Beatlebone

Part One. JOHN MOVES BY ENGINE OF MELANCHOLY—1978

He sets out for the place as an animal might, as though on some fated migration. There is nothing rational about it nor even entirely sane and this is the great attraction. He’s been travelling half the night east and nobody has seen him — if you keep your eyes down, they can’t see you. Across the strung-out skies and through the eerie airports and now he sits in the back of the old Mercedes. His brain feels like a city centre and there is a strange tingling in the bones of his monkey feet. Fuck it. He will deal with it. The road unfurls as a black tongue and laps at the night. There’s something monkeyish, isn’t there, about his feet? Also his gums are bleeding. But he won’t worry about that now — he’ll worry about it in a bit. Save one for later. Trees and fields pass by in the grainy night. Monkeys on the fucking brain lately as a matter of fact. Anxiety? He hears a blue yonderly note from somewhere, perhaps it’s from within. Now the driver’s sombre eyes show up in the rearview—

It’s arranged, he says. There should be no bother whatsoever. But we could be talking an hour yet to the hotel out there?

Driver has a very smooth timbre, deep and trustworthy like a newscaster, the bass note and brown velvet of his voice, or the corduroy of it, and the great chunky old Merc cuts the air quiet as money as they move.

John is tired but not for sleeping.

No fucking pressmen, he says. And no fucking photogs.

In the near dark there is the sense of trees and fields and hills combining. The way that you can feel a world form around you on a lucky night in the springtime. He rolls the window an inch. He takes a lungful of cool starlight for a straightener. Blue and gasses. That’s lovely. He is tired as fuck but he cannot get his head down. It’s the Maytime — the air is thick with and tastes of it — and he’s all stirred up again.

Where the fuck are we, driver?

It’d be very hard to say.

He quite likes this driver. He stretches out his monkey toes. It’s the middle of the night and fucking nowhere. He sighs heavily — this starts out well enough but it turns quickly to a dull moaning. Not a handsome development. Driver’s up the rearview again. As though to say gather yourself. For a moment they watch each other gravely; the night moves. The driver has a high purple colour — madness or eczema — and his nose looks dead and he speaks now in a scolding hush:

That’s going to get you nowhere.

Driver tips the wheel, a soft glance; the road is turned. They are moving fast and west. Mountains climb the night sky. The cold stars travel. They are getting higher. The air changes all the while. By a scatter of woods there is a medieval scent. By a deserted house on a sudden turn there is an occult air. How to explain these fucking things? They come at last by the black gleaming sea and this place is so haunted

or at least it is for me

and there is a sadness, too, close in, like a damp and second skin. Out here the trees have been twisted and shaped by the wind into strange new guises — he can see witches, ghouls, creatures-of-nightwood, pouting banshees, cackling hoods.

It’s a night for the fucking bats, he says.

I beg your pardon?

What I mean to say is I’m going off my fucking bean back here.

I’m sorry?

That’s all you can be.

He lies back in his seat, pale and wakeful, chalk-white comedian; his sore bones and age. No peace, no sleep, no meaning. And the sea is out there and moving. He hears it drag on its cables — a slow, rusted swooning. Which is poetical, to a man in the dark hours, in his denim, and lonely — it moves him.

Driver turns, smiling sadly—

You’ve the look of a poor fella who’s caught up in himself.

Oh?

What’s it’s on your mind?

Not easy to say.

Love, blood, fate, death, sex, the void, mother, father, cunt and prick — these are the things on his mind.

Also—

How many more times are they going to ask me to come on The fucking Muppet Show?

I just want to get to my island, he says.

He will spend three days alone on his island. That is all that he asks. That he might scream his fucking lungs out and scream the days into nights and scream to the stars by night — if stars there are and the stars come through.

——

The moon browses the fields and onwards through the night they move — the moon is up over the fields and trees for badness’ sake but he cannot even raise a howl.

Radio?

Go on then.

Will we chance a bit of Luxembourg?

Yeah, let’s try a little Luxy.

But they are playing Kate Bush away on her wiley, windy fucking moors.

Question, he says.

Yes?

What the fuck is wiley?

Does she not say winding?

She says wiley.

Well…

Turn it off, he says.

Witchy fucking screeching. The hills fall away and the darkness tumbles. Now in the distance a town is held in the palm of its own lights — a little kingdom there — and after a long, vague while — he is breathing but not much alive — they come to an old bridge and he asks to stop a moment by the river and have a listen.

Here?

Yeah, just here.

It’s four in the morning — the motor idles at a low hum — and the trees have voices, and the river has voices, and they are very old.

Driver turns—

Hotel’s the far side of the town just another few miles.

But John looks outside and he listens very hard and he settles to his course.

You can leave me here, he says.

——

He planned to live out on his island for a bit but he never did. He bought it when he was twenty-seven in the middle of a dream. But now it’s the Maytime again and he’s come over a bit strange and dippy again — the hatches to the underworld are opening — and he needs to sit on his island again just for a short while and alone and look out on the bay and the fat knuckle of the holy mountain across the bay and have a natter with the bunnies and get down with the starfish and lick the salt off his chops and waggle his head like a dog after rain and Scream and let nobody come find him.

The black Mercedes sits idling and lit by the bridge that spans the talking river.

John walks from the car in a slow measured reverse — one foot backwards and then the other.

He is so many miles from love now and home.

This is the story of his strangest trip.

