they heard that the Arsenal game had ended in a nil-all draw.

‘We didn't miss much,' said Michael.

There was a knock at the door and when Michael opened it, it was the old Irishwoman with a tray for Owen. She bustled in saying, ‘Isn't that the terrible night out, Mr O'Leary?' She turned to Owen,

‘And how is the wee man now?'

‘Oh, he's much better,' said Michael, his hands out for the tray.

The woman walked past him and set the tray on Owen's knees. She fussed around him, fixing the pillows at his back.

‘This boy needs fattening, Mr O'Leary. He's a rickle of bones. Do you like ham sandwiches?'

Owen nodded, biting into a neat triangle of bread. The woman poured his tea.

‘And I brought a cup for you, Mr O'Leary. Will you have one?'

She had it poured already, and Michael took it rattling on its saucer. He wished she would go but she stood on, wanting to talk. She kept patting her white hair nervously. She wore the same cross-over flowered apron as before.

‘On holiday, you say. Is Mrs O'Leary at home?'

‘No. I'm afraid Mrs O'Leary is dead.' Michael fiddled with the ring on his finger.

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. He'll be an only child then?' she said, nodding towards the boy. ‘And you'll be wanting to know where you'll get mass in the morning?' Owen made a slurping noise drinking his tea.

‘Eh? Yes. With all the fuss I'd forgotten tomorrow was Sunday,' said Michael.

‘Well you haven't too far to go. Just round the corner, to your right. The big church on the right. There's masses on the hour right up till one o'clock for the lazy ones.'

The sports programme ended and some pop music came on the radio. Michael leaned over and turned the sound up.

‘You like this one, Owen, don't you?'

The old woman had to raise her voice to speak now.

‘Can you get Radio Eireann on it?'

‘Yes.'

‘I can get it on mine too. I like to keep up with what's happening at home. This trouble in the North is terrible.'

‘Yes, awful.'

‘And this kidnapping business. Have you heard about that?'

The old woman was looking him straight in the eye. Michael stared back at her, not wanting to seem guilty. He sat down on the bed.

‘I think I heard it mentioned the other day.'

‘It was on every day for near a week there. A man about your age and a boy. It's terrible what some people get up to.'

‘Yes, isn't it.'

The woman was still looking at him.

‘What part of Swords did you say you lived?'

‘Out the Dublin road. Hey, listen to this one, Owen.'

An old Beatles song came on. ‘All You Need is Love.' Michael stood up and began to back the woman towards the door.

‘He's mad keen on the music,' he said. The woman retreated a few steps, realizing now that she wasn't wanted. She was still staring at his face as if she wanted to memorize it as she left the room.

‘How long did you say you'd be staying?' she asked.

‘A couple of days,' said Michael, ‘Oh, and leave the tray until the morning. We'll be going to sleep shortly.'

‘Good night,' she said. ‘Sleep tight.'

When the door was closed and she had had time to get to the end of the corridor Michael switched off the radio and said,

‘She knows.'

Owen stopped chewing.

‘I'm sure she suspects us, Owen. The question is whether to get out tonight or first thing in the morning.'

Because of the weather and because he knew the difficulty of getting a new hotel at that time of night with a sick boy on his hands, Michael for once decided to trust his luck. It was better than walking the streets or spending such a night in one of the railway stations. He lay awake listening to the wind and tensed every time quiet footsteps traversed the carpeted corridor. When someone had gone past the door, the handle gave a tiny vibration and Michael relaxed again. The footsteps and the singing of the plumbing eventually stopped but he could not sleep. Everything became exaggerated. He could not only hear the ticking of a clock but the turning of the mechanism inside. The bed irritated him at all points of contact; he itched and tickled but was too intent on sleeping to scratch. Towards morning the storm died to blade-light whistles. The room began to take on a ghostly outline of its shape, the greyness seeping through the curtains. Somewhere a blackbird startled into song and was joined by others, starlings, sparrows. Michael pulled the pillow over his ears and clenched his eyes tightly shut. Ever since he could remember he had hated this alarm call of the birds.

