Ghosts and Lightning (27 page)

—Get the fuck out o this garden, says Paula.

Slaughter takes a sup from his Bulmers. —Get that fuckin nigger hooer out o this fuckin estate more like, says Slaughter, almost gleefully. —Or here, tell me, d’yeh like them black?

Paula looks at me, then turns back to the lads. —Were youse lot born fuckin male or did yiz get yer dicks off the medical card? she says.

The lads whoop and laugh. I recognise another couple o faces; the two fellas from the bus that time, still in their blue and red bomber jackets, like they’ve never changed since that day. They eye me as I step towards Paula.

—I said get the fuck off o me property, says Paula.

—Show us yer tits, someone says, the provincial fuckin wit.

—Get yer girlfriend out!

—Yeah, give us a show love!

—Nah, hang on lads, says Slaughter. —I have a present for her, he says, and he unzips his fly and gets out his dick, then takes hold of it and flops it around. This is fuckin mental.

—Look, I say. —We’re gonna –

—D’you want some as well, says Slaughter, grinnin, and it’s only now I realise he’s stoned, wrecked, completely fuckin gone, his eyes glazed and the pupils huge, nearly swallowin his irises. This is serious, man. This is dodgy as fuck. A car passes on the other side o the green, glidin off into the night, oblivious. Me heart’s goin apeshit and inside me head is buzzin, cracklin, totally fuckin overloaded with drink, adrenaline, fear, the lot.

—Where’s the jungle bunny, says Slaughter. —Does she like white cock?

Slaughter’s crew laugh and whoop, one o them, a skinny fella in a Nike tracksuit, brayin like a fuckin donkey.

—She’s from fuckin Dublin, says Paula. —She’s as entitled to be here as you.

—Me fuckin hole she is. She’s fuckin black.

—I won’t say it again, says Paula. —Get. The fuck. Out.

Jesus, Paula, shut the fuck up.

—Get the nigger out first, says Slaughter.

Paula walks up to Slaughter, who’s about ten feet away. I want to follow her but I feel like I’m stuck to the concrete, like me feet are cased in cement.

—Get out, she says again and, fuckin hell, she spits in his face.

It only takes a split second for Slaughter’s fist to pull back and shoot forward, catchin Paula in the side o the
head. She drops to the ground and Slaughter lays into her with a savage boot and I feel like pissin meself, I feel like a fuckin ghost, like I’m barely here as I run at Slaughter and raise the hurley, holdin it in both hands, and drive it down, aimin for his head but crackin it full force against his shoulder. He falls to one knee and there’s a second where the rest o the lads just look on, stunned, and I take another swing, catchin him on the top o the head, a glancin blow. He covers his head with his arms as the others jump forward. I don’t even get a chance to lift the hurley again before I’m grabbed and the punches and kicks rain in. I can hear Teresa shoutin. Someone hits me in the stomach and somethin hard and bony catches me in the back o the head. Lights come on in some o the neighbours’ houses and dogs start barkin. I can smell somethin, petrol or gasoline. I twist and turn like mad. Bodies and arms everywhere. Me knee smacks against the wall. I try to lash out but me arms are pinned so I bite at somethin soft and warm and the owner screams as me mouth fills with blood, then I feel meself lifted off the ground and I see the sky for a second before crashin down into the concrete on me shoulder. I turn, wrigglin like Gino said he used to, yiv to be slippery as a greased trout, he used to say, yiv to keep movin and I can see again, a blurry low level view o the garden, the overgrown grass, the uneven concrete driveway and boots and runners and frayed jean ends round me. I see fire. The fuckin smell o petrol, Jesus. Somethin hits me in the head. I try to turn and I see a boot get so big in a split-second it blocks out the world. I barely get me head down and it catches me in the top o the head rather than the face. Fuck, me head …

—Yeh don’t fuckin mess with the fuckin Slaughter –

… me fuckin head. I get me arms up over me. KABOOM. A forest o legs around me and eyes above, each agleam with fire and hate. I curl away from them, another kick catchin me in the back, up near me shoulder. But I keep movin, keep squirmin and lashin out with me feet and me balled fists, completely fuckin manic, and then fuckin hell I see her, above me — me mother with steel in her hand. Me ma as a younger woman and she screeches and lunges, fire caught in the blade. The kickin stops.

—I will, she says —I swear to yeh I fuckin will, I’ll put this through yer fuckin neck –

Paula’s standin over me, one o the big kitchen knives in her hand, breathin heavily. I can see fire dancin in the blade. Slaughter backs a few feet away, by the gate, his mates behind him. His mangy cock is still out and it’s semi-erect, the mad fuck. He fumbles it back into his jeans and leers at Paula.

