Rob Doyle - Here Are the Young Men

Half an hour later I cycled away from the house, towards the Phoenix Park. I stopped off on the way to buy another bottle of vodka. When I got to the park I cycled to an empty, flat stretch that was raised slightly, almost a hill. It was near where the Wellington Monument rose towards the clouds. For more than an hour I sat in the grass and drank vodka and smoked many cigarettes. I was miserable, but now and then I had these surges of euphoria, and it seemed that none of it really mattered. There was no heaven, no hell, so why worry about anything at all? Even death was just a natural process, a twig going over a waterfall. Also it was a state of rest, which seemed like bliss. If it did come to that, to killing myself, I would have to do it quickly, not think of my ma and da or Fiona, just get it done before guilt or thinking made me weak.

It was nearly three o’clock. I took out my phone and dialled Jen’s number — I had deleted her, but the number was still in my head. I pressed the call button before I had a chance to stop myself.

It rang twice and then she picked up. There was a silence. ‘Matthew,’ she said eventually.

‘Jen,’ I said. I blinked hard. I dug the fingernails of one hand into the skin on my face, just under the eye. Neither of us said anything. I tried to speak but my voice had vanished.

‘Matthew …’ she said after a few moments. ‘Matthew, are you … crying?’ She paused again. ‘Look, I really wanted to —’

‘Jen!’ I blurted out. ‘Jen. There’s stuff goin on, Jen. Something’s really wrong, I …’

I gasped into the phone. Jen was quiet for a moment, waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, she said, ‘Matthew, are you okay? You’re really freakin me out here. Tell me what’s wrong. You sound —’

‘I HATE YE!’ I roared. ‘I totally fuckin hate ye, Jen, I wish we’d never met, I wish I’d never even spoke to ye in me life, I …’

I couldn’t say more because now I was sobbing into the phone. I heard her whispering my name. Then she was talking quickly: ‘I’m sorry, Matthew, I’m sorry, I only wanted to make you jealous, it was only meant to be a bit of flirtin. Oh Jesus. I was just so hurt at how you’d disappeared after we slept together. I don’t know how I could have done that, I —’

‘JUST FUCK OFF JEN! I CAN’T FUCKIN STAND YE!’

I pressed the red button and she was gone. I waited for her to call back, ready to hang up again. But the phone didn’t ring. I turned it off.

There was nobody around this part of the park, only a few families having picnics over by the monument. The children shrieked and laughed as they chased each other up the stone steps around the base. We used to come here when Fiona was little. I used to like it. The clouds had blown over and now the sun shone down on where I sat, alone in the Phoenix Park. I unscrewed the bottle and drank.

He stayed in his attic bedroom, smoking hash, afraid of the outside world. He had found a Stanley knife in his da’s old toolkit and he kept it with him at all times, determined to slash his arteries at the first sign that they were on to him. On Monday evening he had watched with the rest of the nation as Baby James’s mother wailed into a camera on the RTÉ news. His appetite had disappeared. He couldn’t think straight. He lay awake each night that week until dawn or after, waiting for the doorbell to ring, or the door to be simply knocked down. When he did sleep, he sank into a feverish realm of capture, torment, retribution. His ma seemed to notice that something was wrong, but she said nothing. Whenever she looked at him oddly, he scowled back at her, silently warning her not to try anything, to shut up and leave him alone.

‘Are you on drugs?’ she asked on Thursday evening nonetheless, almost a week after it had happened. She had stepped into the living room after the late-evening news to find Kearney muttering to himself in the armchair.

‘Yeah, I am,’ he grunted, and reverted to staring at the television, seeing nothing.

She didn’t say anything else. Her heart wasn’t in it.

By the end of the week the news and the papers still wouldn’t leave it alone. Kearney needed to get out of the house. He’d smoked the last of his hash that afternoon and needed more. Perhaps the drought was over and the lads on the estate had something to sell. He didn’t want to get stoned on his own, though. He took out his mobile and dialled.

‘Alright man,’ he said when it was answered.

‘Alright,’ came Matthew’s mumbled response.

‘Listen, do ye fancy a smoke? I’m goin out now to try and pick some up, ye should stall it out for a few joints with me.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’m goin to stay in tonight.’ Matthew didn’t sound sober. ‘Listen, I think I’m just goin to hang around here. These days, like. I don’t, I mean, I’m just sayin —’

‘What are ye just sayin?’

‘Nothin. I’m just sayin —’

‘Wha?’

‘For fuck’s sake, let me finish. I’m just sayin that you probably shouldn’t ring me any more.’

‘Don’t give me that fuckin shit,’ said Kearney. ‘Jesus, man, relax. I’m only callin ye to ask ye to meet up for a smoke, like. Just a friendly smoke. Don’t be gettin all weird on me. We’re good mates after all, aren’t we?’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘So what the fuck is yer problem?’

‘Ye know what the problem is, Kearney.’

‘Oh do I now? Listen Matthew, I’m just bein fuckin friendly and tellin ye I want to meet up with ye for a smoke. We’re old mates . I’m bein friendly. Don’t start pissin me off, or I won’t be so fuckin friendly.’

‘I’ve been watchin the news, I —’

‘So what? What do I give a fuck about the news? Jesus Christ, do ye think I give a bollocks about Bertie Ahern or the fuckin war in Kazakhstan?’

‘No, but —’

‘Well then cop the fuck on. Listen, I’m goin around to the estate for a smoke after I pick some up. I’ll be there in half an hour. Stall it around. I’ll see ye then.’

Beep, beep, beep.

No lights were on in the industrial estate except for one coldly glaring floodlight. It was already dark, and just gone half eight. There was a chill in the air, as if winter was right around the corner. Kearney swigged on the naggin of gin he’d bought on the way over, feeling the trickle of heat in his belly, the relief it gave him.

He sat on a wooden pallet, rubbing his knees. He pulled up his hood. He’d shoved his black jacket and hat into the bottom of his wardrobe after the first news report. Maybe he should burn them, he thought. He lit a cigarette and waited. Soon a hesitant, frail silhouette appeared at the side of the warehouse further on down.

‘How’s a goin, Matthew,’ Kearney called into the gloom.

‘Alright,’ Matthew muttered back, hands thrust into his pockets as he shuffled through the murk.

‘Here, get some of that into ye,’ Kearney said, pushing the naggin of gin at him when they were standing together. Matthew took it, unscrewed the top and tilted it back. ‘So what’s new, man? I haven’t seen ye in a while,’ Kearney said. ‘Not since that day ye came into town with me, am I right?’

Matthew shrugged and looked away.

‘What, do ye not remember?’ said Kearney. Then he raised his voice, almost shouting: ‘The day we went into town and murdered that junkie bastard, remember? The heroin addict. We put the fuckin poison in the heroin and killed the filthy useless cunt. The dead fuckin junkie cunt. Don’t ye remember?’

‘Jesus, be quiet will ye!’ hissed Matthew. He looked close to tears. ‘There could be someone around.’

‘Okay Matthew, relax.’ Kearney laughed, swiping the gin and taking a generous slug. He felt like the crime boss in some Scorsese film. Matthew was shifting, wincing, miserable. Kearney began taking control of the situation, reining it in.