John Brady - The going rate

And the Italian arm. Interesting. No, not interesting.

Fanning made a lunge, and pretended to run after him. The shouting stopped and the Pole began to run again. Fanning slowed after a couple of steps. The Polish guy wasn’t hobbling now, was he? It had all been an act.

But wasn’t he acting too?

That thought struck him with great force, its clarity roaring in through him: he had been acting. Acting for…? For Cully, to show he knew a thing or two about how to act on the street? Or that he wasn’t just a feeble voyeur trying to write about things he knew nothing about?

He’d miss the last bus if he didn’t get a move on.

He began walking again, and soon broke into a slow jog. Ahead of him the Pole looked over his shoulder. Fanning waited for a yell, but instead saw the packsack go up as his leg went out from under him. The Polish man fell sideways. There was a shout or a yelp and then he was on the roadway. A dark sprawling mass clear against the sheen of the street lamp.

“Christ,” said Fanning. “Not again. What a complete idiot you are.”

He didn’t slow his jog, but he kept his eyes on the Pole. This time there were no limbs coming out slowly for the man to pick himself up. Fanning passed a drain, his ears filling for a few moments with the sound of distant underground gurgling. So this is coke, he thought. You notice everything, you’ve got no obstacles, everything is clear, and everything fits. Fits?! Here he was actually jogging, something he hadn’t done for years. Maybe he could even jog home.

“Get up,” he called out as he closed on the Pole. “Get up you gobshite, and buy yourself some new shoes.”

The stillness of the figure on the pavement, his splayed legs seeming to draw light from the street lamps.

“Here I come, you better get up, you iijit.”

Fanning slowed to a walk, his breath steaming now after this short run. He saw the eyelids flutter and a frown come to the man on the ground.

“Get up and go home,” he said. “You’re too stupid to be out, you can barely stay on your feet. And buy yourself some shoes, you thick, so you don’t be falling over.”

It was Polish words he was hearing now, groaning and then tense whispers.

“You hit your head on the road. Get up. And go home.”

The man’s arm moved and he leaned on one elbow and felt at his face with his hand.

Fanning put out his hand.

“Come up,” he said. “You’re such an idiot.”

But the man flinched. He gave Fanning a look of loathing and bewilderment and then continued to examine his hand.

“Go home and wash that,” Fanning said. “That’s what you have to do, do you understand me? Wash?”

The man reached awkwardly into his jacket, sighing. Fanning listened to the city around him again, the wet murmur of the traffic and the empty dripping hush of the rain. Anyone with brains was at home in bed or in front of a television.

He glanced down again.

“Look, if it’s any consolation, I’m soaked too. Now are you happy?”

The man’s movements were slow and he was breathing hard. He muttered as he fumbled. Fanning looked up into the night sky bronzed by the city lights. He felt neutral now, not ashamed of what he had done. This surprised him a little. He and this fellow were here: circumstances were the way they were; it rained on everyone equally, just like Beckett wrote in that poem. He tried to see individual raindrops coming down through the light.

“You haven’t a clue what I’m saying, have you,” he said to the Pole.

He caught only a hint of the sudden movement below. The Pole grunted and said something as he lashed out. Fanning was late stepping back. Whatever it was, it was hard, and it had run across his shin. Then he saw the reflected light on the knife as the man lunged again.

“You bastard,” Fanning said quietly.

He kicked at the arm and connected, drawing a muffled yell. There was a burning pain in his calf now. He didn’t want to think about what it might be. His second kick got under the man’s arm and hit something solid. The man drew his legs up and tried to put his arms over his face. He shuddered as Fanning kicked him again but he said nothing.

Fanning’s breath came out in fast, separate clouds as he panted and cursed. He paused, stepped back, and looked down at his feet. Turning his leg toward the lamplight he saw the stain and the cut across the denim.

“Look what you did,” he said. “You lousy bastard. Look it!”

He wondered why it didn’t hurt more, but he didn’t want to lift the end of his trousers to look. The headlights that turned onto the street drew his gaze up. His whole chest felt unbearably tight and hot, his throat too tight to breathe or to talk. The car cruised down slowly toward him, too slowly. He shielded his eyes and squinted through the glare. There was no Garda sign on the roof anyway. He looked back down at the Pole, who was now propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing at his mouth.

The Pole said something thickly and he spat, and groaned softly and began touching his mouth.

The car had stopped. The driver stepped out slowly, left the door open, and began to make his way over.

Fanning began to walk away, ignoring the feeling in his leg but he knew the voice calling out.

Cully stood next to the man on the ground.

“He took out a knife. A knife?”

“What? On you?”

“My leg, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait- he knifed you, this bloke?”

A gloomy disgust had swept out of nowhere and taken hold of him. He was exhausted.

“You’re serious?” he heard Cully say. “Talk to me. He knifed you?”

Fanning nodded. Before he turned away he saw Cully kick out sideways. The Pole’s head jerked back and he rolled once. The sound came to Fanning late, and it sickened him. Cully had leaned over and was feeling around on the pavement for something. He kicked something metallic on the wet roadway until it stopped in a pool of water.

“Leave him,” Fanning shouted.

Cully raised his arms and he began kicking again, alternating his feet.

“He’s not moving,” Fanning yelled. “Leave him alone.”

His whole body ached, as he made his way back.

“Stop,” he said. “Enough, this is just stupid.”

Cully was stomping with his heel now. Slowly and selectively. Fanning hesitated, pushing his fingers further into his ears.

“Stop it!” he yelled.

Cully lowered his arms and he stepped back.

“I’m getting out of here,” Fanning said. “You should too.”

“Why are you covering your bloody ears?”

“There’s no need for this, I gave him a going-over.”

“A going-over? You?”

“We should never have come down here.”

Cully’s face twisted up. He stepped over to Fanning quickly.

“He knifes you, and you’re apologizing?”

“There’s no need to do any more.”

“You’re shaky, aren’t you?”

“It’s the coke.”

“Shaking like a leaf, you are,” said Cully and looked down at the Pole.

“I’m going to phone for an ambulance,” Fanning said.

“An ambulance? You can walk, can’t you? As far as the car?”

“For him, he’s not-”

“He’s not supposed to bloody move,” Cully said. “What do you think this is?”

“He’s unconscious, he’s hurt.”

“I should bloody hope so! A bloke tries to do for you, some foreigner here, and you want to tuck the bastard into bed or something?”

Cully took a deep breath and tugged at his jacket. Fanning felt the chill now. And his face and eyes were getting the feeling he remembered from when being a child with that fainting thing. There was something pasty and sour at the back of his throat. The lights of the car swelled and receded. It seemed that Cully was speaking from a long way away.