The Emerald Lie

Before I left London, I had some odd, not to mention almost mystical, encounters. Perhaps it was simply the befuddlement of drink or too much postponed grief but I had headed to Leicester Square to do an old-fashioned act. Some inverted homage to the generations of Irish who took the cattle boats to the UK. Never to return, swallowed up in Kilburn, on damp building sites, in Kentish Town and dead pubs and Cricklewood and death sentence boardinghouses, six to a shitty room.

To book passage home on the ferry.

No online booking, just the physical action of getting a ticket over the counter, one way only. The music of De Danann and the Leicester Square Odeon; it was showing Fifty Shades of Grey.

Nostalgia through utter nonsense.

A homeless man looked at me beseechingly, utterly silent.

I put a tenner in the guy’s cap and he went,

“Hey?”

I turned back and looked at him. He had the shadowed face of the wretched but a beatific smile, said,

“Landau dumping, a strange phenomenon that occurs as a consequence of the energy exchange between electro-magnetic waves and gases in a state of plasma.”

With Google, later, I would find this was part of Birth of a Theorem by Cédric Villani, the punk rock mathematician.

No, me neither.

I said,

“You what?”

He smiled, said,

“Or, as O’Casey put it, the whole world is in a state of chassis.”

The night before I took the boat, I watched a horror movie.

Mad, eh?

In my heightened state, you would think it was the last thing I’d want to see. A debut by an Australian woman titled

The Babadook.

A scary simple masterpiece. Oh, yeah, a dog got killed in it. Of course. Left me even jumpier than I was. Next day, I packed my meager belongings: a leather coat I got on Camden Lock; books, of course; a silver flask with Jay and Guinness; and no hope in my heart. In my mind was Ed Sheeran with

“Make It Rain.”

As I boarded the ferry at Holyhead after an arduous train ride from Euston, ahead of me in the line were a father and son. The boy was maybe eight or so and woebegone. The man, slight, with that fading weak blond hair, stooped gait, and air of furtiveness. The boy caught my eye and smiled. I didn’t.

I was all out of cordiality.

As we pulled out of the dock, I went up on deck and stared at the retreating English coastline. I threw a bent penny over the side and wished

For...

Nothing.

I was sitting in the ship’s lounge, which was packed. Seemed people still liked to travel this way and of course it was convenient for traveling with children. I was rereading David Gates’s Jernigan. Class act. Alongside the novel Stoner, it reaffirmed the power of narrative and especially the art of desperation. It sang to me the dark melodies of

Loss

The broken

The wounded

Indeed.

Like holding a mirror up to my battered life.

Heard

“Mind if we take this seat?”

The man and boy.

I said,

“Sure.”

I noticed the boy sat absolutely still, like a tiny Thomas Cromwell. The father, by contrast, was a study in fidgeting. He checked his pockets, pushed his fingers through his thinning hair, checked his phone, then looked around like a bird of prey or a trapped one. Finally he leaned toward me, asked,

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you but would you mind watching Daniel while I grab a pint?”

I gave him a cold look, said,

“Make it snappy.”

I swear the boy nearly smiled. The man took it like the lash it was but rallied, said,

“Aye aye, skipper.”

And fucked off.

I tried to get back to the book but was aware the boy was staring intently at me, I went,

“Was there something?”

He had those huge saucer eyes, blue and grave. He asked,

“Do you think, I’m, like, weird?”

Duh.

I don’t know how to talk to kids. I mean, I can talk to people — well, some, anyway, and give me a few pints, I’d talk to the pope. I can talk to dogs and that’s no hardship, they are busy loving you regardless, even if you talk shite. Kids though,

Phew-oh.

I answered,

“Why would you think that?”

He thought about that, then,

“I don’t have any friends.”

Me neither. I said,

“Well, you’re young and lots of time.”

Fucking wisdom of the ages from me. He asked,

“Are you very, like, old?”

Fuck.

Then before I could lie my way around that, he said,

“My dad is sick.”

Okay.

I asked,

“From what?”

“Drink.”

I racked my remaining brain cells and got this gem:

“How about Xbox, you play those?”

“No.”

I looked around desperately for his father, realized I had a slight sheen of sweat on my brow, said,

“I’m sure you have a wonderful life ahead of you.”

He stared at me in utter derision, then said,

“Fuck me.”

Okay....

He began to recite in his very proper English accent,

... Give up Paris

You will never create anything

By reading Racine

He pronounced Racine like Rancid.

Continued,

... and Arthur Symons will always

Be

A better critic of French Literature.

He took a deep childlike breath, then,

... Go to the Aran Islands,

Live there as if you were one of the people themselves

Express a life that has never found expression.

He took a swig of a large bottle of Dr Pepper, asked,

“Do you know who wrote that?”

“I don’t.”

“Yeats.”

I had nothing to add to this and he said,

“Me and him are going to live on the Aran Islands.”

Oddly, he referred to his dad as him. Said him came back, three sheets to a whiskeyed wind, asked,

“You like Robbie Coltrane?”

Before I could answer this nonsense, he added,

“They have a betting shop on board.”

Just what the world needs.

His face had that barroom tan, the high color you get when you fast swallow the drinks and the booze suffuses your cheeks with a false sheen of health. And he had that limited bonhomie that is as intense as it is short-lived. I said,

“I’m Jack Taylor and I’ve already met Daniel.”

He shot the boy a warning glance, as in,

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

He said,

Turning,

“So poking your nose in my affairs already.”

Coming hard arse at me, it’s where I live, what I love. I snapped,

“Depends on what you’ve got to hide.”

His eyes flashed, rage pushing to be let out. I could help there. I put out my hand, the mutilated fingers on full show, gritted,

“So, your name?”

He gave a shrill laugh, well, more of a giggle, said,

“Good Lord, you sound like a cop.”

Daniel blurted,

“He’s not my father.”

Pause.

Now we had us a whole other interesting game of hurling. Instinctively he raised his fist and I said, real quiet,

“Touch the boy and I will fuck you over the side.”

Needless to say, this was something of a conversation killer.

The guy blurted,

“No need to get all het up.”

I asked, steel leaking all over my tone,

“What are you to the boy?”

Maybe I read it wrong but the boy seemed to be suppressing a smile. The guy offered his hand, said,

“We seem to be off on the wrong foot. I’m Stanley Reed, and I’m the boy’s uncle.”

In pedophile talk, uncle has a whole other connotation, and the guy suddenly realized that, tried,

“The boy’s mum is poorly and I’m taking him for a bit of a break to the Aran Islands.”

I stood up and he reached for my arm, pleaded,

“Please give me a minute,”

Looked at Daniel, added,

“Away from the boy.”

We moved out to a corridor but it was jammed. Between the cinemas, bowling, bingo, the place was a mini mall. We headed into the men’s room and

He started,

“You like hookers and margaritas?”

WTF?

Then,

“Who doesn’t, right? My treat?”

I asked,

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I want to go...”

Reached for the description,

“Do you want to party?”

Added,

“With you?”

He sighed, said,

“Guess not.”

Then sucker-punched me in the gut; it hurt.

As I bent over, he grabbed my hair, used his knee to break my nose, let me fall, and did a rapid series of vicious kicks to my head and face. In my head, Elton John was unspooling.

“I can see Daniel waving good-bye.”

Reed bent down, whispered in my ear,

“I paid good money for that little cunt, and you know what, hotshot? He is nearly too old for my taste already.”

Paused.

“How time flies when you are fucking...”

Another pause.

“... Sweetness.”