Ghosts and Lightning (12 page)

I peek at me watch, quarter to ten. I might ramble up to Boss Hogs after I’m done here, grab a breakfast roll or somethin before startin on the shoppin.

Me mobile bleeps. Text message. From Pajo.

HOWS THINGS DENNY. STORY WITH THE GHOST? STILL GONE? P.

Fuckin hell.

I thumb in a reply.

I HAVE ENOUGH TROUBLE BELIEVING YOU EXIST PAJO, NEVER MIND FUCKING GHOSTS. I’M AT THE DOLE. I’LL TEXT YA AFTER.

A skinny fella wearin a FCUK jumper vacates the chair at hatch three, noddin as he passes me, identifyin with me, I suppose, as a fellow native Dubliner, and the African woman steps forward, the little girl now timid and joyless as her mother takes yer man’s place in front o the hatch. She pokes round in her handbag for her social welfare card. I stick me hand into me pocket and run me fingers over the little raised numbers and me name, printed in block capitals on me card. DENNY CULLEN — STATE SCROUNGER. Well, not really, like, but it might as well say that, the way some o the people behind the glass carry on in here. Yid think I was a criminal.

Bzzzz. Another text.

HAVE FAITH. P.

There we go, that word again: faith. Pajo fuckin loves it. I fuckin hate it. I hate it cos there’s no way o trickin yerself into it, no amount o thinkin about it can get yeh there -yeh have it or yeh don’t. And I don’t. The African woman stands up, gatherin her purse and her sparkly, sequinned
shoulder bag. That was quick. She’s a stunner from the front as well. She looks at me through slightly narrowed eyes, her cheekbones high and her mouth tightly shut. She takes a step forward and there’s an impatient cough from the hatch so I step forward meself, passin her with inches between us, and despite the fuckin craziness of it all, the ineffable, yawnin fuckin difference, I have this brief image in me head o me sittin beside her on Bray beach on a big towel with the Liverpool crest woven into it and she’s wearin a yellow bikini, lookin ludicrously lovely, dark and long-limbed, her kid makin sandcastles in the distance and the two of us chattin about Undertaker’s latest match, sayin how deadly he looks for a forty-odd year old, how agile he is for a big guy, how cool and evocative his entrance music is.

Jesus, get a grip, Denny.

I take a seat on the bolted-down plastic swivel chair in the middle o the woman’s still-lingerin perfume and slide me social welfare card under the window, smilin at the fella opposite me. He’s wearin an eye-patch. He’s got a beard as well so he looks a bit like a slightly fat, middle-class pirate.

—Howayeh?

Yer man nods vaguely. No messin about in these places.

—Name and address of most recent employer? he says.

—LISK, I say. —That was over a year ago, though. They’re a construction company.

—Yes, I’m aware. Address?

—I dunno. I was never in the offices, like. I was on a site in Wicklow, near Powerscourt.

—Right. We’ll need the address. Reason for termination of previous employment?

—Eh, I was sacked like. That was donkeys ago though, like I said.

—That’s unimportant. Sacked?

—Yeah.

Bit of an embarrassin story that. We were workin on a hotel in Wicklow, in the middle of a wood, lovely spot, and I got caught pissin in one o the en-suite bathrooms. Thing was, the jax weren’t hooked up yet and there were no pipes or anythin so I was just pissin onto the floor, really. I was dyin though and the prefab jax were five storeys below and a few minutes’ walk away. And anyway, it was Markus, this skinny German fella who was supposed to be me supervisor, who told me to do it; all the Germans on site did it, apparently. Manky fucks. Trust me to get clocked by one o the visitin suits. Ah well.

—Hmmm, yes. Do you have your P45?

—Yeah, here.

I push it under the glass.

—Have you claimed for assistance with rent this tax year, Mr Cullen?

—No.

—No?

Jesus mate. Don’t sound so surprised. —No, I say again. —I was over in Wales for a while as well, so it was –

—What was the purpose of the visit?

—I was studyin there. Or I was gonna. In the end I …

—Mm hm?

—Yeah … I had to come back. I wasn’t over for long.

—I see. What was your position with LISK?

—Just a labourer, like. A general op or wharrever. I was with the fireproofers.

—You’re aware that your current unemployment benefit payments are contingent on you seeking and eventually securing new employment? And that you need to be receiving unemployment benefit to receive a rent allowance?

—Yeah, that’s grand. I’m after ringin round loads o places. Stuff in papers and that.

—We will seek to verify this.

—OK.

—Address?

—Wha? Em, I don’t know it like. I was never –

—Home address, Mr Cullen.

—Oh right, sorry. Yeah, it’s 26 Glennonfield Park, Clondalkin.

