Ghosts and Lightning (29 page)

—Fuckin country’s goin to shite, he says. He folds up the
Daily Star
and puts it on top o the pile o papers. He looks at me. —One more before we head, so? Your round, Pajo.

*

There are a few more tapes in the glove compartment o Kasey’s van — Kill ‘Em All by Metallica, Seasons in the Abyss by Slayer and Peace Sells … But Who’s Buying? by Megadeth. None of us are that mad into old-school thrash metal but I stick Kill ‘Em All on all the same, like a tribute to Kasey or somethin. The Four Horsemen blares from the tinny speakers, which is pretty appropriate I suppose.

Fuckin weird oul thing, death, isn’t it? Hard to get yer head around, like. I remember readin somewhere that Mark Twain said there was no point in him fearin non-existence cos he hadn’t existed for millions o years before he was born; death is just more o the same. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not. Or if I wanna see life, existence, that way. Maybe things are more connected than that. I mean, stories, like — they don’t ever actually
end, do they? They go on. All I know is that I still miss me ma. Does that ever get better? Does the sadness ever go? I don’t think it does, really; I think yeh just get used to it, maybe, over time. I hope so.

—Pull over, says Ned.

—Wha?

—I’m gonna fuckin die if I don’t have a shite. Jesus. There’s a McDonald’s over there, look. Pull over. Quick.

—Havin an oul McShit, wha? says Maggit.

—Yep. Anyone stops me I’ll tell them I’m buyin five Big Macs after I’ve … relieved meself. Fuckin hell.

Ned’s wincin. He looks round desperately.

—That’s it. Oof. Jesus Christ I’m gonna fuckin gick me knickers. Wouldn’t touch that fuckin food if I was youse, lads. Jesus. Wait and I get me hands on that bastard Tommy. Tellin yiz, I’ll do fuckin time for the cunt. I’ll –

Ned lets rip with a wet, spluttery fart.

—Ah Jesus!

—Yeh smelly prick!

—Fuck youse, I can’t fuckin help it! Shoddy fuckin merchandise, like … fuckin Tommy … fuckin scammy bastard!

The priest is a fat Dubliner with a stammer and a thick black beard. Looks a bit like the da out o The Royle Family, that Scouser fella. He doesn’t walk, this priest, he waddles instead and he cups his belly in front of himself like yeh see pregnant women doin sometimes. I can smell the sweat off him from three rows back. Maggit’s been gettin more and more stressed listenin to him; I can feel the tension buildin, buildin.

—It is a s-s-s-s-sad day when a mother and father outlive their s-s-s-s-suh-suh-son.

Yid never get a priest with a speech impediment like this in Dublin. This is like a Father Ted sketch. I mean, I don’t wanna sound like I condone discrimination but when yer job entails public oration maybe it’s time to look elsewhere. It’s not so bad when he’s speakin on his own but when he’s leadin the mourners it’s a joke:

—N-n-nuh-now and at the hour of our d-d-d-d-d-death …

Ned looks at me and makes a face. Pajo’s away with the fairies and he doesn’t even notice. The whole church is stutterin the Our Father with the hapless priest, the mourners developin their own sympathetic, syncopated
speech impediment. Sounds like a room o spazzos. Ned’s only just holdin the laughter in.

— … Ay-ay-eh-eh-ay-ayyy-m-muh-muh-m-m-m-muh

Maggit shakes his head, a look o disgust on his face.

—… muh-muh-muh …

—Ay-fuckin-men, says Maggit, loud enough that people in the rows around us can hear him. A fella in a too-big suit turns round and glares at us. Maggit steps out o the pew and walks along the aisle, his footsteps huge and clamorous. Ned whispers ‘sorry’ to the fella in front of us. Pajo stares at his boots. I look over at Kasey’s ma, her eyes ringed red and her face sunken and pale. She looks ancient although she’s only in her fifties, near enough the same age me own ma would be now. Kasey’s sisters are beside her, and his da, a tall fella with a slight belly and shaggy grey hair. None o Kasey’s sisters look like him.

The rest o the funeral drags on. It seems perverse in a way, dawdlin over Kasey’s death, the fat, stuttery priest behind his altar eulogisin about him, even though he never knew him from Adam. So impersonal. I mean, I’m pretty sure Kasey didn’t believe in God, or not the God o the Bible at least, so what’s all this about? This is all for us really, isn’t it? The priest stutterin away, Jesus this and Mary that, the resurrection, the assumption. What’s it all about? I doubt anyone is even listenin. I can barely remember me ma’s funeral. I was standin there in the same suit I’m wearin now, standin and kneelin a split second after everyone else, takin me cue from others, Gino and Shane and me da quiet and dignified and me mad auntie Denise wailin and Paula beside me, tremblin, and I wanted to take her hand but I didn’t. I wish that I had.

