Ghosts and Lightning (30 page)

Me mobile buzzes. It’s Paula.

—Hello?

—Heya Denny. Yeh alright?

—Yeah, I’m grand. What’s up?

—Nothin much. Where are yeh?

—Donegal. Sittin on the roof o the van.

—Very nice. Where’s the rest o them?

—They’re in the pub. I just came out for a bit of air.

—Shane’s just after callin round.

Fuckin hell. —Wha did he want?

—He dropped round to Slaughter’s.

I hesitate for a few seconds. —Dropped round? Wha d’yeh mean?

—Him and Gino. They dropped round to him. They said everythin’s sorted.

—In wha way, sorted?

—Yeh know wha way, Denny. They went round, them and a few o their mates. Yeh know yer man Butler and that. Philip Butler, I think his name is. It’s sorted, anyway. He won’t be comin anywhere near here again.

—Wha, like they –

—Look, Denny, I’m gonna have to go. It’s all sorted, there’s nothin to worry about. I’ve hardly any credit and
I’ve to ring Teresa. She got that new job. We’re after doin the house up a bit. And here, one last thing. I think we should have a bit of a think about sellin this place.

—Wha?

—Just have a think about it. Shane mentioned it and he said we can split some o the money, help us get on our feet. I’ll talk to yeh soon. And remember, everything’s grand with Slaughter and that. Shane and Gino sorted it. Yeah?

—Yeah.

—Right, I’ll see yeh, so.

—Bye.

*

I grab the three pints and carefully pick me way back to the table, me fingers spidered round the glasses, strainin to keep them all together. Another mad, improbable but inevitable comeback from Liverpool. Peach of a goal from Alonso, as well. Top quality signin, he was. Benitez’s best so far. Maggit was already after givin up, he was in the jax and he missed it. He legged it back out with his belt floppin when he heard the roar from the pub and as soon as he saw the score he jumped up on the table and started dancin like a madman. Nearly got us thrown out. Dermot, a local GAA head with shoulders as wide as the van, winks at me as I pass him at the pool table, still strugglin with me stout overload and the people millin round me.

—Some fuckin game, what? he says. —Should watch soccer more often.

He’s after sayin this about ten times already. He said he’s callin it soccer rather than football to assert his Gaelic
roots; a continuation o the great struggle against Britain on a linguistic level. I give him a wink back and then finally set down the drinks in front o Maggit and Ned.

—Sound, says Ned.

—Cheers, says Maggit. I gave him a bit o stick about his lack o faith earlier on but he insisted he never gave up; accordin to him he turned to God while he was in the jax; he got down on his knees in the cubicle and prayed for an equaliser and lo and behold, Alonso’s volley rocketed into the net.

I take a sip from me Guinness and then it’s back to the bar for the double vodka and Coke for yer woman Maggit’s after pickin up with. As usual I can’t remember her name. She’s from Belfast anyway, a student. Seems nice, like; there’s somethin really cool about her. She’s the same age as me but she’s after goin back to uni, to finish an English degree she started a few years ago. She writes stories. Fair play to her, like; gettin on with things, gettin ahead. Or tryin to, anyway, which is more than most people do.

Feelin pretty drunk now. Nice though. Cool little pub this, the Tapper’s Yard. Dead small like, only the one room, and apparently oul Seán does a lock-in every night if there’s people up for it, and there usually is. Fuck-all pubs like this around Dublin. The jukebox is free. Not great stuff on it mind, but there’s some Dylan tunes and Thin Lizzy and a bit o Neil Young as well, so it’ll do. Heart of Gold’s playin now, for probably the fifth time since we’ve been here — Ned loves that song.

—Thanks very much, Denny, says the girl as I place her vodka and Coke on the table.

—Yer grand, I say.

Lovely eyes, she’s got. Not sure if they’re brown or a deep, shiftin green. The place is buzzin, packed. We’re sittin on the little bockedy red corner couch, dead snug and warm. Dermot is up at the pool table with Pajo, rackin up a new game, his hair pulled back in a tight, short ponytail. There’s a wind blowin in from the sea and yeh can hear it shakin the window in the frames. Deadly atmosphere. There’s loads o locals (oulfellas with papers at the bar, a dolled-up oulwan teeterin on her stool) and a few students from the local university. A few o Dermot’s mates as well, musicians and that. One o them, Lorcan I think he’s called, pulls out a stool and plonks down his pint o Bulmers beside me Guinness.

—Up for a lock-in then boys?

—Deffo, says Maggit.

—Bit of singsong and that, ey? Yeh up for it?

—Yeah, I say. —Sound.

