Ghosts and Lightning (9 page)

—Like, I’m not workin at the moment, so …

Bodil smiles. —That’s OK, that’s fine. Thanks for listening.

I stick me hand into me pocket and fish around for change.

—Do yiz take donations, like? I can –

—No, sorry. It has to be a bank thing, like a debit or something like that. It’s a pain in the butt, I know. That’s OK though, thank you.

I stand there for a second, not knowin wha to say. I feel like a gobshite.

—You’d better go, she says, and winks.

—Yeah.

I take a few steps sideways and then hurry on. Behind me I hear Bodil tellin someone they have cool shoes and in front o me the sun is settin over the walls o Trinity. Better get a move on.

*

The main courtyard o Trinity is cobbled and I like the feel o the smooth bumps through the soles o me runners. There aren’t that many people about. I feel weird about that whole Bodil thing. It’s crap bein broke all the time. But that’s not it, really. It’s more to do with … I dunno, like … bein broke’s one thing but bein on yer own’s worse really. In a relationship sense, I mean. I … well, it’s not as if I’ve always been with someone anyway, like I’ve stumbled from one relationship to the next. I dunno though. Sometimes I’m just not bothered. Or I think I’m not. I am really. I think some part o me head’s broken. It’s like I’m waitin for everythin to fall into place; some mad,
impossible story to unfold. It’s dead easy for other people. Ned and that. Even fuckin Maggit.

I turn right and cut through the courtyard, through the little narrow alley and walk up the steps to the arts block. The automatic doors pull back and I step inside. There’s a security guard so yeh have to be careful. He looks up from his little glass-walled booth and then looks back down at his
Evening Herald
.

There are still a few students millin around. They all have that semi-American, well-to-do, Bob Geldof-style accent. I walk up and down the wide corridor, lookin for … what’s the name of it? Shit. Emm … oh yeah, the Edmund Burke lecture hall. I take a left turn and, aha, I have it. I peek in through the glass in the door and the room’s full. Sound; the lecture must o run over or somethin. I sit on one o the weird, uncomfortable, square seats in the corridor and wait for a few minutes. A cleanin lady with huge, hoopy earrings is pickin up crisp packets and apple cores and wha have yeh, and dumpin them into a black plastic bag. I nod at her as she passes and she nods back.

I pull the phone out o me pocket. Forgot about the text I got while I was squirmin in front o Bodil. I click on MESSAGING, then INBOX. It’s from Pajo.

DONT FORGET THE OTHER THING, C U AFTER. P.

The other thing? What’s he on about? I don’t have any credit so I can’t ring him. Can’t even text him back. Ah well, it’s his own fault; Pajo’s texts are notoriously oblique: he doesn’t send messages like, he sends fuckin clues.

The phone buzzes again and another message comes through. From Ned this time. Here we go again, MESSAGING, INBOX.

THE STILETTO IN THE GHETTO.

Yet another name for the Spire. That’s a new one to me. I stick the phone back in me pocket. Then the door to the Edmund Burke lecture hall opens and students start pourin out. I sit and watch the crowd pass me by. After a few seconds I spot a familiar face. There he is, the very man, Kasey Cassidy.

I wave and Kasey ambles over to me, grinnin. Every time I’ve ever seen him he’s been wearin a leather jacket and a T-shirt with the logo o some hicky metal band like Iron Maiden but today he’s wearin a suit. A fuckin suit. The fuck’s that all about?

I haven’t seen Kasey around for a while. He’s a good mate o Pajo’s, a junkie occultist. He’s funny, like, and harmless. Pajo and Kasey used to be shootin buddies when he was on the gear. Kasey’s still usin as far as I know. He’s a fair few years older than me. I remember him and Paj havin a drink in Bruxelles, that bar off Grafton Street, for his thirtieth, and that was a year or two ago. His brown, greasy, shoulder-length hair is tucked behind his ears.

—What’s the story Den Quixote? says Kasey. —How yeh keepin?

—Grand. Yerself?

—Very well indeed. Tip top me man.

We sit down on the square things and Kasey sniffs and blinks and yawns, a frazzled smile on his face.

—What’s with the tin o fruit?

—Ah, just a tryin to keep up with the Joneses, yeh know?

This is a bit of a sketchy explanation but fuck it, it’s probably better just to let it slide; don’t wanna end up implicated in anythin. Kasey’s known to be a bit of a scammer.

—Fair enough, I say. —Lecture any good?

Kasey shrugs. —OK, Denzel, OK. It wasn’t wha I’d call a spectacular affair now. Good though. So so. Bit above mediocre. Sure yeh know yerself.

