Ghosts and Lightning (24 page)

Probably the worst of it was over Gino’s foal. I was about twelve at the time. I was arsin round in the fields on me own. There used to be loads o fields like that years ago. I knew Gino’s mare was after havin her foal and I wanted to see it. I remember marchin through high grass and duckin under barbed wire and cuttin the heads off thistles with the swish of a branch I broke off a dead tree. In me mind I was miles from home and years ago, in some older Ireland. Those fields went on for miles and miles — they might as well have gone on forever. I passed a burnt-out car with the door hangin open like the broken wing o some huge and squat mechanical bird. After years o wanderin I found the field I was after. The horses were at the far end, a huge oak tree above them. I marched up and they whinnied and shifted their weight and then I saw it. The foal. It was dead. Its mother was standin over it, nudging it, and it was dead and shorn of its mane and tail and covered in all colours o paint and there was a steel rod skewered through its eye. The sun was castin a shadow across it like a sundial and it said three o’clock. Three o’clock, past the time me ma told
me to be back for me dinner although that didn’t matter anymore. It took me a while to realise I was cryin.

I was still cryin when I told Shane. I don’t know how they found out who did it. I don’t even know if they were sure themselves. Shane and Gino got their mates together. They said I had to come with them. Me da knew what they were up to. I remember it in snatches after that. Gino slappin the hurley against his palm, the same one he left in the house a few years ago, tellin me that, even though I was fuck all use in a scrap, someone had to have a weapon in the house. I was still wearin me Undertaker T-shirt and me shorts from earlier that day and I was shiverin with cold or fear or both. The first fella wasn’t at home but they found him at the corner by Finches and I could smell the vinegar off his chips. A few of his mates tried to jump in but this was Shane and Gino and mad Philip Butler who could lift concrete slabs over his head, and they left them layin. The fella said he didn’t do it but it didn’t matter, he probably did, his chips scattered on the path and mashed into the ground. They pulled him after them through the estate and Philip Butler banged on a door. A fella answered and Gino punched him and dragged him out by the hair. His face was red with blood, his nose smashed.

They dragged them to the fields. They were me brothers and me brothers’ mates but they were fuckin terrifyin; heads shaved close to their skulls and their hurleys lyin against their shoulders and all o them dead quiet. The two fellas were cryin, blubberin tears and snot and blood. I was thinkin fuck this fuck this run the fuck away and Shane put his hand on me shoulder and looked at me and I walked on. We passed the burnt car in the dark.

They brought them to the top o the field and the horses stood and parted and cantered away. The fella from outside Finches fell to his knees and started screamin and shoutin and Philip Butler brought his fist down on him. Gino walked up to the other one.

—Yeh sick fuckin cunt yeh, he said. —Yeh fuckin –

And then the kicks and punches rained down and I thought I was gonna faint but I didn’t. I thought about the shadow on the dead foal and of all things the smell o vinegar and I watched it happen, watched the event that’d become Cullen myth, a story told but not fully believed but I was there, a child and a proof and I watched and felt me underpants dampen with piss, watched them pull the lads’ shirts over their heads, their chests heavin and skinny-pale as they tore the boots and jeans off them and shaved them bald, their nakedness complete except the paint that Shane slopped onto them, oozed into their eyes and ears and mouths, mixin green and red and then up stepped Gino and out came the time-tellin bar — a pain for a pain, a hurt for a hurt and their screams in the dark like shocks o sheer white, sheerest, purest white — and I turned and ran and ran and ran forever.

*

There’s someone here. Jesus, I fell asleep on me fuckin back, the night sky in the flume above me. There’s someone … I can fuckin feel it. For real; in the dark. I think o me da in his armchair and the boundin devil that burned this place years ago and for a second they’re one and the same. It’s a mental, horrible thought — me da sittin
in the dark, grinnin, his face twisted and malevolent. This is it, man, I’ve totally fuckin lost it. I’ve –

—I am meeting skinny Santa Claus, no? You bring me presents?

I scramble onto me arse as a laughin face bends down towards me.

—Are you OK, man?

The voice is odd, otherworldly. Whoever owns it squats down beside me. There’s an exhalation o sharp, minty breath.

—I didn’t mean to scare you, man.

The shadow puts a hand on me shin. I jerk me leg away.

—You like parties, man?

—Wha?

—You like to party? Listen man, don’t freak out.

The shadow stands and walks back to the window. Or dances rather, its head noddin. It holds up its hand and gestures at the night outside the window.

