Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

Beautiful country, coast, mountains, rivers, my parents from close to Nis, where Constantine the Great is born.

We could go there, she says.

No, you could go Ireland, Ratko says firmly.

He leans over, clinks my glass, to emphasize his point.

Yeah, we could go to Ireland, she says, liking the idea.

I thought you wanted sun, I say.

It must be sunny sometimes, she says.

I shake my head.

She laughs again.

Sometimes? she asks.

Not a time, especially not in summer, Mouse. Hell no, why do you think they’re always killing each other over there? It’s the bloody weather. Depressing.

She’s not listening.

I really would love to go to Ireland. It’s my roots, she says.

She wrinkles up her nose and looks wistful for a second or two. It makes her so unbearably beautiful that I get a little mad at her.

Get Darkey to take you, he can afford it, I say, with a hint of a sneer. She doesn’t pick up on it, though.

Oh, he is, next year. We’re going for three weeks. Darkey knows someone that owns a castle in Donegal. Maybe it doesn’t rain so much there.

Listen, in Yugoslavia, Ratko says, and he’s off on some story about the Old Country. This one involves Tito and the National Science Institute’s attempt to control the weather for a crucial World Cup match in the middle 1970s. The whole story reeks of bullshit, but Ratko’s fat face is choking with laughter, and whether it’s true or not all three of us are in stitches by the end of it:

The snow comes-Ratko concludes-and Yugoslavia beats West Germany, two to nil, and Marshal Tito promotes the colonel to general after game and everybody in the whole country but Tito knows truth but we like him, and no one wants to spoil it by telling, and poor Tito go to his grave thinking Yugoslavia leads world in controlling atmosphere…

Ratko laughs, and his face goes pink and he is barely able to contain himself.

Tears are in my eyes, too, and Bridget looks over at me and kisses me. And I’m thinking we should run away together. Ratko, of course, is right.

We have another shout, and Ratko must have knocked a few back already this morning because he starts to sing a depressing little Serbian number about the Field of Blackbirds.

Michael, you sing something, Bridget says, and it’s not the time and it’s not the place and I’m not in the mood, but how could you say no?

Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountainside, the summer’s gone…

I give her the first couple of verses, but I can’t finish the song. I’m all choked up and a little disappointed in her. Why doesn’t she ever listen to me? I was serious about us going away together. I mean, really, what is there for us here?

Bridget lies down on the couch with a grin on her face, but Ratko senses my mood and a cloud of gloom passes over him, and I know I’m going to have to cheer him up now with the one topic that will please him.

Listen, Ratko, you know the way you’re always saying that Danny the Drunk is some kind of genius, well, this morning, I’m in McDonald’s and he comes off with some remark about the emperor V-

Why is this place always so dirty? Bridget asks Ratko, sitting up, interrupting me. It annoys me and my mood flips. Maybe we’re not so bloody compatible.

Ratko stands, sighs.

I better go, my friend, he says, terribly slowly and tragically, like bloody Topol or some East European dissident being carted off to Siberia. I can see he really has to go, so I don’t press him.

Aye, well, see ya, mate, I say, closing the door after him.

I turn to Bridget.

Well, that was nice, wasn’t it? I say.

But she’s been quiet, and now she lifts her head and stares at me. It’s the look. I can tell. She’s about to say something that will frighten the bejesus out of me. Please, God, make her not be pregnant. Darkey would insist they get married, and then if it came out looking like me? Please make it not be that.

Let’s go away this weekend, both of us together, she says.

Where would we go? I ask, relieved.

She shrugs, tugs at a knot in her hair. She looks like the mouse I always call her.

What happened last night, Michael? she asks.

I can’t tell if she’s avoiding the question, or bored with the subject, or suddenly remembering that she likes to live only in the world of the possible, or maybe she’s just now recalling the horror of less than a dozen hours ago.

With Andy?

No, afterwards. What did you do? she asks.

What did I do or what did we do? I ask.

What did you all do afterwards? To get back for Andy. You had that blood on your shirt, and, and I heard something, she says and does not finish.

I look at her. This baby talk has irritated me, irritated me more than it should irritate me, but it still has.

Ok, Bridget, if that’s the game, let me ask you a question. What exactly is it that you think this nice guy Darkey does?

He works, he has a business, she says nonchalantly.

And what is it we do, me and Andy and Scotchy and Big Bob and his boys? We have our union cards, but I’m no brickie or spark or anything like that. I wish I was, I’d get more.

I know what you do. I think I do. Darkey pays Mr. Duffy and Mr. Duffy gives Darkey building contracts and Darkey employs you to make sure that all the regulations are right.

She doesn’t fool me. She’s being coy. She knows it all. All the ugly little details, which makes me wonder even more what game it is exactly that she’s playing. Does she want the details so it strengthens me over Darkey, or do the details strengthen him over me?

Well, that’s mostly it, I suppose, I say, confused.

What happened last night? she asks again.

No one died, if that’s what you want to know, I say.

Breath escapes from her body and her face loses its rigidity. So that is what she wanted to know. That’s the line. Murder is the line. As long as it stops at that. But that’s ok. There are worse places to draw it than that.

You should head up. You should head up home, and I’ll come on a different train, I say after a moment.

She looks at me. Her eyes are green. Emerald, in fact.

Michael, what do you want to do with your life?

What do you want to do with your life? I say straight back.

You first, she says, twisting her hair with a finger.

I don’t know. You know, I, I read a lot of books on the train and stuff, I begin, embarrassed.

You read books?

Yes, Jesus, of course. Anyway, I might try to get to college or something. I don’t have any O or A levels, but I don’t think that matters over here.

She yawns inadvertently.

What does Darkey want to do with his life? I ask, sarcastically.

She smiles in a dreamy way. Jesus, they’ve discussed it-their future-and it’s one she likes. Christ on a bike.

He has all these silly romantic notions, she says.

Darkey, romantic? The thought makes me sick, but I don’t say anything. I stare at her but she doesn’t see. She’s getting ready to go.

I’ll take a cab up, she says.

Lucky for some, I say, but it doesn’t touch her.

She gets dressed and kisses me with real fondness. I walk her to the front door. She looks at me and kisses me again on the cheek.

Say goodbye to me in Irish, she says.

I don’t know it, I say.

Say goodbye, she insists.

Slán leat , I mutter.

Slán leat , she says.

The person leaving says slán agat , I say, wearily.

Slán agat , she says happily, kisses me, turns, goes down the stairs. When I hear the front door wheeze open I run up the three floors to the roof and check to see if any of the cars I’d singled out earlier follow her. She’s in the street and she’s walking down to Amsterdam to get a cab. A blue Ford, which was one of my four plates, turns on its engine and does a U-turn and heads down to Amsterdam. Could be complete coincidence, I tell myself. A cab comes and she gets in, and the Ford accelerates past the cab, just making the light, which the taxi doesn’t, and, on balance, you have to think that this is a wee bit of a good sign.