—Got me guitar in the car, and Dermot’s. Back in a jiffy.

He gulps the last of his pint and hops up, pickin his way through the crowd towards the door. When he opens it the wind whooshes in with a howl. He runs out into the dark with a whoop. A broad-shouldered fella in a denim shirt slams the door shut behind him.

The girl tucks one of her dreads behind her ear and smiles at me. They’re green, her eyes. She has a small stud in her nose. She’s got high cheekbones and she’s wearin a slightly shabby, buttoned-up denim jacket. Maggit looks put out already, now that the attention’s not on him, and makes a bit of a face. Which is stupid cos I’m not interested. Well, I would be, like, if I’d o bumped into her first but there yeh go. I wonder if he told her he has a kid? I doubt
it. And anyway, I don’t wanna annoy her, like. I mean, she’s out here to have a laugh, to enjoy herself, not to have gobshites like me doin her head in.

Maggit laughs at somethin but I didn’t catch wha was said. I didn’t see him at all the day o the funeral. Well, after he walked out, like. Then, the next mornin, he rang me. Asked me to meet him at some greasy spoon in the village. He was sittin by the window, the remains of a fry on a plate in front of him; the skin o the white puddin and the pale fat of a rasher.

—What’s the story? I said. I knew somethin had happened. Somethin had changed. I sat down across from him. It was a nice mornin, the village comin to life outside. Maggit looked at the back of his hand, then up at me.

—Well? I said.

—She’s movin away, he said.

I knew who he meant. —Where?

—Fuckin Bulgaria for fuck sake. Or Albania or one o these mad fuckin places. Her da’s after buyin her a house. Supposed to be dirt cheap over there.

—She takin Anto?

—Wha d’yeh think Denny? For fuck sake.

I nodded and that was that. I tried to talk to him about it but he wasn’t havin it.

He didn’t wanna know.

Maggit’s still laughin when the door flies open and Lorcan falls in backwards, the two guitar cases clatterin off the floor. Seán howls drunkenly from behind the bar, his fat round head lollin on his shoulders.

—Few tunes, ey? That’s the stuff, man! Few tunes! And remember now boys to tell Carmel that I was askin for her!
A beautiful woman so! Ah boys I tell ye, it’s an awful pity ye never saw her when she was young! An awful pity!

*

Mrs Kinsella was right about the whiskey. Fuckin hell, I take one shot and the head’s nearly blown off me. Seán slaps me on the back and laughs.

—True enough, ey? Is that or is that not the finest whiskey yiv ever tasted?

Finest? Fuckin strongest, anyway. I cough and nod.

—Aye, it is so, says Sean. —Me own grandfather came up with the recipe. Good stuff, ey?

—Yep, I manage to blurt out.

Ned’s standin up on a stool, beltin out a rebel tune about Wolfe Tone with Lorcan below him, bashin away on his guitar. Pajo’s doin a mad little jig beside him, his arm linked with a short-haired woman with rings in her nose and a swishy, multi-coloured gypsy skirt. Maggit, the dreadlocked girl, Seán and Dermot are sittin at the table with me. Maggit seems a bit off, still. We’ve all been tryin Sean’s patented, top-secret recipe whiskey and to be honest, we’re all well gone at this stage, fucked, totally AWOL. Great fuckin craic, though. Mad, like. We’ve a load o whiskey glasses in front of us and out o nowhere Maggit says, eyes on his whiskey:

—Know wha I’d love to do?

Here we go. —No, I say. —Wha?

He looks up. —D’yeh know what’d be me ultimate fantasy? Like, even if I could win the lotto, I’d rather have this. Top, top fantasy.

—G’wan, I say, takin a sip at me whiskey. Everyone’s lookin at Maggit. He’s drunk but he’s not quite wrecked.

—Serious now, he says. —Wha I’d love, right, is to be locked up in a … like, a kind o big tanker thing. A big steel room with no way out. And it’s full o midgets.

Dermot and the dreadlocked girl laugh, puzzled. Seán looks perplexed.

—Wha yeh on about? I say.

—With midgets, like, he says, dead earnest. —Locked up. Say about thirty o them. A big gang. And like, for me ultimate fantasy, I’d batter them all to death. Fuckin cream them. I’d have one in a headlock,
bam bam bam
, diggim in the head. Boot another one.
Schmack
, up against the wall. Dead. Batter them, the lot o them.

He starts laughin. —Best fun ever.

—You for real? I say. —That’s yer ultimate fantasy?You on somethin or wha?

—For real, he says, lookin round. —Fuckin hate midgets, like. Little bastards.

—How many o them did yeh say?

—Dunno. About thirty.