—Phone number?

—We’ve no phone.

—No landline?

—It’s cut off.

Thanks to big-gob Paula, o course.

—No phone.

—Yeah.

—OK. No phone. You have a bank account, Mr Cullen?

—Yeah, Bank of Ireland.

—Details.

—Em, I don’t have them with me. It’s the O’Connell Street branch.

The phone buzzes in me pocket again, another text. From Pajo I assume. I’ll have to wait to check it.

—We’ll need the details.

—Yeah, sound. I’ll sort that, no probs.

—Mm hm. OK. A letter from your parents.

—Wha?

—To verify your tenancy.

—A letter?

—Yes.

—Like, typed?

—Hand-written will do. Make sure it’s legible, signed by both your parents.

—Me da doesn’t live with us, he left years ago. I don’t see him.

—Your mother’s signature will be fine.

—Well, actually … me brother owns the house. It’s in his name.

—Your brother? I see. He’s the landlord?

—Well, kind o, yeah. It’s me ma’s house though, yeh know? Me da left ages ago and Shane paid off the mortgage. Me ma’s … em …

—Your brother legally owns the house?

—Yeah. I think so, anyway.

—You’ll need a letter from him then. Whoever owns the house.

—OK.

—Are you living alone?

—No. Em, me sister lives with me. And her, eh …

—Hmm?

Jesus. I hesitate over the word ‘girlfriend’.

—Well, her mate, like. A lodger or wharrever.

—OK. If you can get all that back to us this day next week please. Otherwise any prospective payments may be compromised.

—Right. Em, see yeh.

Yer man nods and flips through a cardboard box o files.

—Thanks, I say.

Fuckin hell. I stand up. I’m actually sweatin. Can yeh believe that? Fuckin grill yeh to death, these pricks. I squeeze out past the thrummin, impatient crowd o local single mothers, Poles and Slovakians, Africans, Dublin desperadoes in jeans and tracksuits and men of indeterminate Eastern European ethnicity and heave in a huge gulp of air when I get outside. A 76 zooms past. Don’t know how I didn’t notice it before but the side wall o the Mill shoppin centre is sprayed with VICTORY TO THE IRAQI INTIFADA in huge letters. Deadly, wha? All them dry-shite dole office workers havin to stare at pro-insurgency propaganda all day.

I start towards Boss Hogs and then I remember the text from Pajo. I lean against the wall and thumb through me messages.

FELL DOWN THE STAIRS. QUADRICEPS DESTROYED. CAN YOU PICK US UP SOME BANDAGES AND ICE OR PEAS. THANKS. :(P.

*

I pull open the greasy oven door and have a peek inside and, fair enough, I’m no expert or anythin, but there’s definitely somethin weird lookin about that chicken. Too wrinkly or somethin. It looks like the head of a baldy oulfella, if he’d no face or ears or anythin, and he was roasted up and blistered and –

Fuck, that’s a bit of a weird thing to think, isn’t it? Intrusive thoughts, them. That’s wha me ma used to say. I
remember sittin beside her on the 78a, comin home from me nanny Cullen’s. I was about fifteen; I was playin for Ballyfermot United and I dropped into me nanny’s after trainin and me ma was there as well, the room wreathed in cigarette smoke. Maggit played for Ballyfermot as well but he wasn’t there that night, he was off with Bernadette. Me and me ma hopped on the bus outside the Gala. I was still in me football shorts. When the bus pulled up outside Cherry Orchard hospital a few stops later there was an oulfella with a cane standin there, his trousers too small for him and his skinny hairy ankles showin.

—Imagine he just flew up into the air, me ma said. —Up into the sky like a rocket.

I loved when she said things like that. Mental, out o the blue things.

—Or imagine he was flyin alongside the bus, I said. —He was right beside the window and he was flyin like he was sittin down, but he had no chair or anythin.

—And then he got sucked under the wheels and he was killed, me ma said. She looked at me and she was holdin in the laughter. —Jesus that’s terrible isn’t it? she said. —That’s intrusive thoughts.

We looked at each other for a few seconds and then we laughed, the two of us, like fuckin lunatics. I couldn’t stop meself. I laugh now, thinkin of it, lookin at me freaky, baldy-headed roast.