—That’s not very nice, says Slaughter.

—I swear to fuckin God, I’ll fuckin gut yeh, yeh prick. I’ll fuckin kill yeh.

Slaughter laughs. —Yill try.

—Yer fuckin dead I’m tellin yeh. Yeh come anywhere near him.

Slaughter winks and wrings his hands together. He looks at me on the driveway and then back up at Paula. —I’m dead, am I?
Someone’s
fuckin dead alright. And I don’t mean yer ma yeh dirty fuckin hooer.

—Get fuckin out o here, says Paula.

—Don’t worry, I’m goin. Niggers and queers and all sorts, place fuckin smells. I’ll see yiz around, yeah? Good luck. See yeh after, Denny.

He grabs the gate and shakes the fuck out o them like The Ultimate Warrior used to do in the wrestlin, years ago, and he makes a weird sound, a kind o mad animal howl with his head thrown back. Then everythin’s quiet. Slaughter spits towards the house and turns and walks away, his mates followin. Each one o them spits in the same direction. Towards Charly, I suppose. And me. Paula hunkers down beside me.

—Jesus Denny, yeh OK?

—Yeah. Grand.

—Yeh sure?

—Yeah, well. Not great, like.

—I phoned the police, says Teresa. —And the fire brigade.

I turn round, painfully. Teresa’s at the front door. There’s smoke billowin out o the hallway behind her. Paula kneels down beside me, her hand on me knee. We sit here for a good long while.

I pull Kasey’s van in outside Mr Kinsella’s shop just as he’s openin the gates, a once big Mayo man hunched by years and the mornin rain, his wispy white hair dancin in the wind as he struggles against the weather. The shop is in the middle o the estate and it’s surrounded by ten foot walls caked in graffiti and with squiggles o barbed wire tacked on top. Mr Kinsella latches the gates in place and squints at me through the rain-streaked window o the van. He raises his hand in a hasty sort o greetin then hurries back to the shop. I kill the ignition and hop out, me runners crunchin through the gravel as I jog after him, me shoulder still achin from me kickin and the rain comin at me in all directions, fierce and fiercely fuckin cold.

*

Mrs Kinsella is stackin the fridge with cream and butter and milk, her broad back to me and her apron tied in a loose bow. A radio talkshow is babblin away somewhere. Mr Kinsella places his drippin jacket on a peg behind him and rubs his hands together and nods at me. His nose is like somethin yid see growin inside a smoker’s lung; blotchy
and red and lumpy. I’ve been comin here since I was a kid but I haven’t been for ages and I don’t think he recognises me with the beard and me hair so long. The shop doesn’t do that much business now, with the new Centra down the road. I heard it’s supposed to be closin up soon.

Mr Kinsella rolls the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows and places his spotted, farmer’s hands on the counter. —Grand morning, what? he says.

—Lovely, yeah.

—I’ll get me bikini out if it keeps up, says Mrs Kinsella, still busy at the fridge. She shoves a two litre o milk onto the top shelf, then turns round, wipin her hands on her apron. She has a wide face and a slow, motherly smile. —Is this what they call them, bikinis?

—Think so, yeah, I say.

—I’ll get up on the roof and catch a few rays. Isn’t that what they say? Catch a few rays?

—Yeah, I say, smilin. —Somethin like that.

Mrs Kinsella winks and turns back to the fridge. Mr Kinsella looks at her back for a second and then turns to me. He shakes his head slightly.

—In a bit of a scrap there son, were yeh?

—Ah, nothin really. Just a few drunk lads.

I unconsciously touch me right cheekbone, where it’s sore and discoloured. They wanted me to stay overnight in the hospital after the Slaughter thing but I wouldn’t. It was the first time I’d been in a hospital since I seen me ma and it freaked me out. I told the police I didn’t know who did it — too much fuckin hassle, man. Gino and Shane said they’d sort it themselves. I don’t even wanna think about that, to be honest.

Mr Kinsella nods and looks like he’s mullin wha I said over. Wharrever conclusion he comes to, though, he keeps to himself.

—What can I get yeh so? he says.

—Em, I’ve a bit of a list, like. I’m headin off wirra few mates.

—Well for yiz. On yer holliers are yiz? Yiz picked the right day.

—Well, headin out for a funeral. Donegal, like. Might have a look round on the way back, though. Check out the lay o the land. Haven’t really been round Ireland much.

—Ah be jaysis, says Mrs Kinsella, turnin round again. —Yer own country!

—I know.

