Kevin Barry - Beatlebone

Kenneth? one says. Don’t think so.

——

He sits in the corner of the pub and holds himself tightly. Time is not fixed down at all. He might be anywhere in life. He might be down the art school. He might be down the boozer — Ye Cracke. Or in Hamburg where the brassers grin from the windows and wear army boots and black knickers and fire at him from toy machine guns as he goes past, turning the hoarse creaking rattles on the machine guns, rat-a-tat-tat. He smokes what is passed to him. The night stretches out its voices and yelps.

Keep it f-fucking down! he cries.

Kenneth, Cornelius says, would often take a sour turn late on in the evening. But there is no violent harm in him whatsoever.

A North-of-England voice is close by again; there is something darker here.

If you need a quiet place, John? Well there is a place called the Amethyst Hotel.

——

He walks through the trees for a while. He listens hard. There have been hangings from these trees. He can tell. He can hear the creaking rope and slowly now it swings. He listens to the voices that move through the trees. He can hear them clearly. There is a world unseen just beyond us here but he is not frightened at all. The voice of a girl moves through the trees by the Highwood and it is a long time ago but he can hear her still and her sex is a tiny, distant star—

my cold-lighted love.

——

The first of the morning comes across the trees. The lake hardens with new light. He wakes to a head throb — it hurts even to think. He cannot place himself, quite. It hurts especially to fucking think. He lies on his belly on the smooth stones by the edge of the lake. He feels great age down the reptile length of himself. He lies still and cold and listens to the water of the lake as it moves. He retches again. He has a pinhole in the centre of his forehead and all of the world’s pain screams through. He is sweating fucking bullets. A flicker comes from the night at last. He turns painfully onto his back and sits — he sees the empty boarded pub, a grave jury of trees, the morning patrol of skinhead crows. Accusation in the yellow of their pin-bright eyes; he retches. Accusation in the black gloss of their coats; he retches. The night in flitters and rags comes back to him; he groans. Arrows of light are flung through the pines. He hears nearby a deep bovine suffering. He turns to find the van with its side door halfways open and a pair of boots stuck out at odd angles. He goes on his fours across the stones. He retches as he crawls and by slow evolution of the species at length brings himself to an upright stance and walks. He sets one monkey foot in front of the other until the van is reached. He pokes his head in back to find Cornelius red-eyed, purple-faced and lowing.

Cornelius raises the heavy solid head a martyr’s inch and he looks with the most sorrowful eyes in the universe at his charge.

Fucken disaster, John, he says.

——

But of course another way of looking at it, says Cornelius O’Grady, is that things could not have turned out one jot better.

The O’Grady parlour room: Cornelius considers with happy eyes a mess of duck eggs.

The word’ll spread quicker now that you’re around the place again. That’ll bring the whole game to a head, John. It might be the best thing could have happened us.

He reaches a hank of brown bread to the yolk of an egg. He chews, takes a swig of tea, chuckles.

Because what the fuckers don’t know yet is that Cornelius O’Grady is running this game.

A sly grin; a wink.

Topping, he says.

John sits wretchedly by the fireplace; he shivers.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

Did I really sing?

Cornelius widens his eyes to show fondness and awe; he whispers—

You were like a bird.

——

What fucking day is it?

The Friday.

I’m not even three days gone?

And doesn’t it have the lovely hopeful air of a Friday?

Cornelius?

Things are looking good for the island, John.

He goes outside to the yard. He throws up again. It’s the most extravagant gesture he’s capable of. The day has come up wretchedly to a hot sun. The sun feels like jealousy on his skin. Cornelius comes and throws a pail of water to wash the sick away. Now there is a decorous or priestly air.

High up, on a clear day, and all of Clew Bay is presented. The knuckle of the holy mountain is far side. All of the islands are down there and waiting.

Cornelius sets beside him a mug of strong tea.

I’ve no willpower either, John. But I’m not going to give out to myself over it. God or whatever you want to call him puts these kinds of nights in our paths to test us sometimes. We failed the fucken test. But do you know the best of it? We’ll be forgiven yet.

He is in busy whistling form as he marches about his business.

Cornelius? The last thing I’m in a condition to do right now is go sit on a fucking boat.

Drink the tea, John. You won’t know yourself from Gandhi.

——

Though of course why you might want to go out to a mean little rock of an island is no one’s business but your own. I’m only here to oblige you. We have always been an obliging breed of people, the O’Gradys.

Cornelius emerges from the house with a small, brown leather suitcase.

Supplies, he says. And if you don’t mind me asking, John, what did you pay for the island? No mind. Your own business and no one else’s. John is away to have a good long chat with himself outside on a wet fucken rock.

He shakes his head in wry humour and passes a bottle of Powers whiskey; it tastes like health.

The best of luck to you with it all. You’re going to come away from Durnish in three days’ time and do you know what?

A loving gaze—

You won’t know yourself.

——

The van drones and judders and turns now to show the glints of a grey sea. The sea is lazier than before. The knuckle of the mountain juts across the bay—

The holy mountain, he says.

Indeed, Cornelius says, and isn’t generation upon end of decent Irish people after trotting up the cunt in their bare feet with their tongues hanging out of their heads and wind taking skin off them and rain coming hard and mud and shite and heart attacks and strokes being took by the new time and would you hear a single word of complaint from those dear pilgrims, John?

Eyes raised in soft questioning—

You would not, he says.

——

The van stops on the coast road.

Ho-ho, Cornelius says.

Cornelius? Please. Let’s just get to the fucking island.

Patience a small while.

Cornelius kills the engine. He climbs from the van. The wind comes harder now from the sea. He gestures for John to follow; he does. They walk the scalp of a hill together, descending.

You’re not to be afraid, John.

They approach a great fall-away to the sea; far below, it flashes its green teeth, the ever-welcoming sea.

Right, Cornelius says.

He steps up to the edge; the fall is sheer — it’s a great distance to fall and to a certain ending there.

Come on, John.

He steps with Cornelius to the edge of the sheer fall; the wind pulses hard against them.

Lean into it, Cornelius says. Like so.

He does and he is held there.

Fucking hell…

Be fierce, John.

The wind comes hard and Cornelius leans in closer again to its great force; he is held there.

Cornelius?

Now, John.

John tips his toes up close to the edge and closer again to the sheer fall and closer.

Cornelius?

Go on.

He leans over the edge and the wind holds him perfectly there.

Do you see, John?

Maybe.

Do you see the trick of it, John?

I think so.

No fear.