*

—Ah ye’re very good lads, says Mrs Cassidy. She takes a sip from her vodka and orange and looks at each of us in turn, smilin and blinkin, then heads over to her daughters. Mr Cassidy’s up at the bar, gettin a ludicrously expensive round in. Not bein bad but I hope this isn’t a round we’re supposed to reciprocate; he’s after takin orders from at least twelve people, us included.

Kasey’s ma and sisters are sittin to our left. They’re against the wall, behind a long, narrow table and all sat on the same side, oldest to youngest, like a graph showin the female Cassidy agein process.

It’s the usual mix of post-funeral moods in the pub, some people in good form and others sombre, silent. Pajo looks like he’s a million miles away; hard to tell wha goes on in his head sometimes. Ned looks like he doesn’t know wha to look like, caught halfway between solemnity and the drunkenness which always puts him in a good mood. And I’m … well, hard to say, isn’t it? Don’t really know. I’m in conspiracy theory mode, here. I mean, did Kasey killin himself have anythin to do with the drugs he robbed?

I hope I’m projectin a look that’s at least partway respectful and suitably morose. Hard to judge occasions like these, especially when, and I know this sounds bad as fuck, I don’t really feel anythin. Cept, at the moment, annoyed at Maggit. Which makes me feel like a bit of a fraud.

That wasn’t on, Maggit stormin out like that. I mean, if he’d any time for Kasey in the first place I could allow for him feelin frustrated over that stuttery priest, but he didn’t, it was just pure selfishness, pure childishness. He hasn’t even turned up for the afters yet and he has his phone switched off. Fuck it, anyway; I’m not bothered.

I take a gulp o me Guinness.

—D’yiz wanna go out the back for a bit? I ask. —Wouldn’t mind a smoke.

—Sound, says Ned.

—Yeh alright Denny? says Pajo.

—Yeah, grand. Yiz comin out?

The two o them nod and we head for the back door.

*

It’s early evenin and the sun’s settin over the trees at the back o the pub. It’s nice enough, warmish and windless. Unusual for Donegal, I’d imagine. We’re sittin round a little rough-hewn wooden table, our drinks in front of us, suited and booted and uncomfortable as fuck.

—No word from Maggit? I say to Pajo.

He shakes his head.

—Fuckin arsehole, I say. And I mean it. Me head’s done in with that prick.

—We could leavim here, says Ned, smilin. —Leavim stranded.

We sup at our pints and Pajo and me light up. I’m tired. The Guinness is goin down nicely though. I need a piss but I don’t wanna go back inside yet. I can hear the odd car passin on the other side o the pub, and the hubbub o the mourners from the open windows. I down the last third o me Guinness.

—Dyin for a piss, says Pajo, makin a face.

—And me, I say. —Don’t wanna go back in yet though.

—I’m gonna go in them trees there, says Pajo. —Keep an eye out, will yiz? Don’t want any, like, ladies or anythin to see me. Seems kinda –

—G’wan, says Ned. —We’ll give yeh a shout.

Pajo stubs out his cigarette and stands up. He smoothes his slightly too-small trousers and nods and heads over to the trees. He turns back as he’s standin under the shadow o the little wood and waves, the sky pink above him, then ducks under the lowhangin branches and disappears. The little stupid wave makes me think o Pajo as a kid, and I can see it so clearly it actually makes me feel … I dunno. Us watchin the wrestlin as kids. Me cheerin for The Undertaker and Pajo mad for Bret Hart. Pajo as a ten year-old for a second … seems like … ah, it’s mad, isn’t it? Tick tock, tick tock. He’s barely changed since I first knew him. I mean yeah there’s the drugs and that, the gear, but he’s still the same. Too fuckin delicate for this world.

—D’yeh think he’ll be OK? I say.

Ned looks at me. He scratches his cheek. —He’ll be grand.

—No, like, I meant, in general. With the –

—I know wha yeh meant. He’ll be grand, Denny. Doesn’t need you worryin about him, anyway. No one does. Yiv yer own troubles.

I take a deep drag and blow the smoke out slowly.

—Will you be OK, more to the point? says Ned.

—Will I … ?

—Just … how’s things with yeh, like?

I tap me cigarette. —Not bad, I say.

—Yeah?

—Yeah. Well. Could be better, like.

—D’yeh think about her much?

—Loads.

—Yeah?

—Yep.

—It’ll get better, man. Takes time.

—That’s wha they say, anyway.

—Yep. That’s wha they say.

*

We’re back in the pub and another few pints are behind us, the pub full and warm when Pajo says:

—I saw Kasey.

Ned raises his eyebrows and sips his Guinness. Pajo’s smilin. It’s not one o these weak, watery smiles like Kasey’s ma has on; it’s the real deal. He’s beamin, his wonky teeth bared and his eyes crinklin.

—Wha? I say.