—I’ll tell yeh where’s a lovely place, she says. —Glencolumbkille. Now that’s a gorgeous place, isn’t it Aidan?

—Grand, says Mr Kinsella.

—Ah it’s more than grand, says Mrs Kinsella. —Grand he says. It’s like something out of a story book. Knock the shite out of these places yeh see on the telly, anyway. Spain and all this. Did yeh ever see that show where they go to live foreign for a few days, to try the place out? Where was it they were, Salamanca? Yeh try this place yill never be back. Feckin Salamanca!

—Sure we’ll have a look, I say. —Think we’ll be headin through it, anyway. That’s in Donegal, isn’t it?

—It is. And sure headin through it’s no use, says Mrs Kinsella. —Get out and have a look. Stretch yer legs. And drop by the Tapper’s Yard as well, they do a fierce whiskey. Home-brewed.

—Sure isn’t the fella drivin? says Mr Kinsella. —Yill have him killed on the road. Did yeh not see in the paper
about them fellas killed in a car in Kildare? There’s more deaths on the road than I don’t know what.

—Ah sure stop for the night, yeh might as well, says Mrs Kinsella. —And here, tell oul Seán that Carmel sent yeh. He’ll look after yeh.

Mr Kinsella glares at his wife. —Have you that milk sorted yet?

Mrs Kinsella rolls her eyes, then winks at me again. —God, I’d better hurry up and sort the milk before the ravening hordes bate the doors down, she says, the wind drivin the rain across the gravel in the empty yard.

*

I slam the doors shut and hurry round to the front o the van. Hop in. The rain drummin on the roof. I watch the wipers shuckin the rainwater from side to side for a few seconds, then turn the key in the ignition and swing the van back onto the street. There’s no off-licences open yet so the drink’ll have to wait. Have most o the rest o the stuff, though.

Feels a bit weird, like, drivin Kasey’s van. It’s wha he wanted, though, I suppose. It occurred to me that turnin up at his funeral in his own van might seem a bit weird but, like I said, he wanted us to have it.

Every time I close me eyes I can still see Kasey’s face. Dead in the bathroom, lookin up, the big un-seein eyes. Dead in a fuckin bathroom. And not even a top o the range bathroom, like these well-off pricks that die after mad coke binges are found in; no, a poxy, grimy bathroom in me own fuckin house. Where’s the fuckin dignity like, yeh know? That’s two people dead in the house now, Kasey
and me ma. Well, not me ma, really; she died on the way to hospital, in the ambulance. Paula was in it with her, drunk. And yeh know wha, I fuckin envy her. I do. I envy her the fact she was the last one with me ma.

I cut through Rowlagh and out onto the Neilstown Road. I can see a couple o little girls in school uniforms hurryin along in the rear view mirror, huddled under an umbrella, so I wait for them to pass and as they do they look up at me and giggle, then hurry on, skippin through the rain. One blonde-haired, the other dark. The streetlights are still on and the way the flickerin sodium light hits the road it looks like a canal, slick and shimmery. A little bit further up the two girls stop and skip across to the other side o the road, meetin a third girl who huddles in with the first two. Then it’s back again, weavin between traffic, all three o them beneath the one outsized umbrella, bone-dry and walkin on water.

I press play on the old tape deck in the dashboard. There’s a tape still in it and Metallica’s Master of Puppets blares out. Haven’t heard this in years. I crank it up and drive on.

*

Ned’s already standin in the porch when I pull up outside his garden. Sinead’s with him. He kisses her and they hug, then he hurries over. He throws his swanky-lookin rucksack into the back o the van and then hops into the passenger seat. Sinead waves and I beep the horn as we pull off.

—Nice to see yer eager, I say.

—Ah yeh know me.

I nod.

—And here, we’ve to drop into Tommy’s on the way.

Me heart sinks. —He’s not comin is he? Fuckin Tommy?

—Ah no, no. Tommy? Nah, he’s holdin a bit o stuff for me. Wait and yeh see.

—Stuff?

—Yeah, says Ned, tappin the side of his nose. —Stuff.

*

Pajo’s gear is squashed into a plastic bag. His chin’s restin just over Ned’s shoulder. Pajo’s fuckin devastated, like; he was closer to Kasey than any of us. Ignatius is yappin away somewhere in the back.

—So we’ve to collect Maggit in town? What’s that all about?

—He’d to see someone, says Pajo. —He gorra call last night. He said to ring him. I know Denny, that’s not cool. I said that to him but he said he had to go. I think it might o been Bernadette.

—Bernadette?

—Yeah, I don’t know for sure, like. Could o been.