Joseph O'Neill - The Breezes

The subject of the argument was the efficacy of prayer. The first writer, an Anglican bishop I believe, stated that prayer had no power to alter the relationship between the beneficiary of the prayer and the real world. It did, however, strengthen the relationship between the worshipper and the Lord. Thus praying for the success of your child in his or her exams would confer a spiritual benefit upon you, but would not help your child. The Lord did not give preferential treatment to examinees lucky enough to have people requesting His intercession.

This theory, with its implicit admission that God is at best a concerned bystander, was depressing enough, but at least it made sense. The next theory — by a Roman Catholic bishop, a leader of my own church — was not merely disheartening, it was ludicrous. He said this: that a prayer for good exam results would be efficacious even if you were standing there with the results letter unopened in your hand. The reasoning: that since the Lord’s omniscience extended to a knowledge of the future, He would have known about your last-minute, too-late prayer in advance and would therefore have interceded before the prayer was made !

What really got me down was the glee with which the prelate expounded this exquisite absurdity. It was clear, from the note of exclamation and grinning triumph upon which his argument ended, that he felt it possessed an ingenuity and logic that made it truly irresistible. Even now I can see the bishop at his desk, licking the envelope addressed to the newspaper with a long, satisfied application of the tongue. That is that, he thinks. My good deed for the day.

When I think of Merv, the poor fucker! And these are the clowns we’re supposed to go to for guidance!

Suddenly everything swerves, and without warning I find myself recalling an afternoon many years ago when Pa and I sat before the television watching the live broadcast of Rockport United versus Clonville in the replay of the semifinals of the FA Cup. The red United shirts are swarming forward towards the Clonville goal as the team searches for an equalizer, and in the stands fluid crowds surge and eddy like sea water trapped in a creek, the fans pouring through the crush-barriers in red and white currents each time the team comes close to scoring and then sucking back up the terraces in the aftermath of the near-miss. One-nil down and ten minutes to go! My father and I are transfixed by that game and when the sound of descending feet comes from the staircase we do not look up — how can we, when at that exact moment Mickey Lazarus is swinging over a deep cross to the leaping figure of Dean? Then, just as the header skims the bar, there is the noise of the front door shutting quietly, a click of locks, and though Pa looks up momentarily to see who it is, his attention is drawn straight back to the television, to the action replay of that last attack. There is the move all over again, Lazarus jinking left and then jinking right and then striking that high, floating ball one more time.

‘He was pushed!’ I shout. ‘That should have been a penalty! Pa, Dean was fouled when he went for the ball!’

We hear the distant slam of a door, a car door, and Pa gets to his feet and goes to the window, all the time keeping an eye on the television, where for a last, agonizing time, Peter Dean and his marker are slowly rising together at the far post. An engine starts in the street, and just as Pa goes to open the curtains to look outside, another ooh rips out from the turned-up soundbox of the TV and he spins round just in time to catch Seamus Loasby, the legendary United centre forward, clean through with no one to beat but the keeper, scoop the ball over the bar and into the crowd, and just in time to miss waving goodbye to his wife as she drives off into town for the last time.

That moment, which came only months after Pa’s best-ever day, Christmas Day, 1979, was probably the worst in Pa’s life. It was at that moment that United blew their last chance of a big trophy; and it was at that moment, at twenty-five minutes to five on Wednesday, 16 April 1980, that Ma was lost for good. All of this on a day my father was wearing his lucky underpants.

It could happen to me. I could lose Angela just as my father lost my mother. Not literally; not lightning striking twice. But any day Angela could be gone, for good.

My God, she’s two and a half hours late.

Anything could have happened to her. Anything.

Right that’s it.

I snatch up my coat and grab the keys. Enough is enough. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. It’s time for action.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. There I am, standing in the middle of the room in my coat. What do I think I’m doing? Am I going to run around the streets looking for her, asking passers-by whether they’ve seen a woman with long dark hair and blue eyes? Am I going to shout her name down alleyways? Whistle? This is Angela we’re talking about, not Trusty.

I pocket the keys. I have to be calm, calm and methodical. I have to think. Where is she most likely to be?

I go to the telephone and punch some numbers.

No answer at her parents’ home.

Her office. I’ll ring up her office.

I dial the number, panting slightly.

No reply. Nobody at the switchboard.

I ring again, to make sure.

Still no reply.

Damn. Damn.

I know: I’ll telephone the flat. It’s a long shot, but maybe Rosie will be able to tell me something. Maybe she’ll have received a message. You never know.

Rosie picks up the telephone immediately, with a gasped ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ I say. She is silent — and I remember that Steve, too, is absent.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Rosie says. ‘He’s been gone for hours.’

I move the telephone to my mouth, but I say nothing. This is not the moment to ask about Angela.

‘I’m going to kill him when he gets back,’ Rosie swears. ‘I’m going to … I’m going to …’

She abandons the sentence, her vocabulary of vengeance failing her, but she’s said enough to make me nervous. With her track record — the smashed plates, the hurled dictionaries, the slapped faces, the upturned tables — Rosie’s threats of violence have a certain credibility. Look at what happened on Tuesday night. I was trying to watch television when I became aware that a fight was going on, which means that I became aware of Rosie shouting at Steve. I turned up the sound of the TV and tried to ignore it. This didn’t work, because whatever the fracas was about, it involved a lot of running in and out of the room and a lot of slamming of doors. As far as I could make out, the altercation was following the usual pattern: initial bust-up in the sitting-room; muffled reconciliations in the bedroom; twenty-minute silence; half-time break as Steve padded out to make two cups of tea; fresh losses of temper; raised voices; and another showdown in front of me in the sitting-room. The same old farce they went through, and put me through, night after night.

Eventually there arrived a lengthy lull and it seemed as if at last things had been patched up. Steve emerged from the bedroom to go to the lavatory and Rosie came into the room and asked for a cigarette. She stood there for a moment, smoking calmly, and did not react when the flushing sound came and went from the bathroom. Steve returned, still tucking his shirt into his trousers. He gave me an apologetic grin. Rosie swivelled and silently, with a full swing of the leg, brought the toe of her shoe hard against his shin. The crack of the bone sounded above the volume of the television. Crying out, Steve grabbed his injured leg and took three or four sidewards hops on the other leg, trying to keep his balance. He failed. He fell over, the back of his head catching the door-edge with another crack. Before I could react, Rosie was standing over him kicking him again and again while he lay curled on the ground moaning, grunting like a tennis player bashing a groundstroke each time she made contact with her foot.