Rob Doyle - Here Are the Young Men

‘Listen, don’t worry about what we did, okay? Nobody’s ever goin to find out. It was a weird thing to do, fair enough. But I don’t regret it at all. I can see yer worried we’re goin to get caught, but relax man, nobody’s goin to know. Anyway, listen to me. I’m fairly sure yer man is grand. I seriously doubt that he actually died. In fact I was in town the other day and I’m nearly positive I saw him, the same fella. It was definitely him. He looked grand, there was nothin even wrong with him. So calm down, okay?’

Matthew looked him in the eye for as long as he could — not very long. Then, eyes to the ground, he said, ‘Kearney, you’ve lost it.’

Kearney waited. Eventually he replied, softly, ‘What do ye mean I’ve lost it? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I watched the news, I —’

‘So? What did ye see on the news?’

Matthew looked sat him once more. He said, ‘Kearney, was it you who killed that handicapped boy?’

A silence hovered between them. Then Kearney burst out laughing: ‘Are ye kiddin? Ye mean that capper who fell down the stairs in the Garden of Remembrance? James fuckin what’s-his-name? Are ye fuckin mad? Why would ye even think that?’

Matthew tried to adopt a look of grim resolution. ‘It was you, Kearney. Just fuckin admit it. Ye started out with an alco, then —’

Kearney grabbed him by the throat. ‘Listen Matthew, I’m tellin ye now to shut yer fuckin mouth. I don’t know what yer on about. But if ye want to keep talkin about it, fair enough. But then ye better be ready to talk about that other day as well, when we went into town and KILLED A JUNKIE! WE KILLED A FUCKIN JUNKIE!’

Kearney’s roar reverberated around the desolate industrial estate, through the warehouse alleys, across the yards, over fences. Matthew wondered if anyone had heard it, a night security man or something.

‘Be quiet, Kearney! Please!’

Matthew was sobbing. He muttered pitiful regrets, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Kearney let go of him and stepped away. He turned his back on Matthew and breathed slowly a few times, calming himself down. He could hear Matthew weeping behind him.

Still facing the other way Kearney said, ‘Listen Matthew, I know ye don’t feel good about what’s been goin on. Fair enough, it is a bit weird, I can see what ye mean. But just let it pass. That’s the end of it. Seriously. I promise ye it is. I just wanted to try something like that and see how it felt, but it’s over and done with, time to move on. I admit I got a bit carried away. I’m goin to start lookin for a job, just in a supermarket or whatever’s goin. And I’m thinkin of goin on to study, something related to games, designin them or something. I don’t know, I haven’t looked into it yet. Not this year cos it’s probably too late, but maybe next year.’

He turned to face Matthew: he had stopped sobbing. Kearney thought it was over. But then Matthew muttered, ‘Kearney, just tell me — ye did it, didn’t ye?’

Kearney looked him in the eye. He shook his head and said gently, ‘Listen Matthew, it wasn’t me. I swear to God. I swear on me ma’s life. If I’m lyin to ye, then I hope me own ma gets cancer. Okay? Jesus, Matthew, why would ye even believe that?’

Matthew said nothing, sniffling, not really believing, but wanting it enough to lie to himself; so Kearney hoped.

‘So how’s Rez?’ Kearney said after some moments of silence. ‘I haven’t heard much about him.’

Matthew sniffled. ‘He’s alright. He still seems a bit zoned out, they still have him on medication. But ye can have a chat with him, like. He’s not too far gone for that.’

‘Good. He’s a decent skin, Rez. I’m sure he’ll pull through.’

Matthew looked away. Kearney burst into nervous giggles.

They didn’t talk much after that. They smoked in silence, warming the evening cold, the smoke billowing out in wisps and spirals to dissolve in the night.

A second weekend passed. Kearney stayed in his room, smoking, playing games and watching hentai clips, keeping an eye on the news. The Stanley knife was never out of reach.

By Sunday night, very tentatively, the worst of his terror had begun to subside. The incident had happened ten days ago now, and no one had come to drag him from his attic bedroom into the jaws of public vengeance. The media frenzy had raged, peaked, and was finally beginning to abate, the interest in Baby James’s murder going cold along with the gardaí’s leads. Kearney realized he just might come through this, eventually to reinsert himself, unnoticed, into the human world, into official reality.

The medication had some peculiar side effects. For one thing, it fucked with Rez’s memory.

In the agreeable mist of his serotonin-enhanced sedation, it became difficult to distinguish between, say, memories of real events and memories of imagined ones. Or between dreams and reality. Or between something he had seen on TV and something he had experienced first-hand — but then, that had been the case for Rez even before he tried to hang himself.

Ten days after the James Appleton killing he was talking to his brother, who had come in from work. Michael spoke awkwardly, humourlessly, with a trace of unwitting condescension — the way you spoke to someone who had recently tried to kill himself. Normally, this pissed Rez off, but today he was feeling expansive, the result of a chemical high tide in his drug-flooded brain. He was telling Michael about the new Radiohead album, which he had partly listened to online. It was called Jupiter Fell and We Saw it Happen . Both brothers were committed Radiohead fans. Michael was surprised and excited to hear that a new album was imminent, and so soon after Hail to the Thief . Rez assured him that it was the finest thing the band had done since OK Computer . Pleased by this show of enthusiasm on the part of his brother, Michael left Rez in front of the telly and went off to do his own thing.

Later that evening, after dinner, Michael sat back down in the sitting room, where Rez was watching telly. Iraqi politics were being discussed, as well as the chemical, biological and nuclear weapons that no one could find. Rez had protested before the invasion, like everybody else. But daily now he observed, with sickened fascination, how entertained he was, how satisfied it made him to think the war could last for years and years, generating untold carnage and slaughter.

Michael cleared his throat and said, ‘Where did ye say ye heard those new Radiohead tracks, Rez?’

‘Online. I can’t remember the site. Google it. They’re really good. There’s actually a song on it about these daisy-cutter bombs they’re usin over there.’

‘I did Google it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. What did you say the album was called again?’

‘ Jupiter Fell and We Saw it Happen .’

‘Are ye sure? That’s what I typed. There was nothing about it at all.’

‘Yeah I am,’ said Rez. But not even the second of these three syllables had elapsed before Rez realized that no, he was not sure.

That was only one instance of the side effects the drugs were having on Rez’s memory. Far more significant was something Rez hadn’t unwittingly invented, but, rather, had completely forgotten about.

He had completely forgotten his realization that Kearney was the one who had pushed ‘Baby’ James Appleton down the steps in the Garden of Remembrance.

The days passed. Summer was ending and soon autumn would be here. You noticed it in the little things, thought Rez foggily. For instance, the fact that it wasn’t as warm any more and the days were getting shorter, and the calendar said nearly September.