Lamb (15 page)

Owen was not sure. He said, ‘But not too close to
the
Home?'

‘No.'

There was a long silence between them. Owen obviously wanted to say something but found it difficult. Then he came out with it.

‘You're not thinking of handing me in, are you?'

Michael was taken aback. He laughed and put his arms about the boy.

‘No, Owney. Do you not trust me even yet?'

‘That's O.K. then.'

‘O.K., Owen Kane,' said Michael. ‘Would you like to fly?'

The boy's face lit up.

‘Smashin',' he said. He got up off the grass, stretched his arms out at his shoulders and made a whining noise like a jet as he ran round and round Michael. Then he ran out of steam and plunged down beside him, a rumpled heap on the grass.

It took them most of the day getting the whole way across London and when they arrived at the airport they were told that the next flight to Belfast was on Monday. Michael spent twenty minutes on the phone trying to find a hotel for the night.

The windows in their room were double-glazed and it was Owen who noticed the dead flies that lay on the sill between the glass. It was by far the best hotel they had stayed in. Their room had a colour television and a radio and a private bathroom. There was even a current
Radio Times
and
T.V. Times
to tell them what programmes were on that night.

They had a meal and Owen couldn't leave the table quick enough to get back up to the television. He asked Michael to buy him cigarettes and a big Coke, and then ran to the lift.

Michael stood at the bar waiting to be served. Through the crowd he saw a girl watching him from the opposite end of the bar. She seemed to be watching him through the noise. Michael looked away then back at her again. She was still watching him and when he looked back at her for a third time she smiled at him. Michael felt himself getting embarrassed. She was too good-looking for him.

Eventually he was served with his cigarettes and as a sort of afterthought he bought himself a half pint of bitter. He drank it standing and occasionally looked over at the girl. She was dark-haired, hair that fell in a tumble to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark brown and occasionally she gnawed delicately at the painted nail of her little finger. Before he left she smiled at him again.

Going up in the lift he remembered reading somewhere that the lines in television pictures could set off a fit in an epileptic. He went into the room. Owen had the curtains pulled and an armchair drawn up to the set. The place was dark except for the flickering colours as each scene changed. Michael opened the cigarettes and offered the boy one. He took it without saying a word or taking his eyes off the screen. Michael struck a match for him.

‘What is it?' he asked.

‘Songs of Praise,' said Owen.

‘Anything good on later?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What is it?'

‘A Western.
Piaowoooo, piaowooooo,
' he made two noises at the back of his throat. ‘John Wayne.'

Michael went out to the bathroom and pulled the cord light. He took out his shaving gear.

‘Did the doctor ever tell you anything about watching the T.V.?' he shouted.

‘No.'

‘Come on. Did he?'

‘He said if I feel funny I've to cover one eye.'

‘How do you feel?'

‘O.K.'

Michael lathered all round his beard and began carefully to shave his cheeks. He straightened off the line at his cheeks, at his sideburns and underneath his neck. He washed and dried his face and inspected himself in the mirror. He was pleased with the result. It now looked more like a beard than a growth. He changed his shirt and put on some after-shave. He slipped off his wedding ring and left it on the bathroom shelf.

‘Will you be all right on your own? I'm going down to the bar.'

Owen did not answer but Michael saw his head move up and down. A minister in a white surplice and half-moon glasses came on the screen.

‘If you feel funny, cover one eye,' said Michael as he left.

When he got to the bar he was disappointed to see that it had emptied and that the girl was gone. Two couples sat at opposite ends of the room. It was quiet enough to hear the Musak. Michael debated whether or not to go back to his room and watch the Western with Owney. But he needed to be away from the boy. He went out of the hotel and walked to find a place where more was happening so that it might stop his mind from racing.

In a side street he saw several lit neon signs. He went into the first bar he came to. It was an old-fashioned pub, smoke-filled and crowded with men talking. It reminded him of pubs at home and at once he felt comfortable. While he drank his first pint he concentrated on looking at the ornate carvings on the mahogany behind the bar. On the partition close to him he could see the tracks of the chisel. When he ordered his second pint a man sitting on a stool along from him spoke.

‘I've heard that accent before,' he said.

Michael smiled at him, unsure whether the remark had been friendly or not.

‘What part of Ireland are you from?'

‘Dublin.'

‘Christ, they're in some mess over there. Smoke?' He offered Michael a cigarette.

‘No, thanks.'

The man was about the same age as Michael, slightly built with black, corrugated hair to his shoulders. He had a dark drooping moustache.

‘Yes, it's tragic,' said Michael. ‘It doesn't affect us too much in the South. It's the North that's really bad.'

‘You don't have to tell me, mate. I've been there.'

‘Army?'

The man looked at him closely. He seemed not drunk, but had been drinking.

‘No. Business. Are you on holiday?'

Michael echoed him.

‘No. Business,' and they both smiled.

‘Can I buy you a drink, sur?' The man made a passable imitation of Michael's accent.

Michael did not want to be drawn into his company but the man forced him to have another pint. He was friendly and seemed to laugh at everything, not scornfully but because he found it genuinely funny. For a moment or two Michael forgot about the mood he was in while he listened to the jokes and stories of the other man. He had not heard any of them before and some he did not fully understand but laughed all the same. The man introduced himself as Haddock and Michael said his name was O'Leary. They shook hands.

‘What was your business in Northern Ireland?' Michael asked.

Haddock hesitated.

‘Photography,' he said. ‘What's your business here?'

‘No. I'm only joking. I don't have a job.'

‘That's what I like to hear,' said Haddock, throwing his hair back from his face with his hand. ‘I hate these bastards who spend their lives working. They talk about progress. The fuckin' cavemen had it right. They knew. An afternoon's work killing a dinosaur and live off it for a couple of weeks. When the two-hour fortnight comes in I might get a job myself.'

