Ghosts and Lightning (5 page)

—Like, a hallucination or wharrever?

—No. Listen. For real, like. This little goblin in dungarees. And soon as I saw it the voices stopped. Just stopped dead, silence. So I walked over and grabbed it. Caught it, like, cos I was thinkin to meself, it’s the goblin that’s after stoppin the voices. I grabbed it up and ran
through the park and back to yer woman’s house. It was cryin on the way, wah wah, all this, a mad little thing with round eyes, tears streamin out, but like I said, it was after gettin rid o the voices so happy days. The front door was still open so I put the goblin in the front room and called into the kitchen. Look wha I’m after findin, I says to them, so in comes the hippy bird and Tommy and Rochey. A fuckin goblin, I say. For real. So they follow me out and Rochey opens the door to the front room, pops his head in and then looks back at me. You for fuckin real, he says. And he looks fuckin horrified, yeh know? Yeah, I says. That’s a fuckin Down syndrome kid yeh fuckin head-the-ball, says Rochey, yid wanna get her back where yeh found her before yer done for fuckin kidnappin. But I was too out of it, I crashed out in the kitchen, talkin to the spoons, off me mallet and wrecked tired as well. The hippy bird and Tommy took the kid back to the park and found its ma. They told her she’d wandered off so she was glad to have her back, no hassle, sorted. She was takin her to school. Like, a special school or wharrever, I suppose.

Maggit starts on a new Garibaldi. —Mad, wha?

—Yer a fuckin waffler.

—Swear to fuckin god, Denny. On Ant’ny’s life. I fuckin swear to yeh, it happened. Cross me fuckin heart. Fuckin goblin I thought it was. Thought I was gettin a pot o gold.

—That’s leprechauns, says Pajo.

—Yeah, wharrever. Don’t they look a bit like goblins, though, them little Down syndrome kids?

—Yer off yer fuckin trolley, Maggit, I say. And I feel a bit fuckin, I dunno, a bit fuckin disgusted or somethin. Maggit’s grinnin. Poor fuckin kid, like. Well, assuming
that story was actually true. Given a) Maggit’s legendary propensity for lyin, even about the most mundane stuff and b) Maggit’s propensity to get wrecked and do mental fuckin things, it’s a hard one to call.

I lean back, supportin meself with me flattened palms, me fingers spread wide. I saw a thing on telly about kids with Down syndrome years ago. I remember Paula laughin durin it, out o nervousness really, and me ma sayin that yer gift if yiv got Down syndrome is yeh automatically go to heaven. Makes up for the botch of a life (my words, not hers) that yer stuck with, I suppose. Years ago, that was … fuck. Time passin, wha? Tick tock, gettin older, yer bones –

—FUCK!

The tent flap rips open and a freezin swirlin wind and rain rushes into the tent. I scramble to me feet, me knee smearin the remains of a Snickers into the floor, then tumble out into the night with Pajo and Maggit behind me. It’s fuckin freezin, thunder boomin overhead. The light from the old woman’s kitchen clicks on and I stand there in the dark, grass knee-high, me hair flyin all over the shop. Pajo crouches in the grass, pattin the squelchy earth for the lost tent pegs. Maggit’s down beside him, scramblin like a madman, and then he turns back to me, glasses agleam with lightnin and his voice high on the wind, a banshee wail through the mountains o Wicklow –

—Ghosts and lightnin cast no shadow, man! he half roars, half laughs. He holds up one o the uprooted pegs, his arm straight above his head, the peg pointed at the heavin sky. I shake me head.

—The fuck yeh up to?

There’s another deep rollin boom above us and a huge forked flash miles beyond the bungalow. For a split second we’re in daylight, but the light’s sick and caustic, too white, too severe. I can see the raindrops as they fall, millions o them; it’s like lookin up at a streetlight durin a storm, all these drops o rain fallin, minute but separate, individual. Then fuckin deep-sea blackness dives down on top of us and I can hardly see a thing, just shapes and shades o darkness.

—Tellin yeh Denny! Lookit man! In the buke like, d’yeh remember? Ghosts and lightnin cast no fuckin shadow! Member that? Too fuckin right! Fuckin mad or wha!

*

—AHHHHHHH! ME FUCKIN BACK!

Me eyes flick open and I scramble onto me elbows. What the fuck’s goin on?

—Out ye come now, boys.

—ME BLEEDIN VERTEBRAE!

—Pajo? Wha the fuck?

—I’M CRIPPLED!

Maggit scrambles hands-and-knees over me and out o the tent. I can’t see anythin, just a red and blue gloom. Me head’s killin me. Jesus. I always imagine hangover headaches as jellyfish, pulsin away in the pink waters o me brain.

