Kevin Barry - Beatlebone

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief

on his own tiny Atlantis

as kids we sang, on the street we sang

on his nineteen rabbity acres — or what about a fucking trout farm in Wales — do a Roger Daltrey on it — and let there be no…

You’re on the move, John?

This is Joe Director.

You what?

You’ve left the room, John. You might pretend to be here but you’re not. It can’t contain John, the Amethyst.

Frank and Sue are quiet, smiling, watchful.

Come on up the circle, John.

Fuck off.

What about we do the rants, John?

You’re a bunch of fucking throwbacks.

Come on, John.

It’s 1978!

We could go up the room, John.

I’m done with all that stuff. I’m done with all that open up and bleed.

We could go to the room right now.

Come on, John, says Sue, and she’s up, an elf, and she has his hand in hers, and her touch is so light.

Come on, John, says Frank, a young wolf, and he’s up, and moving.

The time is now, John, says Joe Director. Let’s go inside.

Pale night.

An upstairs room at the Amethyst Hotel.

Once a room for dancing, its ghosts, unseen, move in silence across the old boards still.

Sea-rasp outside hoarse as love by night whispered.

The room is bare but there are symbols of the occult daubed on the walls.

On the floor in a corner of the room a tapered candle burns on a saucer of Dutch patterned delft — the flame sputters and twists in the breeze that comes through the room and the red wax melts in beads that fall to pool and harden on the faded blue of the delft.

The symbols on the walls are in a red daubing as of blood.

The light of the candle is feeble and yellowish — the pale blue of night dominates against it.

High windows are left open to the night.

Moths in flight are shown though feebly in the throw of candlelight.

Joe, Frank, Sue and John squat upon the boards to make a Ranters’ circle there.

They are an hour in, and they are already past the worst of it—

JOHN I said shut your fucking hatch you little elf-faced fucking witch!

SUE Oh why don’t you shut your fucking beak you lying rat-faced bastard!

FRANK Go harder, Sue.

SUE What you are, John? You really want to know what you are?

JOHN Oh fuck off! I mean what gives you the right? Fuck off!

SUE What you are…

JOHN On the fucking broom you rode in on!

SUE …is a fucking suck machine. You’re just a rich guilty bastard away on a skite. You come out here…

JOHN You can do better than this, Sue.

SUE …and the way you look down at us? In your arrogance? When it’s you that shows up here? With your whingy fucking snout stuck in the air and your whingy fucking beak all twisted oh and…

Hard veins of assault rise in Sue’s neck; their blue pulsing is an alien form in the room; she loudens.

SUE …it’s give-to-me, give-to-me, give-to-me, that’s what you’re saying, that’s what you’re asking, every fucking cell you got it’s screaming give-to-me, give-to-me, give-to-me — you’re a fucking leech and paranoid come calling and saying it with your eyes — suck-suck-suck — make it all easy and calm and sweet forme…

FRANK Leech come crawling.

SUE …is what you’re saying, fucking leech…

JOE Suck the blood.

SUE …and justify, justify, tell me I’ve done all the right things, won’t you, tell me I’ve let no one down not ever, won’t you, and you can’t even see you’re the most superior fuck that ever stood up and all you are is a fucking…

Sue begins to weep.

SUE …is a fucking…

FRANK IS a whinging fucking hooknose bastard.

Frank Screams.

Sue rises onto her knees and makes the cocksucking gestures — cupped palm, piston wrist — and Screams and lets her eyes roll until all that shows is the whites of her eyes and she roars from her hollows at John—

SUE Give-to-me give-to-me give-to-me! Suck suck suck suck suck! You’re a fucking worm!

JOE Harsh, Sue?

FRANK Harsh to fucking worms.

Joe Director’s hands move to his belly to bed down the chuckles there. He is a proud old hog.

Sue exhales sharply from her nose and falls to the seated position again; Sue deflates and wipes her tears away.

John raises his hands behind his head and knits his fingers there; his smile is dew-bright, amused, morning-fresh.

JOHN You’re gonna have to do better than this, kids. Much better.

Sue smiles and shakes her head — John winks at her — and now she sticks her tongue out and she loads indecency into her eyes. She lets her voice drop an octave — there is throat and smoke in it now.

SUE I know what you fucking want.

JOHN Oh try harder! Please! Coz I’ve had the real nasties thrown at me, you know. And by proper fucking maniacs.

SUE Let’s talk about cunt.

JOHN You’re too fucking obvious.

SUE Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Is that what you want to hear, John? Let’s talk about love.

JOHN Oh behave, child.

FRANK Here we go.

SUE You want to have in, don’t you, John?

She lays her hand on her breastbone — brittle as a bird’s beneath the brocade of her blouse — and drums the tiny pads of her fingertips there.

Frank Screams.

Joe Director shakes his head and glowers. He is an angry old hog but he speaks quietly.

JOE Now listen up. You pair? Frank and bloody Sue. You pair are sounding like you’re sexually frustrated. You’d swear you’ve not had your bit. Have you not had your bit, Frank? Are you frustrated, Frank? I said are you?

Joe Director rises and crosses the circle and he thumps Frank hard about the side of the head; the boy whimpers and recoils.

Joe mocks the whimper; Sue mocks the whimper.

Frank rises onto his knees and shakes his head viciously at Joe and lets loose a dog snarl and weeps.

FRANK I’ve had my fucking bit!

JOE Oh? And what about you, lovely Sue?

Joe Director shimmies his hips in merriment as he pushes Frank back down with the palm of his hand to the crown of the boy’s head and now he roars—

JOE I said have you not had your fucking bit, Sue? I said have you not had your come-come, Sue? I said have you not had your fucking squirmy?

SUE Fuck off you fat diseased prick!

Joe slaps her face.

Frank Screams.

John is thinking: Nice crowd we’ve in tonight.

Sue makes a sex noise — a chocolate moan.

John is thinking: They’re here all week, folks.

FRANK I think John-John needs his fucking squirmy.

JOHN Okay! Kiddies! Hold up! Please! And fucking listen! Coz you want to know what I fucking think? I think you should all go and sign up for fucking accountancy college! I think you’re a bunch of fucking throwbacks! I mean it’s 1978!

FRANK We can see your problem, John.

JOHN Oh? Me? I’ve got a problem?

Joe Director sits again; his eyes blaze but he lights a smile and speaks softly—

JOE Oh you’ve got a problem, John. Believe it.

A silence holds for a slow beat.

The air feels restricted now — the room feels tight as a drum.

The night aches a slow moment beyond the high windows: it is Achill Island in the Maytime of 1978.

Streaks of nightgreen, iridescent, work the ribs of the water beneath.

Mountains lie in silhouette against the pale sky.