I set me whiskey down. —For one, Maggit, that’s a mad thing to say. And two, I reckon thirty midgets’d kill yeh. They’d wear yeh down.

—Me bollix they would.

—They would. Thirty’s too many. Yid probably kill a few o them but they’d get yeh, they’d overrun yeh. Yid be dead. Killed by a tanker full o midgets.

Maggit fills himself another measure o Sean’s whiskey. He’s thinkin somethin over. He takes a sip then says, lookin at no one in particular:

—Wha a fuckin way to go though.

*

Seán shakes his head again. He’s been regalin us with tales about the Troubles and it looks like another one’s on the way. Apparently this place was used as a safehouse for IRA heads on the run. And he says that Mrs Kinsella was — and is — a staunch Republican. She lived up here for a while when she was younger.

—All madness aside, he says. —I’ll tell ye this for nothin. Worst mistake I ever made in me life was lettin that woman slip between me fingers. Too busy with the cause so I was, with stupid dreams. At the end of the day it’s all about now, what ye can have right now and hold onto, not what’s in the past or fuckin worse, what’s in the future. Sure who knows what the future holds, ey? Ye take stock o what’s in front o ye, what’s fuckin important. And before ye say it, yes, of course the cause is important, of course it was worth fightin for. But sure what’s the use when in the end it’s not about yer country, it’s about yer life, it’s about yer happiness.

Seán sighs and runs a hand through his thinnin hair.

—Don’t say that to Carmel now, OK? It’s too late for all that so it is. She’s happy enough where she is and that’s an end to it I suppose. Still, here’s me bringin the mood down! Would ya listen to me! Sure get some more o that down ye! C’mon now, show an old gunrunner what ye’re made of in the capital!

And another round o whiskies is poured. We hold them out over the table and clink glasses. I catch the dreadlocked girl’s eyes and she smiles at me again. I wink at her.

—Ready now? says Seán. —Sláinte!

—Sláinte! we shout, and down the whiskies in a fit of coughs and gasps and barely suppressed, pukey heaves.

Everythin’s swimmin round me, spinnin and soft-edged. I try to focus on a picture o the Hunger Strikers on the wall by the window but it keeps goin blurry. Everyone’s sittin now, the ten or so people that are still here at wharrever time it is, swayin and nursin their pints. I look at me watch. Half five, I think. Jesus. The dreadlocked girl is sittin between me and Maggit and we’ve been chattin away for ages. I’m not sure wha about, but it’s cool. The feel of her thigh against mine is gorgeous, fuckin electric. She takes me hand to look at me ring.

—That’s nice. Where’d ye get that?

—It’s me ma’s. Well, like, used to be.

—It’s lovely.

—Yeah.

I wanna say more, like, but I can’t think of anythin else to say and me voice is kind o slurred so I just nod and smile and take a sip o me pint.

*

There’s an air o sadness about Seán as he locks the place up, and after he’s stumbled upstairs we sit outside for a while, by the van. It’s gettin bright now, the sky turnin purple and the sea emergin from the dark, the first mornin light caught in the waves. Pajo and the short-haired girl are sittin beside each other. She’s got faint tattoos on her arms, thin bluish lines interweavin. Ned’s snorin away, his mouth open, lyin on his back in the gravel, absolutely stinkin o the booze he’s spilled over his shirt and jacket. The others are all sittin or hunkered down, weary but content. The dreadlocked girl (and wha a fuckin joke this is, why don’t I just ask her her name?) is sittin between me and Maggit
again. It’s gettin a bit weird now, this seatin arrangement thing, but fuck it. I can feel Maggit willin me to get up and fuck off but there’s no chance, I’m stayin here. Fuckim, like.

We swap stories and sip bottles o beer and cider. I tell them about the campin trip in Wicklow, the gardaí and the sheep and the money in Pajo’s boot. Everyone laughs and the dreadlocked girl squeezes me arm. I can tell by lookin at Maggit that he’s not happy but I press on anyway, tellin them about the upside-down car, and Andriy, and Wales. That and a half-dozen other stories. I catch meself thinkin — is that really how it happened? Did I say that? Did Pajo, or Maggit? Who knows. This follows that follows this, and the world abides, makes sense. The dreadlocked girl squeezes me hand and God, it’s such a nice feelin. Her touch and warmth. Her smell. And then Dermot nods and says that he’s got one.

—Tell me this now, boys and girls, he says. —Do ye believe in the wee folk?

—I do, says Pajo, kind o sheepishly.

—After ten bloody whiskies we do, anyway! says the short-haired girl beside him, slappin him on the thigh. Pajo grins and blinks.