Beneath the Earth
Authors: John Boyne
In this collection of twelve dark, unerring and surprising short stories, John Boyne explores the extremities of the human condition in all its brilliance and brutality. The secrets we keep and the ways in which they shape us, the impossibility of shared loss, the lengths we will go to in order to protect our families and the distance we will run to protect ourselves.
Drawing on a host of enthralling characters â a farmer, a cuckold and a teenager exploring his sexuality; good parents, bad parents, writers and soldiers; a student, a rent boy and a hitman â Boyne examines the hopeful and the damaged without prejudice or judgement.
This, his first collection of short stories, is some of John Boyne's finest writing to date. It includes âRest Day' which won the 2015 Writing.ie Short Story of the Year award in Ireland.
Contents
Stories
John Boyne
for Simon Trewin
I started charging for sex a few days after my nineteenth birthday. I recognized my body for what it was: an asset that could be rented to the lonely for an hour at a time. There's no shortage of damaged men in Dublin who want to lavish attention on the boy they weren't allowed to love when they were young and I knew that they would like me.
The idea came about through a combination of necessity and happenstance. Although my scholarship paid my tuition fees, it did not cover living expenses and I found myself sharing a house with three students who nauseated me. They spent their evenings watching television together, noisily eating takeaway food and making derogatory comments about girls they wanted to fuck but who did not want to fuck them. To share a living space with them made me feel diminished as a person. One evening I was making my way down Bachelors Walk when I stopped to light a cigarette. As I leaned back against a doorway, wondering where I might go to avoid that squalid flat, a much older man approached me. He smiled as if we were old friends and called me âmate'. He asked how I was doing. I told him I was doing fine. He asked whether I was waiting for someone. I told him no. He said he didn't want anything unusual, just a bit of fun, and I stared at him, confused, before walking on. I was halfway home before I realized what he'd meant. And then I regretted not asking him how much money he had.
I'm lucky. I live in the age of the Internet. The next morning I spent less than a minute on Google before I found an appropriate website to advertise my services. I stood in front of a mirror with my shirt off, wearing a low-slung pair of jeans, and took a photograph. I didn't show my face entirely; the picture started just beneath my eyes and ended at my knees. It was clear enough to show what was on offer, obscure enough that no one would recognize me. I listed the things I was willing to do, which were many things, and the things I was unwilling to do, which were few. I checked the other ads and positioned myself within an appropriate price range. My age meant that I could charge more. It would be almost a year before my price would need to drop. I saved the ad, went into town to buy a second phone â a cheap one â and a new SIM card. I listed the number on the ad. I posted the ad. The phone rang that night. Four times.
I was nervous my first time but the man I chose was polite and self-conscious when he called, which reassured me. I took a shower and was surprised to notice that I was somewhat aroused. I wasn't looking forward to it but I wasn't dreading it either. He lived in Ranelagh. I made my way there and knocked on his door. He opened it wearing a pair of slacks, a shirt, a cardigan and an apron. He told me that he'd been cooking and asked whether I was hungry. I said I was and he said he could make me a bacon sandwich if I liked. Tick-tock, I said. One hour. Feed me if you want, but tick-tock. He turned off the oven, put the bacon back in the fridge and removed his apron.
He asked me to sit on the sofa and I did. The television was on.
Coronation Street
. Behind a newsagent's counter, a woman with a helmet of red hair was teasing her colleague. It was quite amusing. The man asked my name and I told him. The name on my ad, not my real name. He asked whether I was really nineteen and I said that I was. He asked did I get lonely sometimes, like he did. Tick-tock, I said. He nodded and started to undo my belt. I noticed a photograph on the mantlepiece of the man, many years younger, with two people I took to be his parents and who looked kind and loving.
It was a good start for me. He didn't remove any of his clothes, nor did he want me to touch him. He didn't ask me to undress. All he wanted was to blow me, which he did. I lay my head back on the sofa and tried to clear my mind. A small dog wandered into the room and sat on his hind legs, observing us. The man's mobile phone rang and he ignored it. I came in his mouth; he didn't pull away or complain. It wasn't unpleasurable. Afterwards, he went to the sink and poured a glass of water, gargled with it and spat it out. He handed me five twenty-euro notes and didn't look at me again.
You have my number, I told him, but he didn't reply. He put his apron back on and took the bacon out of the fridge. I patted the dog. I took the bus home and started looking at flats that I might soon be able to afford on my own. I showered again, then slept soundly. The next morning I lodged the hundred euros in my account, which was overdrawn at the time. It would never be overdrawn again.
Rachel started drinking when I was thirteen, the same year Peter left. Rachel is my mother; Peter is my father. A few months earlier, my sister was killed when she was walking home from school. She ran across a road without looking and a car hit her. She was on life support for two weeks. Rachel and Peter argued over whether they should switch the machine off. Then she died anyway.
Rachel and Peter stopped pretending to love each other after that. I came home from school and Rachel told me that we were having spaghetti bolognese for dinner. She told me to clean my room and throw my clothes in the washing machine. She told me that Peter had moved out. She told me she was going out with the girls that night. Fine, I said.
She stopped putting food in the fridge and started putting bottles of wine in there instead. She told me a little glass in the evening kept her sane. She drank two bottles a day. Then three. She asked me did I want some. We sat together playing card games in the evening and she said she really shouldn't be doing this but that she'd prefer that I was sitting in the kitchen drinking with her than out somewhere drinking with my friends. I told her they wouldn't be out drinking anyway, that they were only children, like me. She refilled my glass.