Pajo shrugs. —Out in the trees. There was someone with him.

I look towards the window. The evenin’s dyin light.

—Yeah? I say.

—Yeah, Denny. Serious.

Ned nods. He’s sound, Ned. Never judges. Unlike me.

—Hundred per cent, says Pajo.

—Did he do anythin? asks Ned.

—Nah. Just smiled. The two o them did.

Two o them. —Who’s the other one? I say.

—Dunno. A girl.

—Yeh serious?

—Yeah. Him and a girl. They were smilin and they waved. She’d black hair with blue bits in.

Ned smiles. —Here, he says. —A toast for Kasey, wha? Ghost Kasey.

Me and Pajo raise our glasses and clink them together.

—To Kasey, says Ned.

—To old friends, says Pajo.

—Old friends, I say, and I can’t help smilin. I take a massive gulp from me Guinness and set it down carefully as the women o the Cassidy family start up a verse o The Fureys’ Sweet Sixteen, surprisinly well sung, sad and happy and just fuckin perfect.

*

The pub door swings open and the priest waddles in, followed by two pious-lookin oulwans with shawls on their blue-rinsed heads. Ned calls oulwans like them God groupies; old women obsessed with the clergy and countin down the days to the next weddin, baptism, funeral. Ned nods at them as they come in, a glint in his eye.

—Check it out, says Ned. —Couple o –

—God groupies, I say.

Ned and Pajo laugh. I feel a bit better now. Mr Cassidy comes over to us with four pints o Guinness in his big hands and places them on our table. Mr Cassidy’s a big man, a Dubliner, tall and well built. The top few buttons of his shirt are open and his tie is off. Yeh can see the grey hairs on his chest.

—Yiz alright there lads? he says.

—Grand, yeah.

—Sound. Thanks for these, Mr Cassidy.

—Ah, no problem lads, he says. He runs a hand through his thick hair, then takes a huge swallow of his Guinness. He brushes the froth from his upper lip.

—Very sorry for yer loss, Mr Cassidy, says Ned.

—Ah, says Mr Cassidy, shakin his head. —Ah sure, was it a surprise, lads?

Ned looks lost momentarily and then recovers enough to make a multi-purpose sigh. The priest orders a brandy at the bar.

—Sure the way he was carryin on, lads, was it any wonder? Mr Cassidy nods surreptitiously at his wife. —Poor oul Brid is knocked sideways. But this is it lads, if yeh carry on like Kasey did. God love him. Ah sure he was always very soft.

I’m not sure whether to bring this up or not but, fuck it, here goes:

—Emm … it said in the note he left about a girl called Jackie. Who was that?

—Ah, a girl he was very fond of years ago. She died of an overdose. That oul heroin, lads. Fuckin scourge.

—I never heard him talk about her.

—Well. Sure aren’t we all mysteries, lads? There’s more we don’t understand than we do. Mad oul world, wha? And here, speakin o mysteries, I’d better say hello to the Father.

Mr Cassidy gulps another huge measure of his Guinness and stands up. He nods at us and walks back over to the bar, where the priest with his brandy and the two God groupies are standin. The priest pats Mr Cassidy on the shoulder and the two oulwans look up at him and shake their heads, two pious vultures, their eyes filled with gleeful sorrow.

The wind from the Atlantic’s dead cold. I’m sittin on top o the van, me palms flat against the dew-damp roof and the toe-ends o me boots pointin at a wide black sky. There’s a trad band playin in the pub behind me, mad, wild fiddlin and tin whistle spillin into the night. The rest o them are inside, drunk and dancin, their shadows flashin at the old border pub’s windows. Don’t fancy it meself. Not yet, anyway. It’s been a week nearly since Kasey’s funeral and home seems dead far off. Rossnowlagh, Carrick, Derrybeg, Ardara. We’ve driven through each and stopped and drunk and danced and puked. Dungloe, Annagary, Glencolumbkille. Never even heard o these places before, never mind been to them, and yet, I dunno why, it all seems dead familiar. Mad that, isn’t it? This feelin I get that nothin is new, not really.

Me watch beeps. Ten o’clock. The ocean’s shiftin in the dark. I can hear it, the low roar and crash and hiss o waves. The smell, as well. Dead fish and smashed, buckled crabs and beyond that the salty tang o the sea.

This place o wind and wetness. The outer edge of an island already on the edge o things. How much has this place changed? Cabbages yer head to think like that,
doesn’t it? I mean, this place has been here thousands upon thousands o years. Me ma brung me to the natural history museum in town, years ago, and the thing that I remember clearest is the Irish elk. So big. So fuckin massive. What sights would that elk have seen? An older Ireland. A world o dense forest and clean skies and green and purple hills. An immense elk in silhouette on the mountainside, its antlers huge and ornate, a strange four-legged chieftain o the high places.