——

And the season is at its hinge. The moment soon will drop its weight to summer. The river is a rush of voices over its ruts and tunnels into the soft black flesh of the night and woods, and the driver leans at rest against the bonnet of the car — casually, unworried, his arms folded, if anything amused — and as the door is open, the car is lit against the dark and the stonework of the old bridge and the small town that rises beyond by its chimney pots and vaulting gables. John steps another foot back, and another, and he laughs aloud but not snidely — the driver is getting smaller; still he watches amusedly — and the town and the river and bridge and the Mercedes by stepped degrees recede and became smaller

what if I keep going without seeing where I’m going

what if I keep going into the last of the night and trees

and he steps off the road and into a ditch and his footing gives and he stumbles and falls onto his backside and into the black cold shock of ditchwater. He laughs again and rights himself and he turns now and walks into the field and quickens.

He does not answer to his name as it calls across the night and air.

——

It is such a clear night and warm. He walks into the fields until he is a good distance from the road. He can speak her name across the sky. Feel its lights again in his mouth. Fucking hell. He is so weary, and fucked, and Scouse — a sentimentalist. The ground’s soft give beneath his feet is luxurious. He wants to lie down into the soft rich cake of it and does. It is everything that he needs. He turns onto his belly and lies facedown in the dirt and digs his nails in hard—

Cling the fuck on, John.

The sphere of the night turns by its tiny increments. The last of the night swings across its arches and greys. He can do anything he wants to do. He can live in a Spanish castle; he can run with the tides of the moon. He turns his face to settle his cheek on the dirt. He rests for a while. Mars is a dull fire in the eastern sky. He lies for a long calm while until the hills are woken and the birds come to flirt and call and he feels clairvoyant now and newly made.

John lies saddled on the warm earth and he listens to its bones.

——

He’s been coming loose of himself since early in the spring. He knows all the signs of it. One minute he’s lost in the past and the next he’s shot back to the now. There is no future in it. The year is on the turn and greening and everything is too fucking alive again.

And he has been haunted by his own self for such a long while, he has been endlessly fascinated by his own black self this long while — he is aching, he is godhead, he is a right bloody monster — but now he is thirty-seven—

I mean thirty fucking seven?

— and he wants at last to be over himself — he’s all grown — and he looks out and into the world and he can see it clearly and true for the kip it is and the shithole it is and the sweet heaven — the mons — of love and sex and sleep it is, or can be, and he is scabrous (there’s a word) and tender — he is both — and there’s a whole wealth of fucking motherlove — even still — being the sentimental Scouse — her death’s gleam his dark star — and the old town that was coal-black and majestic — wasn’t it? — or at least on its day and the way it was giddy by its night — alewaft and fagsmoke, peel of church bell — and a rut down an alleyway — wasn’t there? — midnight by church bell, cuntsmell—

oh my sweet my paleskin my soft-lipped girlie

— and now he’s got a throb on, and he’s coming down Bold Street, and it’s the city of Liverpool, and he’s seventeen years old, and he’s a North-of-England honky with spud-Irish blood and that is what he is and that is all that he is and inside him, deep down—listen—the way the drunken notes stir.

——

He sits up in the field. He looks around himself warily. Jesus fuck. He sits in the raw grey light and the cold damp air. He has inarguably placed himself in fucking Ireland again. He has a think about this and he has a fag. A whip of cold wind comes across the field and the tall grasses flex and sway — he sneezes. They say that your soul stops, don’t they? Or at least fucks off for a bit. He stands up for a coughing fit. His poor lungs, those tired soldiers. He proceeds on walkabout. Listen for a song beneath the skin of the earth. Seeing as he cannot fucking find one elsewhere. He aims back for the road again. Panicky, yes, but you just keep on walking. And maybe in this way, John, you can leave the past behind.

——

He finds his own trace back through the long grass. He crosses the bridge in wet light. A sombre friend, a heron, stands greyly and still and what’s-the-fucking-word by the edge of the river and town. He walks on up the town. Sentinel is the word. His words are fucked and all over. Weeks of half-sleep. Weeks of night sweats and hilarity. Except this time with no fucking songs in tow. The little town is deserted as a wartime beach. He sits down on a bench in the empty square. Have a breather, Missus Alderton. He has a look around. Okay. He must look like one half of a Pete-and-Dudley routine. Why exactly is he here in this nothing town in this nowhere place and on the wrong side of the ocean and so far from those that he loves and home? Maybe he knows that out here he can be alone.

It’s the earliest of the morning and still but for the leaves. He walks the edges of the square under the moving leaves. He goes by the sleeping grocery and the sleeping church and there’s a smug little infirmary, too — he thinks, that’ll be me. His empathy — to be old and sick, how would that be? Stout matron smells of talc and jam tarts. A last shimmer in the throb department? Ah but forlornly, yes. Okay. Move along, John. Keep it fucking cheerful, let’s. Random words appear on his lips as he walks the few and empty streets of the early morning town. Here’s a new entry — woebegone. But that’s quite lovely, actually. He doubles back to the square again. Senses a half-movement down below: the heron, as it turns its regal clockwork head to watch him now from its place by the river. Bead of eye from one to the other. News for me, at all? Nothing good, I expect. The metallic gleam of its grey coat in the cold sun. Otherworldly, the sense of it — something alien there. Walk the fuck on again. He sees a fat old dog having a snooze down a sideway. Ah sweetness. He watches for a moment and he gets a bit teary, in fact, about the juddery little sighs of the dog’s breathing — he is out in the world now — and his fat sleeping belly and he can see his doggy dreams of bones and cats and flirty poodles smoking Gitanes and perking their high tight poodle asses in the air.