—Listen man. You like it?

I can hear voices outside the Club, talkin and singin and whoopin. The shadow laughs and stamps its foot, throws out an arm, arched, a spectral matador. I can see fireflies — nah, they’re sparks — sparks and rags o flame tumblin upwards, past the window, twistin into the night. Wha the fuck kind o music is that? Singin and wild fiddlin and a guitar bashed rhythmically; a crazy, intoxicatin blend o punk and Cossack folk.

The shadow twirls against the window, hummin. Then it walks back to me, holds out its hand. I take it and it hauls me up and pats me on the shoulder.

—I didn’t mean to scare you man.

—Yeah, I say, wantin to say more. The arse o me jeans and the back of me shirt are cold, slightly damp.

—You wanna join?

—I’m here with mates, I say, as a kind o veiled warnin; like,
don’t fuck with me, I’m not alone
.

—Take a look, man, says the shadow. It gestures for me to come to the window.

—Look.

I follow him and peer out the window, me palms on the ancient frame, the stones cool, slightly lumpy. Our fire is huge and bustlin, and there’s a small crowd o people round it, dancin and drinkin and playin. I can see the fiddle player, an oldish fella wearin a flat, multicoloured cap, his face lit up by the firelight. A woman with pinned-up black hair is sittin on a rock, a djembe between her thighs, slappin out a wicked, drivin rhythm, her grinnin face to the purple sky. Men and women are stampin their feet, clappin. Two men with red hair are playin guitar. They look identical.

—Look, says the shadow again, pointin.

Pajo’s down there, a small, thin shape with his lank green fringe plastered behind his left ear, cheeks hollowin as he sucks on a cigarette. He’s tappin his feet and noddin his head, gaunt and smilin, lookin completely at home.

—Your friend is a funny guy, says the shadow.

—Yeah, I say again. —He’s wired to the moon. His name’s Pajo.

—You want to party?

—Yeah.

Why did I say yeah? This is fuckin surreal, man. Fuckin hell.

—I’m Andriy.

He holds out his hand. We shake. His grip is light and he tickles me palm with his fingertips as he draws his hand away.

—I’m Denny.

—I know man. Your friend said to me. You OK?

—Cool, yeah. Bit spaced like. I’m not dreamin am I?

—No. You a somnambulist?

I shake me head.

—Well then, you’re not dreaming. This is a great spot, says the shadow. —You been here before now?

—Nah. Well, actually … yeah, sorry. Few times. Gets a bit … like … crowded in the city, yeh know? Yeh feel like yer trapped in or somethin? Ever get that? I feel fuckin stuck.

Jesus, wha the fuck am I on about? Givin him me fuckin life story here.

Andriy nods. —Look, there’s always a way out man. There’s traps on the streets, you go underground. Yeah? Traps in your room you go through the roof. You know? You get out man. Simple. Just get out.

—Yeah. Spose.

We walk downstairs, me pattin the walls, Andriy seemingly unhindered by the dark. I pass Maggit on the way — he’s still asleep, wrapped up in me green sleepin bag, a huge caterpillar with a man’s dreamin head — and Ned and Sinead, who’re sleepin as well, in the corner. I step out o the Club, duckin under the low, lopsided lintel, and Pajo and a woman in a loose, blue wool jumper turn round and hold up their hands, yellin. A clean breeze hits me.

Andriy takes a few steps forward, twirls and bows.

—This is Denny, he says, his arm held out in my direction. People cheer. One o the redheaded men hands
Andriy an acoustic guitar covered in stickers and graffiti. Andriy takes it and starts to play, slappin the guitar rather than strummin, skippin on the spot and a hum buildin deep in his throat, findin words I don’t recognise. The old fiddler picks up the rhythm, then the djembe player. People link arms and kick out their legs, dancin. Andriy stalks through the crowd and someone hands me a bottle o Tiger. I look at it, the amber liquid, the tiny bubbles, then lift it to me lips and drink and dance, dance and drink, the night long and manic, full o mad voices and mad rhythm and Andriy at the centre always, clappin and playin and howlin and laughin, his eyes bright and a stream o songs and stories on his lips; people, places, crazy getaways and doomed and drunken loves. The huge dark around us a nothingness complete and we go through it, through the roof of the night sky, bottle after bottle, dance after dance, this night unending.

*

They’re still here the next mornin, the fire burned to glowin embers and the new sun swellin up from the Irish Sea below us, immense and pale.