—GERRA WHEELCHAIR!

—A wheelchair he says! Will another rock do ye?

Who the fuck is that? It’s a country accent, anyway, pure bogger. Bollix to this. Pajo wails somewhere at the end o the tent. I follow Maggit, pullin the collapsed tent over me
head as I go, then flop out into the mornin. The sudden sunlight sears me eyes. There’s a pair o mud-spattered but otherwise shiny boots inches from me nose. Two pairs, actually. I look up.

Fuck.

There’s two coppers standin over me and Maggit’s slightly to the side, in his Liverpool boxers, which looks kind o bad. I told him last night to leave his tracksuit bottoms on. The four of us are in the middle of a small field o wet grass, the sky pale blue above us.

—Calm fuckin down, says Maggit to one o the guards. —We’re doin fuck all.

I can see the old woman standin in her porch, her hand to her mouth and a baldy fella standin beside her. The sun’s burnin a hole in me fuckin head. One o the guards is holdin a big lump o shale in his hands.

—Did youse drop that on us?

Bit of a stupid question, I know. But for fuck sake, that’s a bit much, isn’t it? Droppin bleedin rocks on people? The piggy fucks.

—Ah no, says the garda with the rock. —Just dropped out of the sky. Pure fuckin miracle.

The two o them laugh. One o them, the older one, has a turn in his eye. He’s rosy-cheeked and double-chinned and his hat’s tucked under his arm. His thinnin brown hair is swayin slightly in the wind. Makes me think o seaweed, the way it’s wavin. The other fella’s much younger and besides the massive, donkey-ish teeth, he’s probably wha yid call a good-lookin fella.

I stand up, suddenly conscious o me bare upper body. I hold me left bicep with me right hand, tryin to casually cover meself up. Maggit has no such worries, still arguing
away in his boxers. The older copper gives me a dirty look, then Pajo crawls out o the tent behind us. His eyes are sunken and red-rimmed and he’s got one hand pressed into the small of his back.

—That’s assault, says Pajo as he claps eyes on the gardai. —That’s battery.

—I’ll batter ye now if ye want, says the younger garda. He’s smilin, his donkey teeth bared, but you can see the smile for the smokescreen it is; he’s twitchin, barely fuckin contained, pure dyin for a scrap. I cup me other hand over me groin.

—Ever hear of private property, boys? says the older garda.

—We were just campin, I say.

—In someone’s back garden? This the new thing in the city then?

The younger one’s sneerin now. —Fuckin Dublin junkies, he says. —No fuckin class.

—Better than bein a state-owned bogman cunt, says Maggit.

Fuckin hell, no point in goadin the pricks. Fuck that. We’ve –

There’s an explosion in me jaw and I feel me teeth rattle in me head. I hit the grass like a sack o sloppy shite and the oul garda’s face appears above me, all the culchie quaintness gone and replaced by a slaverin fat-faced lunatic. I try to curl up and he lays into me ribs with the toe of his boot and fuckin hell, an arcin flash o pain shoots through me. I can see Maggit through me guard tusslin with the younger fella and another boot catches me in the stomach, the breath flyin out o me in a hot, sweet belch.

—That’s an abuse o human rights yiz nazis! Pajo squeaks, dancin madly on the spot, skinny and white-skinned, and then I see the bird again, the lark or wharrever, dartin through the mornin sky and flyin towards me, dead on, locked in, ready to catch me final earthly breath.

*

Our money’s gone. We’d fifteen euro, roughly, most of it in change, and it’s fuckin gone. That was to do us for bus fare once we got back to Enniskerry. Pajo says the coppers must o took it. Now is that fuckin petty or wha? Fifteen poxy euro, the robbin bastards.

We’re trampin back along the road we took yesterday. Me clothes are still damp but at least the sun’s out, so it’s not too bad. Cept the pain in me ribs, like, and the ache in me jaw. The fields on either side a slick and shiny deep green. Loads more sheep. I’m tempted to say this is all the sheeps’ fault but to be fair it’s not, it’s ours. Or more specifically Maggit’s, he’s the one with the wacko phobias and the big fuckin gob. Wha did he have to say that to the gardai for?

Pajo’s complainin about his foot. He says it’s killin him and that one of the gardai must o stamped on it. He’s gettin a bit twitchy as well, cos he needs to get back to Dublin to get his new methadone script.

—Don’t know how yer foot’s fucked, Paj, I say. —Yeh left us to get fuckin battered.

—Well, I was in the melee, like, he says. —Collateral damage. Yeh know I’m a pacifist. And I was the one got a boulder in the back.