The air is thick and salty. You could bite a chunk off. Sniff out the sea-bite’s hint-of-vulva, John, mummy-smell. He has a tricky five minutes but he comes through. He turns up a display board for tourists. The board has a map on and now all the names from nine years past — his last visit — come rattling again. Newport, Mulranny, Achill Island and there’s the great jaggedy bay, Clew Bay, with all its tiny islands. There are tens and dozens and hundreds of these islands. He reads that there are three hundred and sixty-five islands all told; there is an island for every day of the fucking year—

So how will he tell which island is his?

There are rustles and movements. He is alone but not — he can hear the shifting of the town ghosts. Clocking off from the night shift. He blinks three times to make those fuckers disappear. He has his ritual things. He has a fag and listens. He inhales deep, holds it, and his heart thumps; he exhales slow. He wants to make a connection with you now. He is thirty-seven years along the road — the slow-quick, slow-quick road — and he lives in a great fortress high above the plain where the fearsome injuns roam — those bold Manhattoes — and now if he whispers it, very very softly — a particular word — and if you listen for it — very very carefully—

Do you think you can hear him still?

——

The fat old dog moseys out from the sideway. There is evidence here of great male bewilderment. It’s in the poor bugger’s walk; it’s in his carry. He looks down the length of the town and shakes his head against it. He looks on up the town — the same. He does not appear to notice yet the presence of a stranger. He sniffs at the gutter — it’s not good. He has a long, slow rub off the grocer’s wall — it’s still there, and the pebbledash gets at the awkward bits nicely. He edges onto the square on morning patrol but he’s hassled-looking, weary, and the fleshy haunches roll slowly as he goes. He stops up in the middle of the square, now in a devout or philosophical hold, as the breeze brings news to twitch the bristles of his snout, and he growls halfheartedly, and turns to find the line of scent and a tatty man in denims on the bench.

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.

He thanks her as he squeezes by — hello? — and for half a moment she brightens. She lays a papery hand on his — quality of mothskin; the veins ripped like junkie veins — and she whispers—

Your man? she says. You’re very like him.

Not as much as I used to be, he says.

——

He started to Scream with Dr. Janov in California. He was worked up one-on-one. He was worked up fucking hard. He sat there for hours, and for months, and he went deep. He wasn’t for holding back. He hollered and he ranted and he Screamed. He cursed everybody, he cursed them all, he cursed the blood. Dr. Janov said he needed to get at the blood — he went at the blood.

Mother, father.

Cunt and prick.

What had stirred and made and deformed him. What had down all the years deranged him. He was angry as hell. They worked together four months out on the coast. Dr. Janov wore a crown of beautiful white curls — it shimmered in the sun. Dr. Janov spoke of amorphous doom and nameless dread and the hurt brain. It was no fucking picnic out on the coast. He squatted on the terrace and he looked out to the sea and he was heartsore and he drank fucking orange juice and he wept until he was weak. He had a shadow beneath the skin and he was so very fucking weak.

Dr. Janov said that fame was a scouring and a hollow thing — he said there’s fucking news. Dr. Janov said he should ignore it — he said you fucking try. Dr. Janov said he should channel his anger and not smoke pot — he said I’ll see what I can do.

Dr. Janov said he should Scream, and often, and he saw at once an island in his mind.

Windfucked, seabeaten.

The west of Ireland — the place of the old blood.

A place to Scream.

——

He sits in his tomb up top of the Newport hotel. It contains a crunchy armchair, a floppy bed, several arrogant spiders, a mattress with stains the shapes of planets and an existential crisis. But he wouldn’t want to sound too French about it.

He looks out the window. It really is a very pretty day. The street runs down to the river, and there is the bridge across, and the hills rising and

lah-de-dah,

lah-de-dum-dum dah

the green, the brown, the treetops, and it means nothing to him at all. Across the square a flash of hard light, turning — a swallow’s belly, and now dark again, and his mind flips and turns in just that same way. He wants to get to his island but unseen and unheard of — he wants to be no more than a rustle, no more than a shade.

He makes the calls that he needs to make. It’s arranged that a fixer will be sent the next day. He lies on the bed for a while but cannot sleep. He takes his clothes off and climbs from the bed. He has a bit of a turn. He scrunches up in the armchair by the window. He’s all angles and edges. He speaks aloud and for a long while. He speaks to his love — his eyes close — and he speaks to his mother. Fucking hell. The hours he spends in the chair are like years—

He is a boy.

He is a man.

He is a very very old man.

— and he sits all day until the sun has gone around the building and the room is almost dark again. A day that feels slow as a century — he might be out there still. The evening gets chilly and he climbs onto the bed. He wraps himself in a blanket and phones downstairs. He has a long Socratic debate that after a certain period of time results in a bowl of brown vegetable soup arriving. The kid that brings it has a perfectly ovaline face on as flat as a penny.

You’d be quicker on roller skates, John says.

He slurps down the soup. He sits wrapped in his blanket. The soup is that hot it makes him cross-eyed. The bed is moving about like a sea. A call comes in from the fixer. Something deep and familiar to the voice — like a newscaster, and he sees the high purple face again, the dead nose, the fattish driver.

You again?

Well.

He is asked gently of his needs. It’s as if he’s had a loss. He is on a bloody raft the way the bed is moving about.

The important thing, again, he says, is no newspapers, no reporters, no TV.