The chickens on the telly don’t look like that. But fuck it, it’s not like this is Master Chef. I asked Maggit and Pajo and me mate Ned and his new girlfriend Sinead over. We’re havin chicken instead o turkey though cos turkey’s a bit dear. Paula said she’d give me a hand but I told her it’s cool, I can handle it. Course, I’m startin to regret that now,
but … ah, so wha. They’re all in the front room, laughin and singin. Ned brought over a stack o dodgy Christmas compilation CDs he’s tryin to shift and I can hear Cliff Richard croonin about mistletoe and wine in the front room, much to everyone’s approval. I mean, I fuckin hate Sir Cliff, sanctimonious prick that he is, but at Christmas … well, it’s cool, like. Or as cool as it can be, since ma’s not here. Meself and Paula got the decorations down from the attic this mornin and did the place up proper. Old cards, decades old, some o them, sent by friends and relatives long dead, hangin in chains on the walls, tinsel tacked to the shelves and the doors. The tree’s up and everythin, and that sparkly snowman Mrs Cunningham next-door got me ma last year, jiggin and jivin on top o the microwave. Maggit said it was a bit Father Ted-lookin when he saw it, a bit tacky like.

I’m pokin at the bubblin mass of anaemic-lookin sprouts when Paula sticks her head round the door. Cigarette smoke and whooped laughter tumbles in behind her and she smiles at me.

—Yeh OK in here? she says. —D’yeh need a hand?

—I’m grand.

I look in the oven again.

—Here, is that chicken a bit weird lookin to you?

Paula comes in. She takes off her paper crown, sets her cigarette on the edge o the table and has a look.

—Ehmmm … no. No, it’s grand.

She looks up and smiles. I must look worried or unconvinced or somethin cos she says:

—It’s fine, Denny.

—Cool. Are yeh sure?

—Yeah. Definitely. Here, have yeh been bastin it, though?

—Bastin it?

I take a drag from her cigarette and blow the smoke sideways from me mouth. There’s a cheer from inside and the CD’s switched off. Then the telly’s volume is pumped and that high-pitched Walkin in the Air song starts to blare.

—The Snowman’s on, Denny, Pajo shouts from the livin room. He sounds dead excited. His leg’s wrapped up after his fall. I believe Pajo when he says he took a spill, but I reckon the only reason he said his quadriceps is fucked is that Triple H, the wrestler, had that injury a while ago, and it’s stuck in his mind — Pajo’s bruised leg therefore becomin a blown quadriceps.

—I’ll be in in a minute, I say, over me shoulder, then turn back to Paula and the wrinkly bastard of a chicken.

—What should I o been doin? I say.

Paula sticks her crown back on. —Yeh get the juices out o the tray and squeeze it onto the back o the chicken, she says, mimin the suckin up and splurgin out o fatty juices. —To keep it moist and that. And for the flavour.

—Shite. I didn’t know yid to do that.

I’m a bit ragin, now. I want this to go well.

—Is it fucked or wha?

It is. I know it is. Fuckin old man’s head.

—Ah no, says Paula. She grabs her cigarette and heads back for the livin room. —Might be a bit dry, that’s all. But sure they’re used to nothin in there. She jerks a thumb at the rest o them in the livin room. —They’d eat a baby’s arse through the rungs of a fuckin cot.

Fuck it, man. It’ll be the best dinner that pack o delinquents have had in donkeys. Well, cept for Sinead who’s got money, but there yeh go.

—Are yeh nearly done, then? she says. —What’ll I say to them?

—Em…

I look at the chicken again. The bones where his feet used to be are gone black. But besides that, and the wrinkliness, it looks nice enough. Well, not un-nice, anyway. Fuckin do, like. I switch off the oven.

*

Maggit’s holdin his bottle o wine by the neck, a chickenleg in his other hand. He’s back on his detox, apparently. His selection box from Ned’s stall is on the window ledge, waitin to be scoffed.

—So anyway, says Maggit, a runner o red dribblin from his chin. Dunno if it’s wine or chicken juice or wha. Looks a bit like blood, actually. —Me da used to have this thing where if yeh went down too early for yer presents he’d storm down and bate yeh and send yeh back to bed. Which was fuckin crap cos then yid seen yer presents but they’d be robbed back off yeh and yid a raw arse to lie on for another few hours. Fuckin prick he was.

I top up me glass with the wine Sinead brought over. Nice stuff, actually. Fruity, like. Don’t usually like red wine. Sinead’s nice as well. She’s quiet, like, and a bit posh, but she’s sound. Her hair’s black and it’s done in braids. Ned’s sittin beside her. He’s mad into her, yeh can tell to look at him.

—Mad random fucker, like, says Maggit. —When he’d a few drinks especially, the fuckin dipso bastard.

A bit o rain spatters against the kitchen window. Ned drapes his arm around Sinead’s shoulders. Paula’s up sortin out the crackers, her head angled back towards us, grinnin. Teresa had to work late so she’s not here. I’ll save her somethin for when she gets back, though.