Patrick McCabe - The Butcher Boy

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE 1992 BOOKER PRIZE
WINNER OF THE IRISH TIMES-AER LINGUS
LITERATURE PRIZE FOR FICTION
"BRILLIANT, UNIQUE. Patrick McCabe pushes your head through the book and you come out the other end gasping, admiring, and knowing that reading fiction will never be the same again. It's the best Irish novel I've read in years." – Roddy Doyle, Author, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
"STUNNING… PART HUCK FINN, PART HOLDEN CAULFIELD, PART HANNIBAL LECTER." – The New York Times Book Review
"AN ALMOST PERFECT NOVEL… A BECKETT MONOLOGUE WITH PLOT BY ALFRED HITCHCOCK… STARTLINGLY ORIGINAL." – The Washington Post Book World
"BRILLIANT… Francie is a shrewd and amusing observer… his voice is mordant, colloquial and brash as a punch in the nose." – Scott Turow
"A ROLLICKING NASTY NOVEL." – The Village Voice
"There are a number of fine novels about violent youth, and Patrick McCabe's frightening and sorrowful The Butcher Boy stands up to any of them… Francie portrays himself in every word he utters, and his language gives Patrick McCabe's The Butcher Boy its valuable dread power." – The Atlanta Journal Constitution
"A CHILLING TALE OF A CHILD'S HELL… OFTEN SCREAMINGLY FUNNY… THE BOOK HAS A COMPELLING AND TERRIBLE BEAUTY." – The Boston Globe
"A tour de force." – Kirkus Reviews
"IT'S AS BRIGHT AS IT IS DEPRESSING, AS FUNNY AS IT IS GRUESOME. We see Francie clearly as psychopath, and we ache with sympathy for him. It's almost impossible to pinpoint the moment in his growing up when the imagination of an ordinary boy shades over into something dangerously loony. The key is Francie's slangy, angry, '60s-flavored voice, which McCabe renders with a minimum of punctuation and a maximum of control." – Los Angeles Times Book Review
"AN UNRELENTING, UPBEAT STREAM OF PATTER. McCabe's acclaimed third novel… walks the path of dementia with remarkable assurance." – Entertainment Weekly
"McCABE'S FRANCIE SPEAKS IN A RICH VERNACULAR SPIRITED BY THE BRASSY AND ENDEARING RHYTHMS OF PERPETUAL DELINQUENCY; even in his gradual unhinging, Francie remains a winning raconteur. By looking so deeply into Francie's soul, McCabe subtly suggests a common source of political and personal violence – lack of love and hope." – Publishers Weekly
"PATRICK McCABE IS AN OUTSTANDING WRITER. The Butcher Boy is fearful, original, compelling and very hard to put out of your mind. American readers should pay close attention to this man." – Thomas McGuane
"A BRILLIANT BOOK SO VERY FUNNY AS WELL AS BEING HEARTRENDINGLY SAD." – J. P. Donleavy
"Written with wonderful assurance and a technical skill that is as great as it is unobtrusive… Perhaps the novel is best read as a twisted coming-of-age story; imagine Huck Finn crossed with Charlie Starkweather, and you have Francie Brady, the young narrator of The Butcher Boy." – The Washington Post Book World
"A POTENT AMALGAM OF COMEDY, HORROR AND PATHOS… The Butcher Boy is a prime slice of modern Gothic… McCabe presents a study in spiritual derangement that rivets." – The Sunday Times (London)
"DEADLY SERIOUS, TERRIFICALLY LOONY AND SCARY, AND ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS… Francie Brady's story is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett's Molloy, Moran, Malone, and the Unnameable even, with Anthony Burgess's Alex tossed in for good measure." – James McManus
"THE MOST ASTONISHING IRISH NOVEL FOR MANY YEARS, A MASTERPIECE." – Sunday Independent
"A POWERFUL AND DEEPLY SHOCKING NOVEL where the seemingly innocent logic of a child imperceptibly turns into the manic logic of an unhinged mind. Patrick McCabe portrays 1960s small-town life from a bizarre perspective where the aliens from Outer Space on the television are as real as the emotional poverty of one child filled with unconscious envy for another." – Dermont Bolger

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There was a stench of musty drawers and Jeyes Fluid mixed. The last thing I seen was Bubble standing by the window at the bottom of a long line of beds. He was flicking his fingers behind his back. Then he turned slowly and stared right at me. On his shoulders a huge alien's head like a wasp. The funny thing was – it still looked like Bubble. You would know it was him even though it was a wasp with these furred tentacles coming out of it. Oh fuck! I cried out. I didn't know whether to be afraid or not. He wasn't moving. He was just standing there looking. I looked around to see if anyone else was afraid. But there was only me and Bubble I mean Father Alien. Then I fell asleep again. When I woke up he was gone and there was only a shaft of the most brilliant sunlight slanting in the same window. I could see the sharp edges and the outline of everything clear as crystal. Then I heard music. It was a song I knew. Whee-hoo! I couldn't make it out right but I knew it was something to do with the snowdrop and the cries of the children playing in the lane. It kind of said: you might be wrong about all that Francie. Maybe all these things are beautiful and worth having. Listen to the music and you'll see what I mean. It surged, it was music with wings. Bird Who Soars Music and what it said was nothing bad would ever happen again. It filled me with such ecstasy I skimmed the chimney pots over the town crying out for da and ma to tell them. Its going to be all right after all I cried. I could see the snowdrop on the ditch with my bird's eye. The children were blobs of colour clumping about in enormous shoes below in the lane, setting the toy tea-things on a wooden crate. Tassels was hacking away at the ice on the frozen puddle. I spun sideways and the black hole that had been in the pit of my stomach was full of light. I landed on a branch and watched him for a minute. Then I says: Any sign of your pal Brendy? The man who's in charge of the puddle?