Not easy.

Another thing, he says. I can’t remember exactly where the island is.

Okey-doke.

But I do know its name.

Well that’s a start.

The arrangement is made — they will set off first thing.

What was your name anyhow?

My name is Cornelius O’Grady.

Cornelius?

——

The way that age comes and goes in a life — he’ll never be as old again as he was when he was twenty-seven. In the attic room at the small hotel he paces and laughs and the words come in pattern for a bit but they will not hold. No, they will not fucking hold. He looks out to the town square by night. It is deserted but not static — it comes and goes in time and the breeze. Half the time, in this life, you wouldn’t know where you are nor when. There are moments of unpleasant liveliness. Tamp that the fuck down is best. He aims for the telephone. He builds himself up to it. He breathes deep and dials and there is a transaction of Arabic intrigue with the fucking desk down there. It works out, eventually — the roller-skate kid fetches a glass of whiskey up.

That’ll put hairs on me chest, he says.

Okay, the kid says.

Peat and smoke — it tastes of the past and uncles, sip by the beaded sip. He doesn’t really drink anymore. No booze, no junk, no blow. These are the fucking rules. He is macrobiotic. He is brown-rice-and-vegetables. The stations of the fucking cross. A read — that would be an idea. The room has grown sombre as the night finds its depth. What’s the fucking word? Crepuscular. He flicks a lamp switch against it. The amber light of the lamp as it warms weakly on the old flock wallpaper brings the waft or flavour — you can’t miss it — of Edwardian time. Oh and here’s a word — Edwardiana. Very nice. The word gives dapperness, and tapered strides, and teddy boys. He looks around his tiny room beneath the eaves and laughs — the West of Ireland by night. Oh just taking the fucking air, really. I’ll have a stroll in a bit. Try not to fuck myself in the briney. Fathomless depths, et cetera. Oh Christ, a read — fill up this sour brain with words. He slides a drawer on the tiny dresser — the dresser is so tiny it might be for the fittings of elves — and there is no Gideon’s, not as such, but there is an old book there:

The Anatomy of Melancholy by Richard Burton

Richard fucking Burton? What kind of establishment is this? Now the melodious syllables come to shape his lips — hammy, taffy, lispy, vaguely faggy? How did it go? In Under Milk Wood? He looks in the dull silver of the dresser’s mirror and mouths the words—

I know there are

Towns lovelier than ours,

And fairer hills and loftier far,

And groves more full of flowers

And boskier woods more blithe with spring…

Boskier? Fuck me. He flicks through the pages. Okay. It’s a different Richard. And there are all sorts herein. He falls onto the bed. He unknits his long, cold limbs. He falls into the drugged pages. He reads for hours and every now and then

Thou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself.

he speaks aloud but

Melancholy can be overcome only by melancholy.

just the two words, repeated

He that increaseth wisdom, increaseth sorrow.

over and over again

If you like not my writing, go read something else.

fuck me,

fuck me,

fuck me.

——

At last he gives in to the night or at least makes an arrangement with it. He sleeps a long, unquiet sleep disturbed by quick dreams of woodland places. These come as no great surprise. He meets elves and sprites and clowning devils. Anxiety? He wakes at last to a new world and to a morning lost in a heavy mist. Sorely his bones ache — he traces the length of the soreness with a long, dull, luxurious sighing. Which is very pleasant, as it happens. Though also he feels about ninety fucking six. The grey buildings outside have softened in the mist and in places have all but disappeared. The hills across the river are entirely wiped out. He feels oddly at home, as though he’s woken to this place every day of his life: a sentimentalist. Maybe as the grocer or as the farmer or as the priest. Now his calm is broken by a set of angry steps come along the passage and a mad rapping on the door and the door is nearly off its bloody hinges—

You’d better come in!

It’s Hatchet-Face, his favourite crone, and she’s on the warpath—

Great spouts of steam gush from her hairy ears.

Her pinned eyes are livid and searching.

Her mouth contorts to a twisted O.

Who’s dead? he says.

She runs a filthy look around the room.

She sniffs the air as if he’s pissed the bed.

Do you realise, she says, that it’s hapist ten in the morning?

Hapist? he says. Already?

There are people, she says, with half a day put down.

Best thing you can do with days.

She eyes him — an owl for a mouse — and sucks her teeth. There is dark auntly suspicion in the glance, as if he’s been having a sneaky one off the handle. A clamminess, as of families. He has been drawn back into something here. The clock runs backwards. He holds the covers boyishly against his chest.

Had I better make a move, love?

You’d better, she says. There’s a woman down there has a home to go to.

A woman?

That does the breakfasts.

Oh, he says. Her with the brass band.

She has the mother bad. The mother is left with half a lung to her name. The other half is not viable. Or so they’re saying. All I know is she’d want to be gone home to the mother an hour since or the mother’ll be gone out the blasted window. Again.

To be honest, love, I’m not big on brekkie. A Pepsi and a fag’ll do me. Mothers out windows?

That wouldn’t be the worst of it, she says. But you’d want to come down anyway — I have a Mr. O’Grady waiting on you.

As she says his name, she fixes her hair and works her lips to an unseemly fullness.

He says you’ve a man here called McCarthy? I says, well! I says I think I have anyhow.

——

Mother Mary of Jesus is sat up the dining room wall, blue and weeping, her long glance so loving — a tear of blood rolls.

Cornelius O’Grady is sat just beneath — his hair is greased and fixed like a ducktail joint.