On bad nights, she would look at photographs of my sister and cry as she drank. She told me she felt lonely. She said she couldn't be alone. She knocked on my bedroom door and said that she needed me with her. She said she wanted to keep me safe. She slept in the bed with me and wrapped her body around me. She turned me around to face her and held me closer. She said that no one would ever love me like my mother would. She said she wanted to show me how much she loved me.
I started going into school with hangovers and one of my teachers grew concerned. I was called into the form tutor's office for a meeting. How is everything at home, he asked me. Fine, I said. It was a terrible thing that happened to your sister, he said. She's with God now, I said. That she is, that she is, he said, taking off his glasses, peering through the lenses and cleaning them with his soiled handkerchief before putting them back on. And how are your parents, he asked me. I told him that Peter had moved out. Who is Peter, he asked me. My father, I told him. You call your father Peter, he asked me. I do, I told him. Isn't that quite unusual, he asked me. I suppose, I told him. Does he not want you to call him Daddy, he asked me. No, I told him. And what about your mother, he asked me. Rachel, I said. You call your mother Rachel, he asked me. I do, I told him. I never heard of such a thing, he said. Is your mammy taking care of you, he asked me. Rachel, I said. Is Rachel taking care of you, he asked me. No one will ever love me like my mother does, I told him. We're concerned about you, he said. Your teachers, I mean. You seem tired in the mornings. And your eyes are red. And quite frankly, there's a smell of alcohol about you, as if you've been drinking. That's because I've been drinking, I told him. You've been drinking, he said. Yes, I told him. What do you drink, he asked me. I drink white wine, I told him. Cheap stuff. It goes down smooth but comes out rocky. He stared at me and said nothing for a long time. Does your mother know that you drink, he asked me. Do you mean Rachel, I said. Does Rachel know that you drink, he asked me. She's the one who pours it out for me, I told him. Your mother gives you drink, he said, more of a statement than a question. Rachel gives me drink, I told him. All right then, he said, you go on back to your class, there's a good boy. Let me have a think about this. And I went back to my class, where I felt tired. I was looking forward to getting home. I had a thirst on me. It had started coming on me every day at this time.
When the bell rang, a man and a woman were waiting for me outside the classroom. We're going to take you home today, they told me. We'd like a word with your mother. Fine, I said. They drove me home in a red Cortina. Rachel was lying on the sofa watching television. She had a hand down the front of her tracksuit pants. She stood up when the man and the woman came in, unsteady on her feet. There were wine bottles on the floor. Who have you been talking to, you little shit, asked Rachel, advancing on me, and the woman stood between us. I'll make the call, said the man, taking a phone from his pocket and stepping out into the hallway.
I was told to pack a bag and a couple of hours later I found myself in a house near Dartmouth Square with a couple named George and Sarah Day, and their son Eugene, who offered me a game of Monopoly. I was told I was to stay with the Days until a decision was made about me.
Fine, I said.
I always say you have my number when I leave someone's house but it's unusual for a man to call me twice. Perhaps I'm not good at my job. It's a possibility, of course, but I do try to give value for money. I think it's more likely that men don't want me to remember them. If I see them more than once, then I might recognize them as they walk down Grafton Street, holding their children by the hands as they look into the Christmas window at Brown Thomas. Or maybe they think that if they become familiar to me, I will blackmail them. Or, I suppose, murder them. But these are the things that happen in films, not in real life. I would never acknowledge a client on the street. Nor would I blackmail one. Nor would I commit a violent crime. I know this in my heart. But of course they do not, for they don't know me at all.
There is one couple, however, that I have seen several times. They are both in their fifties. Roger has a strong Galway accent; Jim tells me that he is Glaswegian. Roger and Jim live together off Parnell Square. They own an extraordinary amount of DVD films, which they shelve alphabetically on beautifully constructed shelves. Roger is visibly excited whenever I appear and undresses me quickly, his mouth on every part of my body. There is no small talk. Jim holds back and seems embarrassed to be part of this. He looks away when Roger kisses me. I can see that he hates where their life has led them, this intrusion of a young boy into their bedroom. I am certainly not the first; I will not be the last. When Roger is finished with me, he lies back and says
fuck
over and over in a tone that suggests that we have both been overwhelmed by the encounter. Jim looks away and gathers up my clothes for me, gives me my money. He asks me whether I would like to use their shower. I wash myself thoroughly before going downstairs even though I will shower again when I get home. By now, Roger is seated on the sofa wearing a faded dressing gown and flicking through the television channels. He never looks at me then.
The last time I left their house Jim walked me to the front door. Do you live far away, he asked me, and I shook my head. Not too far, I said. Do you mind if I ask what you do, he said. When you're not doing this, I mean. Of course you don't have to say if it makes you uncomfortable. If I tell you, will you tell Roger, I asked him. No, he said. I'm a student, I told him. He seemed disappointed by my reply. He thought I was lying. I wasn't lying. He put a hand on my shoulder and said that if Roger called again, would I mind saying that I was busy? He said that he knew this would cost me money but that he would be happy to make this good. He would give me one hundred euros for every time I said no to Roger. I shook my head and said that I would never come to their house again. That if Roger phoned me, I would not answer. But he'll call someone else, I told him, you know that, don't you? Yes, I know that, he said.