Kasey’s been doin this for years, smugglin himself into lectures all over the city. He was in UCD last week for a talk on banshees. Or
bean sídhe
, to be precise. No one clocked him. It’s all about havin the balls, apparently; yeh walk in actin like yeh belong and no one says a word. Kasey reckons he has a few degrees stored in his head at this stage, even if he doesn’t have them on paper.

—Wha was the lecture about?

—Bram Stoker Society ran it, says Kasey. —So it was quite decent. So so. Vampire myths in different cultures kind o thing. Interestin. Wasn’t mad on the angle, though.

—No?

—Nah. Bit wishy-washy. So here, have yeh got me stuff? I don’t mean to seem rude Denver but, like, I’ve a bit of a cravin on me, yeh know?

—Yeah, that’s alright. I have it here. Were yeh talkin to Pajo?

—Yep. He rang me this mornin. Very rare object he was after.

—Yeah?

Kasey nods.

—Sound, I say. —So d’yeh wanna …

—Get outside first. Don’t wanna blow me cover Dennicus, they’re showin some rare film about demonic
possession next week. Catholic Church was down on it in the seventies.

—C’mon then.

We get up and head back outside. Kasey chats away about all kinds o mad stuff while we’re walkin, gesticulatin wildly, everythin from ghosts to the CIA’s shady dealins in Nicaragua. When we get to Temple Bar we find a seat outside the Bank of Ireland HQ, beside the huge bronze sculpture thingy.

—So yeah, as I was sayin, says Kasey. —The CIA were in it up to their necks. Them and Reagan. Never trust an ex-filmstar US president, Denville. Take it from me.

I smile and nod.

—Serious Denzig.

—I know, yeah.

I surreptitiously pass Pajo’s bottle o methadone into Kasey’s jacket pocket.

—Sure he wasn’t even that good of an actor, says Kasey, winkin hugely as he passes the short, thick candle into me own jacket pocket. —If I had to pick an ex-filmstar for a US president I’d go for Clint Eastwood meself.

Kasey pats his pocket, smilin.

—They got up to all sorts over there, Denly. Terrible stuff altogether. Blew up a pharmaceutical plant. All them drugs. Wha a waste. But sure they’ll get their just desserts on the other side, wha? The lake o fire.

I stand up and so does Kasey.

—Yep, I say.

Kasey slaps me on the shoulder and winks again.

—What’s so special about this candle? I ask.

—Baby goat fat.

—Yeh serious?

—Yep.

—Baby goat fat? How the fuck d’yeh get baby goat fat?

Kasey taps his nose. —Goat babbies are mortal like the rest of us, Dendelion. Be a sin to let them go to waste.

—Yer mad.

—True. He grins. —D’yeh wanna lift?

—Yeh in the van?

—I am indeed.

—I’ve to meet Ned and Maggit at the Spire.

—The pin in the bin, says Kasey.

I laugh and we make our way back across the river.

*

Everyone’s in the kitchen. It’s like a weird three wise kings scenario; I bring in Kasey’s baby goat fat candle, followed by Paula with a bottle o Jack Daniel’s she picked up in Super Valu, followed in turn by a scowlin Maggit with a bunch o daffodils from the garage in Cherry Orchard. Pajo’s sittin at the head o the kitchen table, a sombre look on his thin face, the recipient of our strange gifts. The curtains are drawn and the doors to the sittin room are pulled over. Ned and Teresa are already sittin. Teresa’s just in from work and she looks knackered. She did a twelve-hour shift at the factory and her eyes look bleary. Her thick brown hair’s tied back in a short ponytail, revealin the half dozen or so little rings in her ear.

—Where d’yeh want these? says Maggit.

—Emm, put them, like, in a vase, says Pajo. —Yeah? In the middle o the table, if yeh can.

Maggit shakes his head, lookin annoyed and uncomfortable with the flowers in his hand. —Have yiz a vase for these? he says.

—Just leave them there, says Paula. —I’ll get somethin.

Maggit tosses the flowers onto the table beside Ned. Ned’s grinnin.

—Don’t say a word, you, says Maggit.

—Wasn’t gonna, says Ned, still grinnin away.

—Wha about the baby goat candle? I ask.

—Light it and, like, put it in the middle as well, says Pajo. —And open the whiskey and put it beside it.

Paula’s rummagin under the sink. She turns and looks back over her shoulder. —Are we not drinkin the whiskey?

Pajo shakes his head. Paula stands up with a pint glass in her hand. She fills it with water and comes back over, placin the glass on the table. She takes the daffodils and pulls off the paper and cellophane wrappin and puts them in the pint glass.

—We not havin a shot even, no? says Paula.

—No, says Pajo. —It’s, like, for them. Yeh know?

Maggit shakes his head again.

—Can we not have a drink at all? says Paula. —There’s absinthe in the fridge.