Would you mind sitting down, John, he says. You’re making me dizzy.

Daylight shows Cornelius in high fettle. There is vim and spark and big vitality. He considers John at length and silently; he shakes his head in amused suffering.

The problem, he says, is they’d probably know you alright.

He returns woefully to his breakfasts. He has two fried breakfasts laid out on the white linen. He moves the great boulder of a head in slow swoops over the plates as though by the arm of a crane. He slices daintily into the meats and chews and smiles grimly.

But all we can do is fucken try, he says.

A powerful chewer: the way his massive chin swings side to side and churns — they are handing out the chins around here. He mops a hunk of bread across the yellow of the egg yolks, and there is the smell of burnt fat and greasy cloy.

Have you not et? he says.

I’m fine, Cornelius. I’ll have a fag in a bit.

Humorous eyes; a shaking of the head. He zips from plate to plate and back again. He is very neat about his work, slicing a rasher here, a sausage there, having a chew and half a grilled tomato, a soft chuckling, a little sigh of thanks.

Black pudding? John says.

Yes?

Congealed blood is what it is.

You wouldn’t eat a bit?

Me? I’m macrobiotic.

Which means you ate what, fleas?

Hatchet-Face comes to work around the edges of the room, tidying and settling away, but really just the better to observe Cornelius and his great handsome bull’s head: we are in the presence of legend.

About my situation, Mr. O’Grady?

Yes?

I really don’t need a fucking circus right now. The most important thing is no one knows I’m out here.

Cornelius fills his mug from a silver pot and runs his eyes about the room.

John, he says, half the newspapermen in Dublin are after piling onto the Westport train.

Oh for fucksake!

But we aren’t beat yet. The train’s an hour till it’s in. We’ll throw a shape lively.

He’s bigger sat down than he is stood up. Short-legged, squat, the giant head rolls cockily as they move, and Cornelius aims a wave for Hatchet-Face — she flutters as though for a sexy saint.

All I want is to get to my island.

Which is it is yours?

It’s called Dorinish.

You’d say it Durn-ish.

You know the one?

There are maps but I’d pay no mind to them. Wait for me at the back door and I’ll swing the van around.

The van?

Is right.

What’s happened our Merc?

That wasn’t my car at all, John.

And where are we headed exactly?

Cornelius sends up his sighs. He looks at his pale charge sadly, as though at a tiny injured bird, and he jerks a black thumb over his shoulder.

West, he says.

——

The van’s a bone-rattler, a money-shaker, all rust and lung disease, and it screeches for death as it revs up pace for the sudden turns and the gut-heaving drops: see now how the land falls away. There is mist on the hills; he can see reaching for the crags and granite tops the wispy fingers of the mist on the hills, and Cornelius’s blue eyes are set to a high murderous burn — his hilarity — and John is on the lam and loves it although he has a sad stretch, about home, but just for a half-mile or so — it passes — and the van screams and barks and it smells of the other Monday’s fish: John’s stomach lurches and his soul groans. He lights another fag, an evil Gitane.

There’s one day I’d be after mackerel, Cornelius says. There’s another day I’d be dosing sheep. Another again? I’d be playing the chauffeur. And only last Thursday gone? I dug a grave for a man that took a sudden stroke…Sixty-two years of age and he only trying to watch a bit of television. God rest him.

Cornelius quickens the van for a blind turn. He accelerates again to come out of the bend. He plays at full volume a vile country music all twangy hoedowns and cry-it-to-the-moon laments but in awful, reaching, sobbing, spud-Irish voices.

John eyeballs the fucker hard—

Cornelius?

— but he is paid no mind.

He slaps eject to pop the cassette but Cornelius slaps it back to play again.

Ray Lynam, he says. That’s one powerful fucken singer.

Keep the dogs at bay. This is the most important thing. Keep the hissing pack at bay and get me to my fucking island. His new friend whistles jauntily as he steers the van.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

You do realise it’s extremely fucking important that no one knows I’m out here?

I do of course.

Because it would ruin everything, Cornelius. It would defeat the whole fucking purpose.

I understand, John. But I’ve a feeling the fuckers aren’t far off our trail.

How can you tell?

From the way the air is settling around us.

His eyes shoot to the rearview, to the wings.

Do you understand what I mean by that?

I’ve no fucking idea.

The ground can be kind of thin around here, John.

Thin?

Which means all you’ve to do is listen.

The van spins into the mist. Cornelius taps time on the wheel. John is not used to the company of males anymore. All the musk and hilarity and contest. Slate-grey to sea-green, the hills fall away. Melancholy, too, can gleam, jewel-like — as in the rain’s sheen that blackens stone — and Cornelius steers blithely, and he beats time with his thumbs, and he turns happily—

Tell me just the one thing, John.

Yes?

Why’s it you want to go to this little island?

Because I want to be that fucking lonely I’ll want to fucking die.

Cornelius jaws on this for a bit and winces, and he nods it through — he is at length satisfied.

I have you now, he says.

The blue-bleak hills. The veiling of the fog.

This is just what I’m after, John says.

He is all business now—

About a boat and supplies?

Do I look like the fucken boy scouts, John?

The tape chews and a country song sticks hard on a high note and yodels; Cornelius pops the tape free and slaps in another; he throws a dark look seaward.

I’d doubt we’ll be putting out in that.

Bit choppy?

He whistles through his nose; he sucks his teeth.

We’ll keep you hid till the pressmen clear, John. We’ll wait out the assault.

I haven’t got all bloody year!