He got some land when I said that. What does he do only drop stick and all and tear off down the lane. Hi! Hi! boys, he shouts do youse know what I seen up in that tree? A talking bird!

For fuck's sake!

Another day him and Brendy were there and I says to them, What would you do if you won a hundred million trillion dollars?

Hmm says the other lad and puts his finger to his lips. They weren't bothered now about me being a talking bird because they were used to me. I wanted to cheer. I lit off the branch and away off again into the sky and what colour was it?

It was the colour of oranges.

The next time I woke up the alien or the wasp or whatever it was was back again only this time with Leddy's face. Well fuck this for a racket I said but it went on for a good while and there was nothing I could do about it.

One time I tried to get up out of the bed I was fed up with the way things were going but this big lad in a white coat and arms like tree trunks says ah ah not so fast and stuck me back in.

I was lying there for hundreds of weeks. Or maybe months. In the end the doctor came over to me and says: You can get up and move about now for a while now if you like. I went down to the window to see about this wasp-alien but there was no sign of him or it or whatever the fuck you'd call it. This old lad in a dressing gown comes over to me and closes one eye; You needn't think you'll pull the wool over my eyes you Cavan cunt he says. Before I had a chance to say I'm not from Cavan or sweet fuck all to him whiz he's away off down the other end of the ward pointing at me and whispering behind his hand to this fellow with hair sticking up like burnt twigs. He was nodding away to beat the band. Oh yes. Yes indeed. That's very true he was saying or something like that.

Some days I went off with the doctors to this room with two pictures in it John F. Kennedy and Our Lady. Well well we meet again I says and gave her the wink. You're a long way now from the low field in the old school for pigs I says and she started laughing. They were all interested to hear about his. And who else did you see? Oh the whole shooting match I says. St Teresa of the Roses the lot. There was this specky lad looked like Walter the swot out of Dennis the Menace in the Beano he was mad to get information to write down. Scribble scribble away with his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth. They couldn't get enough of all these saints. Have you got a fag says I and I told them more. Me and Our Lady we go back a long way I said. Its not every shitehawk she'll appear to you know. Yes yes indeed scribble scribble. Then they asked me about dreams. Did you have any dreams they said. O I did I says, I did indeed. More fags. And what did you dream about. Wasps says I, with Bubble's face. Or Bubble with wasps' faces. Then they started on about Bubble so I had to give them a whole lot about him. The worse it was the better they liked it so I put in a whole lot about Bubble stinging me and biting my head off Father Alien says you must die earthling dog! And then he laughed and all this. It was a good laugh. I know what I'd give Bubble if he tried that. Fuck off Bubble you waspy bastard! I'd say. Just let him try it.

Snip!

Let's see you conquer the world now Father! That was a good one. I thought Walter was going to go off the edge of the table he was writing so fast. They asked me about Tiddly but I always brought them back to the funny bits about Bubble and the gardener. I started on him. I told them he had dead bodies in the boilerhouse but I don't know if they investigated him. Maybe they sent Fabian of the Yard around. I thought that was good too so I told them more about it, young people from the town were mysteriously disappearing in the town and that it was him he was cutting them up with his graip and stacking them behind the boiler. But I must have made a hames of that for they didn't want to hear any more about him all they wanted to do now was talk about Tiddly. O yes Father Sullivan is a very nice man, I says, its just a pity the Balubas put him in the pot. You liked the industrial school did you they said. Indeed I did, especially on Thursdays because we got two sausages each for dinner. You used to say Mass for Father Sullivan isn't that right it is indeed. You liked him? I certainly did. A very holy man, I said, he prays to St Teresa of the Roses. Very good then they'd say well that will do for today. Other days they took me off to other garages and stuck me in a big chair with this helmet on my head and wires coming out all over the place. I liked that. That was the best of the lot sitting in that chair. And all these starchy bastards of students with clipboards gawking at you I hope he doesn't leap up out of the chair and chop us up!

But I paid no heed to them I was too busy being Adam Eterno The Time Lord in that big chair. They could scribble all they liked I was away off through hyperspace. Hello there Egyptians I'd say pyramids and all. Adam can't come today so its me instead – Francie from the Terrace. Good man Francie they'd say with these wee hats and snakes on them. Or Romans. Leave that Christian alone, lion, I'd say. Oh thanks thanks Francie says the Christian. No problem, pal then off I'd go to see how the cowboys were getting on.

Where do they be taking you says the old fellow with the eyebrow up. You needn't think you're not seen. Then he looks down to the other end of the ward and the other fellows there nodding away. I told him to travel through the wastes of space and time like in Dan Dare thats where they're taking me and he looks at me. What? he says so I told him again and that didn't please him at all. He got a grip of me by the jumper and he says: I knew it. I knew you were a Cavan cunt from the minute I set eyes on you. You needn't think you'll come in here to make a cod out of me. Go on you cur! he shouts, I took better men then you!

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