Kevin Barry - Beatlebone

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

You’re the fucken bulb off him.

——

Your name is Kenneth.

Kenneth?

You’re home from England. You’re the first cousin on my father’s side. You don’t talk much.

Oh?

On account of a brutal speech impediment.

And what does K-K-Kenneth do in England?

He works in a car factory in Coventry and is married to Monica and does the pools of a Saturday.

——

Look. We are all terrified, John. There is no mystery to it. If you weren’t terrified, there would be something wrong with you. The world is a hugely uncertain fucken place. Things can go either way and at any time. Step out of the bed in the morning and there is no guarantee you will step back into it the same night. The whole of your life is up in the wind and it might take off in any direction. We are all terrified at least half the fucken time. So what matters? For a finish? If we are all terrified and if it all ends in hell and misery and roaring fucken death anyhow? I’ll tell you what matters. How you hold yourself is what fucken matters. How you walk through the world is what fucken matters. The set that you have of the shoulders. That’s what matters. Is the chin held up in the air and proud or is it sunk down on the chest like a frightened little pup? That fucken matters, John. It’s all a gamble. We have no control. We have no hope. We haven’t a prayer against any of it. So throw back the shoulders. Comb the hair. Polish the shoes. Never let a plain girl pass by without compliment. Keep the eyes straight and sober-looking in the sockets of your head. Look out at the world hard and face the fucker down. And listen at all times, John. Do listen to what’s around you.

——

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

When was it you adopted me?

The shyness of the smile; the fondness in the eyes—

I’m not sure when it was exactly.

——

The van is parked by the roadside. John is all angles in the phonebox. He is getting an earful. Cornelius passes into the phonebox the 5p pieces and the 10p pieces — John feeds them to the phone like prayer tokens.

Across the ocean the signals travel and their voices.

At length Cornelius shakes his head and makes the sign of a slit across the throat.

Because sometimes, John, a man has to attend to matters he has been called to.

The ground beneath them feels hollowed out and deep.

——

And the season is at its cusp, as if this is the night precisely that spring will give way to summer, as if it is all arranged in advance, at celestial council, and the world soon will throw back its doors and open out its moments.

It becomes for him a sedative night. The world moves slowly on its chains. Car lamps range their lights all over the mountain — the lights are thrown slowly and move. A breath of wind moves the trees as softly and the hedges. There are people aiming for the Highwood from just about everywhere. They tunnel into the dark by their lamps.

The sky above is starless and discreet behind clouds, and along the flank of the mountain the van moves quickly and climbs. Cornelius slaps down a cassette for mood — a heartbroke voice picks sentiment from the air and yodels it dreadfully.

Cornelius?

Ray Lynam, John. That’s what I’d call a fucken singer. The way he holds the note and wouldn’t be caught looking for it? Superb.

——

They leave the heavy airs of the sea behind. They are headed for the Highwood. It is lost somewhere in the hills.

The worst thing you can have, John, is an empty night in front of you. You’re as well to fill up the nights always.

He unscrews the lid from a bottle of Powers whiskey and passes it.

Tip the glanced wheel, the road is turned; John takes a beady sip.

Now, Cornelius says; the wheel is tapped.

And the lamps bring up the graven rocks and the gaps in the hills and the great ferns that blur in the light wind, and the wind this high holds a thousand voices, trapped.

What’s the feeling you’d get hereabouts?

Better not to ask, John.

Bleakish?

It would incline you to open your wrists in a running bath.

Oh?

There was never anyone who was right around this stretch.

It’s not just me then.

The van moves quickly and climbs.

There’s one of us as badly off as the next always, John. That’s the great happy thing to remember in life.

Empathy — oh send me just the one song.

——

They come at last to the Highwood. It is by the edges of a lake. It is set on a plateau. It is patrolled by skinhead crows grey-booted and stern. It is encircled by great pines. It is attended by ghosts but they are his own and not sombre. There are a few habitations strung out and about like misplaced teeth but they invite no questions. There is a long, low-sized pub that wears no signage. Strings of coloured lights spill gaudily from the pub. Cars in grievous repair are not so much parked as abandoned around the edges of the pub. The van is set down to keep company with them. There is a squall of dreadful music from inside the pub.

At quarter past one?

It’ll be filling up soon enough, John.

The music from the pub is made of jangled strings, mania and a flute.

A throng of drinkers spills also from the pub. They have the look of difficult people. They are all elbows and accusation. Cornelius with satisfaction kills the engine and sighs.

Keep yourself to yourself, John, and you’ll find this is a very discreet house.

The drinkers appear to be related or at least of a tribe. There is commonly a ranginess and a long-limbed look. There are eyes dark, deep-set and impenetrable. Feet have the tendency to be planted quite widely, as of gunslingers, or sheep shearers.

These are decent people, John. These are lovely, warm-hearted, respectable people. They’d have no more interest than the wall in poor apes out of bands.

They pass through the lake’s air and time. They approach the evil pub. They dip for a low entry. They enter a groan of voices in the dim—

——

I see you have a nice little throat on you, Kenneth? When you get going at all?

He drinks some whiskey and laughs and he drinks some more. He takes a pint of stout in his hand. He has a nip of brandy. The world is just blurs and vague shapes. Mouths talk at him. Eyes come close. Night colours fill the hoods of eyes. He talks to a young man who looks like an old man and says he’s a doctor.

Doctor Carl O’Connor, he says, rather grandly, and presents a firm, clean shake.

Our problem here, he whispers, and I speak from harsh experience, Kenneth, is the lip. I mean take the continental. The continental will enjoy a glass of wine with his supper and some pleasant conversation and then very happily go home for the evening. But the Irishman is familiar always with the concept of the lip. Are you with me?

I think I am.

The Irishman will have a glass of wine with his supper and it will be lovely but then he will say, oh fuck me now anyhow! Oh Jesus Christ almighty! I have the fucken lip on me now! And that’ll be it for the night, Kenneth. He is gone.

You mean there’s no “off” button?

Precisely so.

The night fractures and folds in.

——

There is a hefty chap with a voice that sounds like gravel in a bean can, and he has only the one ear.

What’s happened your other?

A badger got it, Ken.

Oh?

I was put out of my own mother’s house on account of drink and the false accusation that I had masturbated into the fireplace after she had gone to bed one night. I had nowhere left to live. This went on for five months. May to September.

Like a romance.

It was no romance, Ken. I was sleeping in sheds. I was sleeping in the car park of the Regional Hospital. I got rickets and a bleeding ulcer out of it. I could keep down nothing stronger than milk.