Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

Anyway, there we all were and Droyd called to me from the doorway that he was going out to play football if that was all right, and I replied that I didn’t see why not, not listening all that intently because one really had to concentrate if one wanted to hear the TV what with the reception, and that would have been that, had Frank not at that moment happened to come out and ask what was going on.

‘Jus’ goin out for a quick game of football,’ Droyd said, as a peal of thunder broke over the roof.

At first I thought Frank hadn’t heard him; he was giving the cadaverous youngsters a long, hard look. But then he said, ‘Y’ are not.’

Droyd muttered something to his pals, who sloped off down the hall, then turned back to Frank. ‘Wha?’ he said.

‘I don’t want you hangin round with them lads,’ Frank said.

‘Wha?’ Droyd said. ‘Why not?’

‘Cos they’re scumbags,’ Frank informed him.

‘That’s bollocks,’ Droyd said. ‘They’re me mates.’

‘I don’t care,’ Frank said. ‘They’re scumbags.’

‘Ah for fuck’s sake!’ Droyd was not happy with this verdict. ‘D’you expect me to just sit around all day on me fuckin Tobler? Am I not even allowed have mates now?’

‘Oh, let him go, Frank,’ I chipped in from the armchair. ‘It’s a sin to keep a growing lad cooped up in here all the time.’

‘He doesn’t mind bein cooped up when it suits him,’ Frank jibed. ‘He doesn’t mind sittin around on his hole eatin me food when he’s supposed to be out lookin for a job.’

Droyd assumed an attitude of wounded outrage. ‘I tried lookin for a job,’ he said. ‘I told you, it’s impossible to find one now, cos of all the foreigners. There’s no room for the Irish any more. Like I got on the bus the other day, an’ I couldn’t even sit down cos of all the refugees takin up the seats. What’s that about, when the Irish can’t get a seat on their own bus? That’s what we should be worryin about, ’f you ask me. ’F you ask me, they should send the lot of them back where they came from. Like maybe not the Chinkies from the takeaway, or them lads from down the kebab shop, but the rest —’

‘You can’t blame the foreigners for you sittin round doin nothin all day,’ Frank interrupted this polemic.

‘I don’t do nothin!’ Droyd protested. ‘I go out every day for me methadone, don’t I?’

‘Goin for your methadone’s not a proper job,’ Frank said.

‘Fuck’s sake! ’ Droyd exclaimed wildly. ‘ He doesn’t have a job either, why don’t you fuckin nag him for a change?’

‘That’s a completely different set of circumstances,’ I said. ‘That’s a matter of principle.’

‘Do you want to end up like Charlie?’ Frank demanded, not appearing to have heard this. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘Just fuckin leave off, would you?’ Droyd clutched his head manically. ‘You sound like me oul lad, fuckin naggin me and naggin me and all he ever done himself was go down the boozer and get locked —’

‘I’m not naggin you, I just don’t want you hangin round with them gearbags —’

‘You can’t tell me what to do!’ Droyd cut him off. ‘You’re not even me mate any more. You used to be a laugh, but now you’re just tryin to be posh, bein with that bird, an’ — an’ him ,’ levelling a finger at me. ‘I mean it’s not his fault he’s like that. He was born that way. But you’re fuckin tryin to be like that, and all you’re doin is makin a laugh of yourself! Well I’m fuckin sick of it! It’s fuckin depressin in this place! I had more fun in the fuckin nick! So stick it up your bollocks, Frank!’

He didn’t come home that night, or the night after.

‘He’ll be back when he’s hungry,’ I said. ‘There’s no point getting in a state.’

‘But maybe something’s happened to him,’ Frank said anxiously, pressing his nose to the streaming glass.

‘What could possibly happen to him? He can take care of himself. He’s not a child, after all, I mean he’s been in prison , hasn’t he?’

Frank was not convinced: but to be truthful, I paid little heed to Droyd’s disappearance. I was busy with worries of my own, with fretting and remembering and framing unworkable plans; and now I woke up to find only one day remaining before the dinner party and Bel’s departure.

The rain was still beating down: it looked like a perfect day for sitting around in one’s armchair feeling blue. I had an appointment at the hospital to have my dressing changed, however, so I caught a bus into the city and sat glumly on the examining table as the doctor unwrapped me and prodded me with blunt instruments and asked me if it hurt. It didn’t: I was too lost in my own thoughts — of grey Russian skies and the wild endless steppes and how they compared to my dismal little oubliette in Bonetown. So when he said the wound had healed, it took a moment to register.

‘What?’ I said, snapping awake. ‘Healed?’

‘Won’t do any more good covering it up,’ he said. ‘Time to let the air at it. Hold on, let’s give you a look at yourself.’ He went to his drawer and fetched a hand-mirror and held it up in front of me: and there looking back at me was Charles Hythloday ‘Anything wrong?’

‘No, no, I just —’ I cleared my throat. ‘I seem to have aged rather.’

The doctor laughed, and told me that that would clear up in a couple of weeks, and he wrote out a prescription for various unguents and poultices. ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he said as I left, nodding at the window.

It should have been something special, to feel the rain on my face again after three months of clammy bandages; it should have been an occasion, to be me again after all this time as a Nobody. But all I could think of was tomorrow, and Bel. As I came back down Thomas Street I was rehearsing the impassioned speeches I might make to her at the dinner; and some of them I found so moving that I didn’t notice at first that what I vaguely remembered as a short-cut down behind Christchurch had instead led me into a maze of dilapidated flats. By the time I realized, and stopped to take my bearings, I was already hopelessly lost.

I retraced my steps, but every time ended back in the same place. Everything looked alike in this rain, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around to ask directions. Then as I took in my surroundings properly I began to hope there was no one around; and I remembered the story Pongo McGurks told about getting lost in this locale and being set upon by street Arabs, and how they’d put a penknife to his throat and told him they were going to sell his internal organs to Dubai; and only that on the spur of the moment he’d thought to tell them that he was a Christian Scientist and for religious reasons wouldn’t be allowed to have the organs replaced, and persuaded them to make do with his Cartier watch and a couple of credit cards belonging to McGurks père , heaven knows what might have happened. Getting panicky, I picked a street at random, conjecturing that I might have more success this way than by deliberately trying to find my way out. But it quickly emerged that I wouldn’t, and I had just stopped again to tell myself that the situation was more serious than I had first thought when a bony hand shot out of the shadows and tugged me down an alleyway. Before I knew where I was I had been bundled to the ground, and a skinny figure in a hood bounced down on to my chest. ‘Gis your fuckin money,’ he hissed.

‘Don’t hurt me!’ I cried. ‘I’m Amish — no, wait, I’m — blast, what was it?’

‘The money ,’ he snarled.