‘How do you live then?'

‘The State provides for most of my needs and I've a few other things going, besides. I drink as much as I can so I don't eat much. I live free in a nice little squat around the corner.'

‘A what?'

‘A squat. Round the corner from 'ere. A house that's earmarked for demolition. Some of us fixed it up a bit and moved in. Cost nothing.'

They talked for a time, both men hedging on the Northern Ireland issue. They had several rounds of drinks and, after Michael declared his loathing of all factions of the war in Ulster, Haddock admitted that he had been in the Army.

‘What a life that was. No disrespect, mate, but I hate your fucking country. I hate the British Army an' all. Nobody was ever meant to live like that. Do this, do that, kiss my arse. I swore that when I got out of it I'd never take an order from anyone again, whether he was in uniform or not.'

‘Is that why you don't work?'

‘No. It's because I'm a lazy bastard.' He laughed loudly. ‘It's all the same to me. I don't give a shit one way or the other. I'm free to do as I like. Two more pints, love,' he called.

The beer was beginning to have its effect. Michael felt himself become talkative but wanted to guard against saying too much. He was acting jovially but inside him the plan still tainted everything.

‘This squat place,' he said, ‘are there many more houses like it?' He was clutching at straws.

‘Mick, London is full of them. They're all over. Why do you ask?'

‘I might be looking for a place. I'm not sure. I don't have a lot of money.'

Haddock reached out his hand and laid it on his shoulder.

‘Then look no further,' he said. ‘There's a space in our house at this very minute.'

‘I'd have to get a job.'

‘Fuck the job. Just collect the dole.'

‘It's not as simple as that. There could be complications.'

‘Like what?'

Michael thought for a moment, then said,

‘I have a boy with me.'

‘A boy?'

‘Yes. Owen. We need a place together.'

‘No trouble. Why don't you come round and see it? It might do you in the meantime.'

‘Do you really mean that?' Michael was trying to gauge just how drunk Haddock was. ‘I might just do that.'

‘You must.'

Michael bought one for the road. His spirits soared. He laughed and warmed to Haddock, wanting to hug him. The taint evaporated. Here was an opening. He could scrap the plan, get himself a job, have Owen with him. They might
never
be found. It didn't matter what the place was like, it would have to do.

On the street Michael staggered a bit and Haddock put his arm around his shoulder to steady him. He let his arm stay there but Michael eased himself out from under it. Haddock faced away from him and said,

‘Are you straight?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Are you gay?'

‘No,' said Michael unsurely. ‘No. I'm not.'

‘Every cripple has his own way of walking,' said Haddock. ‘Freedom for all. What about the boy?'

‘He's my son.'

Haddock said nothing but started laughing, holding the top of his head with both hands. He continued to snigger, on and off, until they reached the house. Because he said the front was boarded up they went in at the back door. Haddock laughed and said,

‘I always think that's significant, when you consider who lives here.'

He stooped and from somewhere produced a bicycle lamp. Its circle of light wobbled across only half a floor. A board was laid across the open joints to the foot of the stairs.

‘Careful. Keep to the plank,' said Haddock. Michael tight-roped unsteadily across it. Two flights up the floor was better.

Haddock showed him the room he could have. There was a mattress in the corner and a deck-chair with candy-striped canvas. The walls were covered in posters, there was a threadbare rug on the floor and on the one window a sagging curtain of unknown colour on a string. Haddock directed the lamp on to a wastepaper tin full to overflowing. When he bent over his hair covered his face.

‘Needs a bit of tidying if you like that sort of thing.'

Cigarette butts and fat, used tea-bags and papers that spilled on to the floor. Most of the papers were the wrappings of camomile tea. There was a strange odour in the room and Michael did not know whether it was pleasant or not.

‘It'll look fine wiv a bit of imagination,' said Haddock. He struck a match and lit a candle stub stuck to a tin lid. From this he lit a cigarette. ‘It's yours if you want it,' he said. ‘The bloke who was here just cleared out about a week ago. Said he was going to India. Just like that.' Michael thought for a moment. The alternative seemed so final that he knew he had no option.

‘O.K. Thanks. We'll try it. We'll come tomorrow.'

The yellow candle flame wobbled in a draught as a man opened the door.

‘Oh, it's you,' he said. The voice was negroid and light. Vexed.

‘This is my Nutan,' said Haddock. ‘He shares with me.'

‘Shit, man,' said Nutan.

‘Hold on, will ya,' shouted Haddock. ‘This is – I've forgot your name.'

‘Michael.'

‘Michael. He's moving in 'ere.'

‘Yo'r shit,' said Nutan to Haddock.

‘He's moving in with a boy of his own.'

Nutan was dressed in a tight torquoise polo-neck with a black medallion of some sort round his neck. He looked about eighteen, tall and thin with Afro-style hair and a gold hoop ear-ring. He said nothing more but went back across the landing to his room. He slammed the door.

‘He's very touchy sometimes,' said Haddock.

‘Will it be all right?'

‘Sure. He'll be all over you tomorrow. He's a nice fella really. And Keith and Barry upstairs are O.K. too.'

‘I'd better be getting back.'

‘I'll show you the kitchen on the way down.'

At the back door Michael stopped and shook hands with Haddock.

‘And thanks again.'

‘Don't mention it. Someday you can do the same for me. We're all in it together, Paddy. See ya.' He shouted after him, ‘Better bring a light and a few cups and things.'

The drink and the change of circumstance made Michael feel better than he had for weeks. He now had hope for the future again. A fighting chance. He walked quickly and looked up to see the sky but could see nothing because of the street lights. All the way back to the hotel, in the dark eaves of the buildings above his head starlings chittered.