They’ll want for patience. If they don’t get the smell of you in a day or two, they’ll be gone.

Just hole me up at a different hotel then.

Hotels no good. Too easy follow you out from a hotel. How’d you think they got wind of you in the first place?

You don’t mean our woman in Newport?

Well.

Fucking Hatchet-Face!

The same woman has two husbands buried in the one plot, John. A small bit of respect would be no harm.

He massages the bridge of his nose — the painful place.

So where do I go, Cornelius?

I’m thinking the best thing for now would be my own house.

Super.

The van climbs and on a sudden turn, at a height above them, a silver horse in full mantle — its eyes shaded — is formed from the motes of air and mist and rises on its hind legs and makes a great silent scream — something Hispanic here — and its teeth are yellowish, foam-flecked, pointed, and it evaporates again, just so and as quickly, this image or vision, into time and the sodden air.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

——

They climb into the sky. There are woeful songs about lost sweethearts, lonesome moonlight, dead fucking dogs.

It’s coming between us, Cornelius.

The which?

The fucking music.

Cornelius slaps eject and the cassette pops — he flings it to the dash.

Thank you very fucking much.

You’re very fucken welcome.

They climb some more — the country falls away.

As a matter of fact the van knows the road, Cornelius says.

A street gang of sheep appear — like teddy boys bedraggled in rain, dequiffed in mist — and Cornelius bamps the hooter — like teddy boys on a forlorn Saturday in the north of England, 1957—and the sheep explode in all directions and John can see the fat pinks of their tongues.

Mutton army, he says.

They climb the hills inside a cloud. Crags poke through; knuckles show. They come on a patch of clear blue for a stretch and he can see for the first time Clew Bay entirely and the way its tiny islands are flung out by the dozens and the hundreds.

It’s been nine fucking years…How the hell are we going to find my island, Cornelius?

With enormous difficulty, John.

His stomach loops against the bumps of the road. His stones ache and tighten. He rolls the window for some air.

The bloody damp, he says.

And his bones remember Sefton Park as a kid—

Wet jumper.

Chest infection.

Irish Sea.

The van climbs. They are inside a cloud again. They are up and about the knuckles of the hills — it’s the bleakest place on earth.

All this is O’Grady land, Cornelius says. Not that you’d feed the fucken duck off it.

An old farmhouse rises up from the hill — ramshackle, ill-kept, a growth on the hill. The van eases to a stop and a slow, deep-breathing silence. The house sits in complete agreement with its sad hill.

Fucken place, Cornelius says.

The wind drops and there is dead quiet—

Nothing moves.

Not a bird does sing.

The house was my father’s before me. And you know he never so much as shaved in the house?

Oh?

Nor shat, John. He would have thought it dirty.

Emotion is about Cornelius like a black cloak now—

Oh my poor departed father…

His voice almost gives.

Death be good to him, he says.

He sighs and consults his belly and whispers a fast prayer.

They threw away the fucken manual, he says, after they designed my father.

Silence; a slow beat.

He turns to look at John carefully for a moment—

Could you handle a shave yourself, maybe?

I think maybe I could.

I see you go reddish in the beard?

When it comes through, yeah. I’m a gingerbeard.

I’m sorry for your troubles, John.

——

They sit together by the fireplace. The wind is high and plays oddly in the chimney. His heart stirs and searches for home again. On a sour, lonesome note the air moves through the hollows of the chimney and the house; the old house sighs and breathes. He sits inside this heaving thing, this working lung — how the fuck has he got here, and why? Cornelius slowly turns one thumb about the other and looks at him.

Would you be a saddish kind of man, John?

He answers in all the truth he can muster—

As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.

Then what’s wrong with you?

I suppose I’m afraid.

Afraid of what?

That all this happiness is going to rot my fucking brain.

Cornelius grins, stretches, rises.

Would you eat, maybe?

You know I think maybe I would.

Right so.

Cornelius goes to his cupboards and roots out a wheel of black pudding the size of a fat toddler’s arm.

Cornelius?

But he moves with such dainty grace about the kitchen it’s hard to speak against him. Like a small bear on casters he moves. He puts a pan on the stove. He cuts a chunk of lard in. The hot Zs of the sizzle come up to fill the room. He slices up the black pudding and sets the slices on the teeming fat. Watching this routine makes John feel calmer somehow. There is blood and smoke on the air. Cornelius fills the kettle and sets it to boil. He is strangely mothering in his movements. As in men who live alone. He arranges everything neatly and flips the slices of pudding over and John’s mouth cannot but water.

You know I don’t eat this stuff?

Never?

Not for fucking years.

He smiles and sets a place with care and plates the food and serves it with slices of bread cut thickly from the pan and a soft butter spread over.

Now for you, he says.

Jesus Christ, John says.

He eats the food. The spiciness, the mealiness, the animal waft — it’s all there in the history of his mouth, and he is near to fucking tears again. The tea is strong and sweet and tastes of Liverpool.

Would you believe, John, that my father lived in this house till he was eighty-seven years of age?

How’d you get to be eighty-seven up a wet hill in Mayo?

He neither drank nor smoked.

I’m packing away all that myself.

I drink, John. I smoke. And I tup women.

Oh?

When I get the chance.

Cornelius slowly teases out the knuckles of one hand and then the other.

But you see what my father had was great intelligence.

That would help.

Oh he was a wiley man, John.

He was fucking what?

He was wiley.

What the fuck is wiley?

He was full of wiles, John.