In this state, as the room moved from darkness to light, the glimmerings of a plan came into his mind. He had fought so hard for the past few hours rejecting thoughts and images that had appeared like demons to torment him that he gave up and let the plan stay. It was terrible in its implications. He hoped it was the result of a night's depression and insomnia and that it would disappear with the light of day, like the tingling and the itch.

It was an idea which was easy to conceive, but he seriously doubted that he would have the courage to carry it through. When it had first occurred to him his face had broken into a smile in the darkness, it seemed so ludicrous. But as the night went on, the idea would not leave him alone. It came to him from cul-de-sacs, popped up and leered at him from behind the screens he put up. Spoke to him of plausibility. The smile died on his face and as the hours ticked on the plan became the only possible drastic solution. It was motivated by love. It would be a pure act. Of this he was sure.

He knew he was depressed but could do nothing about it. His limbs were of lead but his mind whirred on through endless, hopeless repetitions of the same idea. There was no way out for them, either Owen or himself.

He knew, too, and he could not give a reason for it, that they would have to return to Ireland. In this country among strangers the act would have no meaning for him. He felt homesickness repeat on him like acid. And yet he could not think of a single thing he regretted leaving. What he did know was that there was nothing to hold him here, among these crowds with their English clacking tongues. Pagan England, his father had called it.

They would fly. It would be a way of using up what money was left. Another phrase of his father's. To get things used up. It was the reason he gave for most things. Eating and drinking and drawing on paper bags. Everything had to be used up. One of Owen's wishes had been to fly. Michael could grant it. Brother Benedict had told him his name, Michael, was from the Hebrew, meaning ‘who is like God?' Grant it, O Lord. Let us fly.

In the plan was their salvation. He wanted this to be his one positive act. All his life he had been doing negative things, obedient things under pressure of religion and human respect. This was one decision he had arrived at by
himself.
Or at least he thought he had. Ten years ago, on such a night as this, he would have assumed it was God talking to him. There seemed no doubt that someone was putting his foot in the door. Selling him something he did not at first want to buy. No matter how often he changed the subject, the same patter came back. Now that he had ceased to believe in God he wondered who or what was pounding at him. Perhaps it was himself or a part of himself that he refused to recognize. He allowed it finally to be his own decision.

He swung himself out of bed and saw that the time was six-thirty. There was only one thing that could save him from the plan and that was going to Maguire, the solicitor. Michael collected all the money he had from various pockets and his store from the back of the drawer. He knew roughly how much he had but he had to check to make sure it was as bad as he thought. He pulled the curtains apart a slit to give himself more light and began to work out sums in his cash book. He had just enough to carry out his plan with a little extra for luxuries.

It now depended on Maguire. He dressed quietly and picked up all the loose change from beside the notes and slipped out of the room. The hotel was bright and quiet. In the foyer he heard distant noises and voices from the kitchen. He went to the telephone with the perspex hood and dialled the number. He piled the column of his tenpences on the shelf. Maguire would be mad, being phoned at this time of the morning. If he was home at all. Michael heard the quiet rhythmic purr of the dialling tone. When he heard the pips he put his money in.

‘Hello? Mr Maguire?'

‘Who is it?' snapped Maguire's voice. ‘Do you realize the time?'

‘Yes. I'm very sorry. Did I get you out of bed?'

‘Yes. And it's bloody well Sunday.'

‘This is Michael Lamb here.'

‘Who?' The voice was high-pitched with irritation.

‘Michael Lamb. My father died some weeks ago and we came to an arrangement about his will.'

‘Yes, I know rightly who you are. What do you want?'

‘You remember I had some money left?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘You said it was roughly two thousand . . . ' A cleaning woman passed carrying a Hoover and Michael stopped talking until she was out of earshot. ‘And you gave me eight hundred, so that leaves something, doesn't it?'

‘You are in no position to bargain, Mr Lamb . . . '