Rob Doyle - Here Are the Young Men

Then the medics came and waved me away. They moved slowly because they knew they had no work to do. The police were there too, and everyone at the rave was rounded up, taken in to be searched and questioned. Camera flashes lit up the beach like sheet lightning, reporters already on the scene.

At the police station, through the commotion I caught a glimpse of Rez, who met my gaze and looked serene as we were led past each other in a crowded anteroom. Cocker was in a corridor with his face in his hands, shaking his head and understanding nothing — or maybe he knew it all. Maybe he always knew more than we thought he did.

I didn’t see Elena again. I was one of the last to leave the police station, along with Rez and Cocker, after it was established that we were Kearney’s friends.

We told the gardaí almost everything of relevance: we were frank in admitting what drugs Kearney had taken, how much he’d drunk, informing them that he hadn’t suffered from any heart defects that we knew about. We were helpful in almost every regard. The only important thing we neglected to mention was that we had killed him.

‘We’ll be contacting you soon, boys,’ the kind-of-pretty policewoman said to the three of us in a compassionate voice. It was near dawn and Rez’s parents were in the waiting room, ready to drive us all home. Kearney’s ma was in another room, screaming till she tore her vocal cords and repeating, ‘He’s NOT! He’s NOT FUCK IN DEAD!’ to the solemn coppers.

But he was dead. Kearney was as dead as the fucking dodo.

An illegal rave on the beach at Greystones ended in tragedy late on Saturday night when Joseph Kearney, an eighteen-year-old from South Dublin, died as the result of an ecstasy overdose. He had also sustained severe burns after falling on to a bonfire in the commotion immediately preceding his death. Police and paramedics were called to the scene but the victim was already dead when the first ambulance arrived. The state pathologist told the press after the autopsy that ‘a substantial quantity’ of the illegal drug had been consumed, adding that Mr Kearney’s heart had become overworked before rupturing in his chest, causing a heart attack .

Mr Kearney had attended the rave in the company of three friends: Gary Cocker (17), Matthew Connelly (17) and Richard Tooley (18). The teenagers were said by gardaí and eye-witnesses to be ‘devastated’, ‘incredulous’ and ‘numbed’ by the death of their friend and former classmate .

The lord mayor of Dublin has today expressed his ‘deepest condolences’ for the victim’s family, and called for tougher measures to be adopted in ‘our continuing efforts to weed out this scourge that is, as we have once again so painfully seen, a serious and fatal threat to the brightest hope that our nation has, its young’ .

I kept that clipping, along with a few others from the tabloids and broadsheets. I put them in the small wooden box, alongside the pictures of Becky. The irony in some of the headlines, articles and editorials was of a kind that Kearney would have appreciated — if only his heart hadn’t exploded in his chest.

RAVED TO HIS GRAVE

TRAGIC DEATH OF ‘ANGEL’ JOSEPH AT TWISTED DRUG ORGY

That cracker was in The Sun .

The Independent had this to say, heading an opinion piece a few days after the event:

HOW MANY MORE LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER?

Pusher Fat Cats Profit While Our Young Perish — And Politicians Do Nothing

Et cetera, et cetera.

I stayed away from Rez for a long while afterwards. The only time I saw him during the period directly following the death was at the funeral, the day before the Leaving Cert results came in. He looked solemn and respectful, handsome in his black funeral clothes, his hair slick and immaculate with gel. His skin had a healthy glow to it — he looked like he’d awoken after a long rest. Everyone there knew what he’d tried to do to himself before Kearney died, and treated him with appropriate awkwardness.

I met him outside, at the bottom of the church steps. It was a crisp, sunny morning. Our parents and others were close so there was no way we could have talked openly, had we wanted to. But beyond the bland, excruciating words we exchanged for the sake of appearances, there was a sole, secret message that passed between us.

I had said, for the benefit of any nearby listeners, ‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s not here any more.’

‘I know,’ said Rez, nodding solemnly.

Our eyes met, and then it happened: a smile broke out over his face, triumphant and gleeful, like he couldn’t contain his delight. Had anyone looked at him for that moment, while he was smiling, they might have guessed the rest.

Then the smile vanished and the conventional mask of anguish and concern fell back into place. We shook hands, ridiculously. Then we walked away.