Most o them are immigrants. Oren, the fiddle player, is from Israel. He’s in his fifties and he’s wearin loosefittin, shapeless clothes, in reds and purples and deep oranges. His beard and ponytail are streaked with grey. Wojtek, Magda and Lukasz are Poles workin in Ireland to pay for apartments and college fees back home. Shavo’s a zookeeper from Armenia. His eyes are nearer black than brown and his dark, curly hair bounces minutely when he speaks. He’d been in charge of an ancient brown bear
in Yerevan zoo, a bear whose health we must o toasted a dozen times last night. There’s even a few Irish; two brothers from Donnybrook (Nik and James; both young and redheaded, both baldin) and the djembe player, Linda (she looks foreign but she’s only from Lucan, not far up the road from me). They’re in a band.

The fire’s smoulderin away, charred branches pokin from the embers, gnarled and blackened and bonelike. We sit in a circle and watch the fire. I’m fuckin exhausted but happy, like I used to feel after I came home from a day’s graft on the sites; wrecked but content, me body gorgeously, languidly floppy, the bones loose and nearly oozy. I don’t even have a hangover, which is unusual for me; not a jellyfish in sight.

The Hellfire Club looms up behind us, thick with history, covered in lichen and graffiti. Lovely view, like, in the mornin. Pajo’s sittin next to me on a tasselled blanket, his eyes red-rimmed. Maggit’s still asleep; he never stirred. Sinead and Ned made their way home about an hour ago, the two o them lookin dishevelled but happy enough. Ned’s a gentle enough fella anyway but when he’s around Sinead he’s even more so, like he’s scared she’ll crack. Pajo kicks a branch towards the fire. Nik and James are sittin on a log, Nik holdin Oren’s violin to his ear and pluckin at the strings. Magda and Lukasz are asleep, Magda’s head on Wojtek’s lap, Wojtek twinin her blonde hair round his index finger. Oren sits and smokes a thin cigar. Linda’s sittin next to Andriy, the gypsy gesticulatin wildly as he speaks, his voice low and musical. Somethin about Australia, I think, somethin about the aborigines, some custom o theirs he’d fallen comically foul of. Linda laughs with her hand on her mouth.

He’s a fuckin looper, this Andriy fella; proper fuckin head-the-ball. Even in the light o mornin he seems a bit unreal, a serial illegal immigrant out to make the world drink and dance, then puke like dogs. I vaguely remember him lecturin earlier this mornin on the empowerin nature o disbelief, sayin that, among other things, he doesn’t believe in God, borders or drinkin wine from glasses. Apparently, by disbelievin in God, he becomes one himself, as the pinnacle of evolution; by disbelievin in borders, he’s a citizen of the world and everywhere is home; and, regards the wine glass thing, it’s the bottle or fuck-all, and by that reasonin hobos and down-and-outs are more worthy than kings. Sound by me, like; less washin up. He’s wearin a close-fittin military jacket with the sleeves rolled up, a bracelet o coloured beads on his left wrist. His black jeans are frayed at the ends and his canvas runners are scuffed. His eyes have that strange Slavic quality, by turns madly alive and comic and then suddenly distant, the irises like pearls or somethin, swelled over generations from the harsh, raw grit of Balkan history. Magda, Wojtek and Lukasz are the same. Andriy’s fuckin moustache is a bit much, though; handlebars on a fella that can’t be more than a year or two older than meself is a definite no-no.

I like them though, this gang of oddballs. I think it’s the sheer force o their determination to enjoy wharrever the fuck they’re doin. I hadn’t really realised that I’ve stopped doin that meself, that I’ve let meself drift so fuckin far, let meself get so fuckin stuck. Yeah, I’m out drinkin with me mates and that, but there’s, like … a desperation or somethin to it. I’m runnin and gettin nowhere at the same time. I mean, wha am I doin with me life? I went to Wales cos I was feelin how I’m feelin right now … fuckin … like, aimless or wharrever. I remember feelin, when I first
left for Wales, that I was in control. And I feel anythin but in control now.

—Yeh hungry Denny? says Pajo. Pajo’s taken off his jacket and he’s sittin with his arms out slightly from his body, his palms flat on the ground. The broad tips of his big, crusty boots are pointin at the sky, twitchin slightly to some unheard beat.

—Yeah, a bit. Are you?

—Kinda. Here, I think there’s a few bars in me bag. Snickers or somethin. Hang on.

He stands up and brushes down his jeans. He walks over to the Club, disappearin into the dark.