—There’s a time and a place for Martin Luther King quotes though, Pajo. Fuck sake. Wha were yeh thinkin?

—I can’t, like, get involved, Denny. It says so in the Koran.

—Yeh do know the Koran’s not a Buddhist book, don’t yeh?

—Ah leavim, says Maggit. —He’s no use in a scrap anyway.

I look up at Maggit. He’s swishin a thin, leafless branch in front of him, the tent packed high up on his shoulders. There’s a small yellow bruise under his left eye.

—We’re not talkin about conscientious fuckin objection here, Maggit. This is me, on the ground, gettin the bollix kicked out o me cos o you, while –

—Yeh can’t fuck with beliefs, Denny, he says.

He delivers the line with a generous dollop o weight and finality, like he’s King fuckin Solomon or somethin.

I slow up a bit and let Pajo and Maggit pull ahead. It’s mad, but in a way I’m glad we’re in this position. It’s to do with the house, really. I’m happy enough out here, even though it’s cold and me smokes and socks are damp and me head’s bangin. I don’t wanna get back just yet. And that stupid fuckin séance thing as well. I’ll be fuckin honest here — I’m dreadin it. Totally fuckin dreadin it. Dunno why. It’s all just yer mind, isn’t it? It’s just human psychology. We trick ourselves. We have to, to get by.

That’s all it is.

I think so, anyway.

I’ve had this feelin before, this dread. I was only a kid, maybe seven or eight, and one o me uncle Victor’s stories was playin on me mind. I’d been to visit him with me ma and Paula, at his caravan, and he’d told me about the
banshee. He was always on about ghosts and fairies and all sorts o mad stuff, and usually I loved it but the banshee was too much — he’d scared the shite out o me. The banshee, accordin to Victor, was an ancient hag with long, dirty hair, and if yeh were unfortunate enough to see her, as he once had in Balbriggan, she’d be pullin a comb through her greasy tangles. But it was those that heard her that had to watch out — to hear a banshee wail was a sign that someone you knew was about to die.

So later on I was sittin in the front room with me ma. It was gettin late but I didn’t want to go to bed. I shared a room with Shane and Gino but they were older so they didn’t have to go up yet. They were sittin in the kitchen, talkin. Plannin somethin, probably. Paula was up in her room.

—I’m not even tired, I said to me ma. Really I was knackered but I’d worked meself into a terror about the banshee, imaginin hearin her keenin outside me window. Or, worse, lookin in at me, her withered old face smeared up against the glass. Me ma looked up at me. She was sittin at the end o the sofa, the light from the telly on her face. Her hair was tied back. I was sittin at the opposite end o the sofa, me legs curled up under me. Me da was workin a nightshift, I think. Or out drinkin, or chasin women or worse.

—Yiv school in the mornin, me ma said, tryin the obvious first.

—I’m not tired.

—Yer eyes were droppin a minute ago. I was watchin yeh.

—I’m not tired now though.

But she wasn’t havin it. Often me ma would let us stay home from school if we made some half-arsed gesture, like washin the dishes or lightin the fire. She was dead soft in that way. But if me da was in, and he would be the next mornin, either wrecked from work or hung over, there was no chance — he’d whip us into school. He wouldn’t so much as give yeh a hug but he’d never let us miss a day o school.

A few minutes later I was standin at the top o the stairs. I was there for a minute or two when me ma opened the door in the hall below. She walked up the stairs and sat a few steps down from me.

—Is there such a thing as banshees, ma? I said.

—Banshees?

—Yeah.

—Who told yeh about banshees?

I told her I didn’t know who told me, I just knew about them. It was like aliens or yetis, everyone knew about them. I didn’t want to get Victor into trouble.

—Is there such a thing as them? I asked her.

—They’re not real, Denny. They’re only stories.

I wasn’t convinced.

—They’re stories is all, Denny, she said again.

—Victor said a banshee chased him across a field, I said, already forgettin about protectinVictor’s identity. I felt bad for a second, then glad it was out. I was startin to hate him for scarin me.

—Don’t mind him, me ma said.

—He said though. He told me.

—Victor’s a great fella for stories, Denny. He’s a space cadet. Wait and I get a fuckin hold of him. Tellin tales to children.

—He said a banshee flew after him. It was white.

—It was probably just a bag or somethin.

—A bag?

That was stupid.

—A plastic bag, she said. —Blowin.

No way. I’d seen plastic bags caught in the wind and they didn’t look like banshees. Especially in one important detail.

—Bags have no hair, though, I said. —Banshees have dirty long hair that they comb.