Kevin Barry - Beatlebone

Good morning, John says.

The dog raises an eye in wariness — he is careful, an old-stager. He comes across but cautiously and he looks soul-deep into John’s eyes and groans.

I know exactly how you feel, John says.

And now the fat old dog rests its chin on his knee, and he places a palm on the breathing warmth of the dog’s flank, and they share a moment’s sighing grace.

Never name the moment for happiness or it will pass by.

The dog lies down to settle by his feet and sets a drooly chin on the toe of a fresh purple sneaker.

Those are not long from the bloody box, John says.

He reaches down and lifts the dog’s chin with a finger and he finds such a sweet sadness there and a very particular handsomeness, a kind of gooey handsomeness, and at once he names the dog—

Brian Wilson, he says.

At which the dog wags a weary tail, and apparently grins, and John laughs now and he begins to sing a bit in high pitch—

Well it’s been building up inside of me

For oh, I don’t know how long…

The dog comes in to moan softly and tunefully, in perfect counterpoint to him — this morning’s duet — and John is thinking:

This escapade is getting out of hand right off the fucking bat.

——

A brown car rolls slowly from the top of the town. John and the dog Brian Wilson turn their snouts and beady eyes to inspect. The car has a tiny pea-headed chap inside for a driver. He’s barely got his eyes over the top of the wheel. He stalls by the grocer’s but he keeps the engine running. He steps out of the juddering car. There is something jockey-like or Aintree-week about this tiny, wiry chap. He fetches a bundle of newspapers from the backseat of the car and carries them to the stoop of the grocer’s.

Well? he says.

Well enough, John says.

He places the bundle on the stoop and takes a penknife from his arse pocket and cuts the string on the bundle and pulls the top paper free and he has a quick read, the engine all the while breathing, and Brian Wilson scowling, and John sits huddled against the morning chill that moves across the town in sharp points from the river.

I’ll tell you one thing for nothin’, the jockey-type says.

Go on?

This place is run by a pack of fucken apes.

Who’re you telling?

He sighs and returns the paper neatly to its bundle. He edges back to the verge of the pavement and looks to a window above the grocery.

No sign of Martin? he says.

And he shakes his head in soft despair—

The misfortune’s after putting down a night of it, I’d say.

And with that he is on his way again.

John and the dog Brian Wilson watch him go.

You can never trust a jockey-type, John says, on account of they’ve got oddly set eyes.

——

A broad-shouldered kid comes walking through the square with an orange football under his arm. As he walks he scans one way and then the other, east and west. The kid has a dead hard face on. As if he’s about to invade Russia.

Morning, John says.

Well, the kid says.

The kid stops up and drops the ball and traps it under his foot — he rolls it back and forth in slow pensive consideration.

You one of the Connellans? he says.

I could be, John says.

Ye over for the summer or only a small while?

We’ll see how it goes.

Ah yeah.

The kid kicks the ball against the grocer’s wall and traps it again and kicks it once more for the rebound.

How’s the grandmother keeping?

Not so hot, John says.

She’s gone old, of course, the kid says, and winces.

And what age are you now?

I’m ten, he says.

Bloody hell, John says, time’s moving.

Could be the brother you’re thinking of, the kid says. The brother’s Keith. He’s only seven yet.

I have you now.

The kid moves on, curtly, with a wave, and kicks the ball as he goes in diagonals to his path, now quickening, now slowing to meet its return and tapping rhyme as it follows the fall-away of the street, an awkward-looking, a bandy-footed kid whose name never will be sung from the heaving terraces — and so the silver river flows.

And the kid crosses the river and walks on and the heron takes off on slow heavy beat-steady wings and the kid’s away into the playing fields and the rising morning. It’s the sort of thing that could break your heart if you were of a certain type or turn of mind.

If you were a gentleman quick to tears, John says.

And Brian Wilson moans softly again and stretches and yowls in the morning sun.

——

Here’s an old lady a-squint behind the wheel of a fab pink Mini as it grumbles and stalls again by the grocer’s — centre of the universe, apparently. She wears a knit hat of tangerine shade and a pair of great chunky specs. She rolls the window and sends a pessimistic glance from the milk-bottle lenses.

There is no sign of Martin, I suppose?

He’s after a night of it, John says.

She has a German-type accent — the careful inspection of the words as they tip out.

Well that is me fucked and hitting for Westport so, she says.

She takes off again.

——

A lovely old tractor spins from its wheels a dust of dried mud and shite and there’s an ancient farmer with a stoved-in face and electrified eyes of bird’s-egg blue and he stalls also for a moment and calls down and not a little sternly—

Cornelius O’Grady is lookin’ for you.

And he moves on again and the old dog rises from his feet and coughs up a forlorn bark and heads back to the sideway.

More fun in it asleep than awake, John says.

He has a look about. There’s that small hotel at the top of the square. It sits there with an air of grim inevitability. He shrugs and rises—

I mean what’s the very worst that could happen?

——

Reception is deserted but they’re banging pots and pans together out the back. A demented brass band. Morning engagements only. He smells the green of bacon being fried up. Wallow in the waft of grease and smoke. Eat the pig and act the goat. He presses the bell. Nobody shows. He presses again and waits. There’s no rush on. He presses again and a hatchet-faced crone appears on the tip of her witch’s snout. Looks him up and down. Sour as the other Monday’s milk. Double-checks his ankles to see if he’s got a suitcase hid down there.

Well? she says.

It’s about a room, love.

She throws an eye up the clock.

This is a foxy hour to be landing into a hotel, she says.

And in denim, he says.

The reception’s air is old and heavy, as in a sickroom’s, and the clock swings through its gloomy moments.

Do you have a reservation? she says.

I have severe ones, he says, but I do need a room.

She sucks her teeth. She opens a ledger. She raises her eyeglasses. She has a good long read of her ledger.

Does it say anything in there about a room, love?

She searches out her mouth with the tip of a green tongue.

It’s about a room? he says.

With great and noble sorrow she turns and from a hook on a wooden rack takes down a key — he feels like he’s been hanging from that rack for years.

The best room you can do me?

They don’t differ much, she says, and switches the key for another — he’ll get the worse for asking.

Payment in advance, she says.

No surprise there.

Name? she says, and he rustles one from the air.

She leads him up a stair that smells of mouse and yesteryear and they climb again to an attic floor and the eaves lean in as if they could tell a few secrets — hello? — and at the end of a dark passage they come to a scary old wooden door.

Is this where you keep the hunchback? he says.

She scowls and slides the key and turns its oily clicks.