We’ve had the absinthe ages, which is a bit of a minor miracle. Paula’s been savin it up — she got it cheap when her and Teresa were in Turkey. A good while ago, this was. Before ma died.

Pajo bites at his thumbnail and thinks for a second. —Emm, yeah, OK, he says. Then he seems to warm to Paula’s misplaced assumption and nods, smilin. —Yeah,
like, we’ll all have a shot, he says. —One each. That’ll start us off, yeah? No more after that, though.

Paula goes and gets the absinthe from the fridge.

—I’m grand for a drink, love, says Teresa. —Seriously, I’m shattered.

Pajo shakes his head. —No, if it’s part o the ritual, like, we all have to do it. Just have a little one, Teresa.

Teresa rolls her eyes. —G’wan, so.

—I’ll only do yeh a small one, says Paula.

Paula winks at her and she sets down a tray with six shot glasses and the bottle of absinthe. She fills out the shots, Teresa’s noticeably smaller than the others. I light Kasey’s candle and open the whiskey, then sit back down, between Paula and Maggit. I look at me watch; it’s half ten. I feel a little bit nervous. Dunno why, like. Fuckin ghosts, it’s all bullshit.

—Right, emm, thanks for comin, says Pajo.

—It’s not a fuckin weddin reception, Pajo, says Maggit.

—Shhh, says Paula.

Paula looks a bit … I dunno … fraught or somethin. I can tell by lookin at her that she’s … I dunno, edgy, maybe. Or a combination of edginess and excitement. She’s not afraid, anyway, put it that way. It’s mad but I’ve never known Paula to be afraid. Not properly afraid, anyway.

—OK so, says Pajo. —Emm. First off, I think … well, oh yeah, yiz’ll have to turn off yer mobiles. Yeah? Like, no distractions and that.

Everyone fumbles for their phones and there’s a couple o seconds where the room’s filled with mingled ditties as the phones shut down.

Pajo has the same kind o look as Paula, nervous and kind o hopefully expectant at the same time. He runs a thin hand through his hair and then places his palms flat on the table.

—Right, before we start we should go through some stuff, yeah? Just to, like, make sure everyone’s kosher. Everyone nods and mumbles.

—OK. Emm. Right. First off, no one’s to be afraid, yeah? Bad vibes can attract bad spirits. So everyone should like, chill. Emm, actually, the shots’ll be good coz they’ll loosen us up.

—Will we have them now then? says Paula.

—Eh, yeah. Yeah, might as well.

Each of us lifts our shot glass, the green liquid glintin in the light o the bulb overhead.

—Do we do a toast or wha? says Ned.

—Emm, nah, says Pajo. —OK so, down we go.

We knock back the absinthe. Teresa makes a face and shakes her head.

—Hate that stuff, she says.

Paula rubs Teresa’s shoulder.

—OK, says Pajo. —Right, so yeah, like I said, everyone just chill, yeah? OK. And, emm … Pajo looks at me. —Should I say about the flowers and the candle and that, Denny?

—I don’t even know wha the flowers and candle are for, Pajo. You’re the expert.

Ned smiles.

—Yeah, yeah, says Pajo. —Emm, right. Yeah, so, the flowers help to attract the spirit. They can smell them, I think. Or they like it, anyway. It’s good. It’s good for the vibe. Especially daffodils, they love daffodils.

—And the whiskey’s in case the ghost’s Oliver Reed? says Ned.

—Yeah. It’s … no. I mean … no. It’s like, it’s another strong smell, just. It’s somethin they might remember. Yeah? So they can, like, home in or wharrever. Em. And the candle’s for –

—Spookiness?

—No. It’s the light, spirits are attracted to it. They can see it, yeh know? It’s like the light o the other side, o the spirit world. That kind o thing. It burns a special kind o colour, cos o the baby goat fat. We can’t really see it like, but they can. Yeah? Yiz OK?

Pajo runs his finger round the inside of his shot glass and sucks on it, then continues.

—So, it’s like, it’s about communication. We wanna talk to whoever it is that’s here. Yeh know? Pajo turns to Paula. —Wha do yeh wanna know, Paula? D’yeh think, like, d’yeh know who it might be?

Paula looks at me and then back at Pajo. She’s told me about this before but it’s still fuckin freaky.

—There’s someone under me bed, she says. She looks at me again. —It’s a man but it’s pretendin to be a woman. Or a girl, really.

Ned raises an eyebrow; he hasn’t heard this before and he looks a bit bemused. Teresa has but she still looks concerned.

—I don’t really wanna say anymore about it, says Paula. —It’s weird. It’s a bit mad, I know. Just … I’d rather just see wha happens. Is that alright?