He was full of fucking what?

He had a wiliness.

Oh…Like in he was canny?

Exactly so.

Okay. So now I have it. But tell me this, won’t you — how can you have a windy fucking moor that’s wiley?

Hah?

How can you have a wiley fucking moor?

A wiley…

He sings it for him in a witchy screech—

Out on the…wiiiley…windy moors…

What’s it you’re saying to me, John?

The Kate bloody Bush song!

Kate Bush?

Cornelius shakes his head.

I knew a Martin Bush, he says.

Oh?

Belmullet direction but long dead and God rest him, poor Martin.

Any relation?

To who?

To Kate bloody Bush!

I didn’t know a Kate. Could she have been a sister?

She might well have been.

No…I knew a Martin.

And was he wiley?

If there was one thing he wasn’t was wiley, John.

Oh?

Poor Martin was an inordinately stupid man. He could barely tie his shoelaces.

A ha’penny short?

Ah listen. Martin kept animals had more wile in them.

What kind of animals?

He’d sheep. A few cattle, I suppose. Though they’d have been wind-bothered up that way.

They’d have been…

Bothered, John. By wind coming in. The way it would unseat cattle.

Unseat them?

Cornelius lowers his sad eyes—

In the mind.

You mean you’d have a cow’d take a turn?

Cornelius squares his jaw.

Do you realise you’re looking at a man who’s seen a cow step in front of a moving vehicle? Purposefully.

On account of?

Wind coming easterly. That’s the kind of thing that can leave a beast beyond despair. Because of the pure evil sound of it, John. The way it would play across the country in an ominous way. An easterly? If it was to come across you for a fortnight and it might? Sleep gone out the window and a horrible black feeling racing through your fucken blood. Day and night. All sorts of thoughts of death and hopelessness. This is what you’d get on the tail end of an easterly wind. Man nor animal wouldn’t be right after it.

John pushes back his plate and sups the last of his tea and idly twirls the rind of the black pudding about the dull silver of the tines of his fork.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

Am I alive and not dreaming?

He taps once and sharply the fork on the edge of the table for tune — it rings cleanly.

——

He walks a circuit of the O’Grady yard. He is high anxious again. His fucking jailyard. He circles and twists like an aggravated goose. Energy is the difficulty always. Too much of. An excess of. Flick out these fingers and they might shoot beads of fire. One neurotic foot in front of the other, and circling — what you do is you keep moving. He limps and he stumbles — no stack-heeled Harlem glide is this — and his bones ache; the sky above is grey and the wind moves the clouds over the bleak hills and the fall-away fields. The stone walls drunkenly wander the hills on unmentionable escapades. All is pierced with anxiety and dread. It’s the place of the old blood and it has too a sexy air.

The sexy airs of summer.

From who and where was that? At difficult angles across the hills the grey sheep move. They drift unpredictably like the turns of his own dark, glamorous mind. The past is about, too, but now it’s the more recent past, and he imagines the salve again of (oh-let’s-say) heroin, and how might that feel, John? To fall into that dream again — to be in the arms of the soft machine again — and to have that deeper quiet and space again. Morpheus, the dream. Noise is the fucking difficulty always. The excess of. The wind licks out the corners of the yard — its tongues move in green darts and lizard-quick. Sexy airs. Wasn’t it from Auden? The wind speaks, too, and in urgent whispers. News from far-out? Or from close-in? He shakes his head as he walks and circles the yard, and he notes from the corner of his eye the presence of Cornelius by the farmhouse door, leaning against the jamb, and his eyes are vast with pleasantness. The arms folded. The bull’s head inclined. The expression of great interest.

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

You know what I’d wonder sometimes?

What’s that?

If I amn’t half a blackman.

——

Cornelius carries with prim importance two shaving bowls and two razors. They climb to a tin-sided outhouse built into the rocks of the hill. The outhouse lacks a door and John can see down the country as the sky moves its clouds along and the sun appears and it’s trippy now in the sunburst. The fields are lit and lifting. It’s the hour for a shave and a philosophic interlude.

A black, Cornelius?

Is fucken right.

I think I see where you’re coming from.

Cornelius turns his throat and jerks the head curtly.

I’m talking if we were to go way back, he says. I’m talking from the south.

Cornelius rinses off the razor and shakes it dry. He slaps his face to get the blood back in. The blood comes hotly in a rush to enliven the stately face. He leans against the rock and looks out on the freshening day as if it might just about contain him.

I’m talking about cunts off boats, he says. I’m talking about my father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s time.

I’m losing track.

I don’t know if we aren’t looking at the likes of 1400?

As if it was the other Wednesday.

You’re saying there might have been a dusky sailor back then?

Now you have me.

Do you hear whispers from back there, Cornelius?

Ah I would do. Yes.

You mean from an old life?

Back arse of time, he says, and gestures grandly with a sweep of imperious paw.

What do you hear?

I think it could be a class of Portuguese.

There’s an old tar with a monkey on his shoulder. And what do you see?

This is where it gets good. I see a tiny window set deep in a thick stone wall.

Yes?

With four iron bars set hard in the sill.

You were in a spot of bother then?

I would think so, John, yes.

Involving?

Nothing fucken good. Horses, definitely. And somehow I think a plain girl but gamey and with greenish eyes.

He calmly shaves. The burn of his jaw is a cool ordinary feeling and the afternoon is calm and bright or at least it is for a while. Cornelius considers him carefully and for a slow, held moment—

You have the longish nose, he says. Like a particular type of dog I can’t place.

