John Lynch - Torn Water

McMurphy, Shannon's character, had loomed before him, in hard dark lines. Chief Bowden had lurched across the wall, his arms and legs long timbers of shadow. Billy Babbit, the stuttering kid of the asylum, was a shake of the torch, so that its spilling light seemed to dance him into life. Then suddenly, with the force of a dark fist, his character Martini had come to life. It had thrust itself across the wall like a big black jigsaw bird, its beak James's trembling knuckles, its eyes two dark holes that seemed to drink the light.

‘When you are quite ready, Lav—’

Before Shannon can even complete his surname, James turns in his seat and, reaching into the fireplace, grabs the dead crow. In one movement he lifts it above him, raining ash all over Chin Chin's head. In his mind he sees his character perched in a helicopter gunship and the dead crow's wings its churning blades. With the bird now rotating above his head James runs round the rehearsal room shouting, ‘Bandits at three o'clock! Bandits at three o'clock! May Day! May Day!’

The two women scream.

‘Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! I'm hit! I'm hit!’

The bird makes an eerie swishing sound in his hand. A hush falls across the room as he runs to and fro, the wings of the dead bird flapping above his head. Eventually exhausted he slumps to his knees. ‘May Day … This is Martini. May Day.’

The crow's glazed eye looks up at him, and feathers float down all around him. Slowly, he finds himself back in the room once more. He looks around him. He sees their stunned faces. He wants to tell them about the big jigsaw bird that had flown out of the shadows on to his bedroom wall the other night. He wants to say that it had seemed right to use the crow. He wants to say many things. He wants to understand the roar that had risen in him as he had run round the room, the hard bright anger that had bolted from his gut. He wants to tell them that his father had died for Ireland, and that Ireland didn't give a shit.

‘Sssh.’

That was what Teezy had said when she had secretly given him the photograph, her finger raised to her lips.

‘Here … your father died for Ireland … sssh …’

‘Sssh.’

He gets to his feet. The room is silent. Patricia peers from behind her fingers, Kerry's hands are over her mouth. Cathal Murphy's Paisley cravat is now hanging from his fingers. Chin Chin is nodding, a smile gleaming in his eye. Mr Shannon takes a deep breath, his eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘Hmmm … I think the accent needs a little work, La very, but full marks for the inventive use of available props.’

When the rehearsal is over Shannon asks James to stay behind. They sit in silence for a moment or two, James gazing fiercely at his shoes, not daring to meet Shannon's gaze.

‘I'm not going to bite, La very.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sean … Call me Sean.’

‘Sean.’

‘It was very imaginative, what you did earlier.’

‘Yes, sir … Sean.’

‘Don't be so hard on yourself, Lavery. You did nothing wrong, far from it. You used this.’ He taps his forehead and winks. ‘Now, off you go. See you on the morrow.’

‘Thank you, sir … Sean.’

‘No – thank yow, James.’

As he steps out into the night air, his chest swells with pride as he makes his way up Joseph Street. As he rounds the corner on to Hill Street he taps his forehead with his fingers in self-congratulation.

Death by Being Dropped into Ireland's Greedy Endless Mouth

The big black jigsaw bird has me. I can see the scuttling of the people below me, their small, scurrying shapes bumping and jostling each other. Above me I feel the heavy swoosh of wind from the bird's wing thrusts; I feel the steel bite of its claws along the run of my back. I can smell the stench of old carrion from its warm, sickly breath. Higher and higher I am lifted until the ground below is a distant memory. I think of the look of surprise on my mother's face when the bird swooped and gathered me in its vice-like grip, its large head cutting skywards. I remember how her scream broke the crisp morning air, and her hands flailed at the departing bird as if she was trying to deter a troublesome wasp. I heard my name fade on her lips, and I was sure I caught the glint of a falling tear.

I am not afraid, only puzzled. I had thought that the big jackdaw was my friend and I cannot understand why he is suddenly so aggressive with me. Clouds come and go like floury fists. Small thrusts and swirls of air play and tug at the soft flesh of my neck, and my feet bob and tick on the ends of my legs, like fishing floats. At first I recognise the countryside below me, and grin as I see my school rush by, its playing-fields like long green tablets, glistening in the morning sun. I even believe I see my aunt Teezy's house, small grey puffs of smoke rising from its short fat chimneys, and I wave. But then the countryside gets darker, and the wind fresher, and small dots of falling hail sting my eyes. We are flying through heavy, dense mist and I lose all sense of time. All I can hear is the swooshing beat of the bird's wings and the loud patter of my heart.

Suddenly, below me, the mist parts and I can see a mountain rising up to meet us, and in the middle of this mountain's peak is a large foul-smelling mouth. Ireland's mouth. I realise with horror that I am going to be fed to it. All around the fringe of the mountain's peak I see dismembered limbs and old bones: they cover the ground below me like forgotten stones. As the bird drops me, I realise that this is where all the young men of Ireland go; this is where my father went. As I hurtle through the air, the mountain opens its mouth and I see the blood and guts of a nation's men rushing to meet me.

The following Saturday morning a bomb goes off in the town. James and his mother had driven the three miles from the estate, and were on the small roundabout at Carrick Street when they heard the blast. James thought it sounded like a giant punching a huge fist into the Earth's mantle. The buildings that lined the street vibrated momentarily and some of the shop windows spewed broken glass on to the pavement. Ahead at the top of the street, just where it rounded into Canal Street, James can see a white puff of smoke rise; it reminds him of the knot of smoke that the Vatican uses to announce a new pope. A shop alarm sounds, its discordant wail puncturing the eerie silence that had settled in the aftermath of the explosion.

That means his town will be on the news tonight, James thinks. He can see the reporter standing before the tangled mass of shop frontage and buckled vehicles, cement dust falling like papery rain into the camera lens.

Two cars ahead of them have collided, the front of one pushed back on itself like a discarded paper cup. The drivers stand by the doors of their vehicles, a lost look on their faces, like children whose sweet ration has just been stopped. James's mother hasn't moved since the blast occurred. Her hands have left the steering-wheel and frozen midway to her face. She is gaping as if someone has just skewered her through the chest.

For what seems an age, the traffic, with its cargo of shoppers and children, sits where it is, the ball of smoke ahead seeping like squid ink into the sky. He hears the whine of sirens somewhere behind him, and turns to see a phalanx of blue lights fighting their way through the backed-up traffic. James looks again to his mother, and notices that her body is shuddering, and that two long tears are working their way down her cheeks.

Suddenly a fire-engine fills their rear-view mirror, like a colossal red whale, its siren squealing. The driver inches it closer and closer to their car, pressing the horn with hard, sharp bangs of his hand. James can see the co-driver wave his arms, furiously gesturing for them to get out of the way. ‘Mum, please …’ he says.