——

Sometimes in the black oily panic of the night when the city sent unsettling dreams across its towers and violent bowers—

the shapes of night in the park

the dark trees crouching

the trees so fiercely bunched

these creatures about to spring

— it was then he would travel to the island in his mind, and he would quieten when he lay his sore bones down among the rocks for a while and let the water move all around and the sky hang down its cold stars — its cold, cold jewels — its stars.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

I want to get to my fucking island.

I know that, John.

I want a boat and a tent and fucking supplies and I want to be brought to my fucking island and then I want you to fuck off again for three fucking days. I mean that’s all I fucking ask! Is three fucking days a-fucking-lone!

If we were to move now we’d have a pantomime on our hands. The pressmen?

Paranoia oozes in black beads from the tips of his fingers — the day has carved his nerves up bad.

He is fearful and dizzy and cutting off from the real again. The Maytime comes at him like razor blades.

You’re eating the fags, John.

Evening sidles up to the window to taunt the parlour room. He smokes and he drinks a mug of strong tea.

Would you look crooked at an egg, John?

You know I nearly would.

He eats a boiled egg with soldiers of toast and at once he’s brave as a trooper. It’s a duck egg of maiden blue. He sings a bit and it’s got a yodelled twist on the line, a duck’s waddle in the quaver.

Lovely, Cornelius says.

He spoons up his egg — maiden? — and sups his tea. He feels like he’s moved into a nursing home. And not before time.

Cornelius paces the stones of the floor, gravely, but now he stops up short.

Time have we, John?

I don’t know the time.

We’ll chance it.

They sit in front of the television — a tiny black-and-white with a clothes hanger stuck in — and they are just in time — Cornelius twists the set precisely to align it with the stars — because the music strikes up, and Cornelius nods in satisfaction.

Muppets, he says.

——

You know they’ve wanted me on?

Who, John?

The Muppets.

Ah yeah.

They’ve made approaches three fucking times.

Cornelius grins.

Okay, he says.

Honestly.

I see.

For real!

Cornelius thinks about it for a bit, and shrugs.

I suppose they had Elton John on the other week.

No surprise there.

He was superb, John.

Did you really, really think so?

I did.

No accounting.

Are you going on, John?

I’m not.

Why not?

It’d be too fucking whimsical. Anyway the technical fact is I’m retired, Cornelius.

Hah?

And not being a dry arse but it’d be too light. You’ve got to play along with all the routines. You’ve got to do the hokey cokey with Miss fucking Piggy. You’ve got to do all the wisecracks with the frog. And to be honest, Cornelius, I don’t know if I’m in the mood these days.

I think you should go on, John.

Really?

What harm in it?

Well…

It might take you out of yourself, John.

I suppose it might.

——

Night drags itself across the hills like a weary neighbour, acheful and slowly, one drugged foot at a time, and he takes — himself wilting — to the dead father’s room. It is a room hushed with odd feeling and the boards creak beneath his monkey feet. As he settles between the ice-cold sheets, there are streaks of grey light still in webs across the Maytime. He drags a curtain against the world and sky. The ocean is out there, too, and moving — he can hear it as he puts his head down, and he wishes again for love and home. He falls at once to a heavy, troubled sleep.

Why should I run the way that I run?

——

He wakes to an unknown darkness. He is unsettled by a dream. Its shapes hold for a moment but fade as quick. He comes up to himself slowly, as though through dark water. He is in the dead father’s room. Okay. There is a wardrobe full of old suits. It sits there like an accusation. All burly-shouldered and dour, this wardrobe. Now this was a life here once, as though to say. The arms and the legs of it. He feels that meek in its presence. He sits up in the bed. The wind rises and moves through the house again. He gets up from the bed and parts the curtain and looks on down the night. It is so clear and all the stars are out. He looks on down the sky, the way it falls away from the mountain, the night-blue and gasses, which is tremendous to a man in his T-shirt and shorts at four in the morning. Oh but that fucking wardrobe. The wardrobe is a presence in the room.

Don’t be scared, John.

He goes to the wardrobe. He runs his hand through the suits in there. It gives a shivery feeling. He takes one out. It is very old and heavy. A word appears in his mouth — worsted. An old-fashioned word — two slow farmer syllables. Wor-sted. West Country farmer. Pebbles in the mouth. Wooor-sted. The material is a silvery blue in the night. The suit looks as if it would be a fit or just about.

Death be good to him, he says, and he slips an arm into a sleeve. He shucks the other in — it’s perfect. He tries the trousers and they go on just right, too. He tries out the voice in a whisper then—

Well?

He is up the hills. He has a black collie with a patch eye. He has a great knobbly blackthorn stick. The dog runs the edges of the field that fall down to the stone walls and sea. He whistles for the dog. He can hear him come back through the long wet grass. He can hear his panting and the parting of the grass. The bay beneath is so placid. He pulls back the wardrobe door for the mirror inside, for the dark-stained silver, and he stands before it, and cries—

Darkie! C’mere, Darkie!

Cornelius appears in the doorway and is pale himself as the risen dead.

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

How did you know the dog’s name?

——

Look. There is nothing for it, John. It’s half past midnight and the clock doesn’t lie. Sleep is shot and sleep is done for. You have the whole house woke. We’ll have to go out for a while. There is nothing else for it. We’ll go and have a few drinks and try relax ourselves.

At half past twelve?

They’ll only be getting going above in the Highwood, John.

Above in the fucking where?