The Marble Collector

29

I’m sitting before Larry Brennan, aka Lampy, known as such due to his teenage pastime of lamping animals late at night, usually rabbits, when we were teenagers. He had an uncle in Meath that he used to be sent to on weekends; his dad was an alcoholic and his ma had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t cope with much, so he was sent to his uncle, his sister sent to their aunt. His sister got the better deal. They were thinking he’d be in a better place than at home but they were wrong. His uncle wasn’t much better than his da, he just seemed more responsible because he didn’t have his own family to care for. He was functioning okay by himself. He was fond of the drink, too fond of Larry too, though I don’t think I realised that until I was older and looked back on it. Larry always wanted me to go with him, I think his uncle didn’t bother with him if he had a friend there, but I didn’t like his uncle one bit. Tom was his name. I went once for the weekend and, despite the adventure, the misadventure, the freedom to do and eat and drink whatever we wished at whatever time of the day or night, I wouldn’t go back whenever he asked. His uncle wasn’t right. I should have known what was going on but I didn’t.

The lamping was fun. Larry would take his uncle’s air rifle and we’d go out to the fields in the pitch-black of night. It was my job to hold the light, one-million-candle strength, and stun the rabbits, then he’d shoot them. Half the time he didn’t even get their bodies. I always remember thinking Ma would make a great stew with it, but I had no way of keeping it fresh and bringing it back, or I didn’t ever ask anyone how. It wasn’t about the food for Larry, it was about the kill, and I’m sure every rabbit he shot was really his uncle or his dad, or his ma or whoever else was letting him down in the world. Maybe even me for being right there and not doing anything about it.

Lamping was best done at the darkest hour; cloudy nights were good, but the best conditions were when the moon was new. I remember Larry checking the weather as it got close to the weekend, almost going mental and causing all kinds of hell in school when the weather wasn’t good for lamping. I suppose he knew that he’d have to stay in the house all night and he knew what that meant. Hamish wasn’t around then. I was sixteen and he’d headed off to Liverpool, but he would have loved it there, he would have come with me. And he would have sorted Larry’s uncle out too.

I look at Larry ‘Lampy’ Brennan now, the same age as me, fifty-seven, but slim, trim, respectable. I’m sitting across from him at his desk, and I think of all of the things that I know about him. He’s wearing a smart suit, employs a few dozen people, he’s doing well for himself, dragged himself out of the shit and washed himself off. My heart pounds as he smooths down his tie with manicured fingernails as he waits for my response, and I feel the tension in my chest that just never goes away and I’m so heavy these days I’m constantly wheezing, trying to catch my breath.

‘I bet there’s no one in your life now that knows where we came from,’ I say.

He pauses, unsure of what I mean.

‘You know what I mean, Lampy.’

He freezes then and I know that I’ve brought him back to being someone he’s tried so hard to run away from in an instant. He’s sixteen again. He’s Lampy Brennan and it’s mayhem in his head, the world is against him and he’s fighting for himself against everybody and everything.

‘What are you saying, Fergus?’ he asks quietly.

I feel the sweat trickle down my right temple and I want to catch it but to do so would be to bring attention to it. ‘I’m just saying that I’m sure a few people would be surprised by the things I know about you. That’s all.’

He leans forward slowly. ‘Are you threatening me, Fergus?’

I fix him with a stare, a long hard look, I don’t need to answer, let him take from it what he may. I need this to work, I’m fifty-seven years old, I’ve cashed in every single favour everyone ever owed me and more, now I owe more favours than I’ll ever have time to repay. I’ve hit a wall, this is the last trick up my sleeve, reduced to threats like the desperate lowlife I’ve become.

‘Fergus,’ he says quietly, looking down at his desk. ‘This decision isn’t personal. These are difficult times. I took you on because I wanted to help you out, out of loyalty.’ He seems shaken. ‘We said we’d look at it after six months. After six months I told you you had to up your game, you were selling the least – and yes, I know it was early days. But it’s been nine months now, it’s not good here, I have to start losing people. You were the last person in, which means you’re the first person out. And frankly,’ the anger seems to explode from nowhere as if he realises he should forget about being polite to me, ‘threatening me isn’t going to endear you to me, and it doesn’t take away the fact that you are the worst salesman on the floor and you have earned the company the least amount of money.’

‘You need to give me more time,’ I say, feeling the panic rise, trying to sound cool, assured, like I’m someone he can trust. ‘I’m still finding my feet. The first year is hard, but I’m getting there now. I have a real understanding of how things work around here.’

‘I can’t afford to give you more time,’ he says. ‘I just can’t.’

I fight it out some more with him, but the more I push, the further he backs away, the tougher he becomes.

‘When?’ I ask quietly, feeling my entire world cave in on me.

‘I was giving you one month’s notice,’ he says, and I think about one more month until it all falls apart. ‘But in light of your threat, I am suggesting immediate termination.’

I have one more trick up my sleeve, the worst one of all, the one I have never wanted to resort to all of my life.

‘Please,’ I say and he looks at me in surprise, the anger evaporated, ‘Larry please. I beg you.’

Favours, threats and, last but not least, begging.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ Cat yelps as she finds me on the floor of my apartment.

I’ve pushed all the furniture to one wall. The armchairs are piled up on the couch, the coffee table is filling the tiny cubby kitchen and the rug is rolled up and out on the balcony. A perfectly large space has been cleared before me on the floor and I have a Sharpie in hand and am about to deface the wooden floors.

I’ve drawn a small circle eight inches wide and am in the middle of drawing a larger circle around it eleven foot in diameter. I can’t talk to her because I’m concentrating.

‘Fergus!’ she looks around, eyes wide, mouth open. ‘We were supposed to have lunch with Joe and Finn, remember? We were all waiting for you at the restaurant. I called and called you. I ate with them alone. Fergus? Can you hear me? I went to your work, they said you’d gone home.’

I ignore her, working on the circle.

‘Did you forget, Fergus?’ her voice softer. ‘Did you forget again? This has happened a few times now, are you well, my love? Something is not right.’

She is down on her knees beside me on the floor, but I can’t look at her. I’m busy.

‘Are you okay? Are you feeling well? You don’t look… Fergus, you are dripping wet.’

‘Right,’ I say, putting the marker down and sitting back on my haunches as I feel another drip of sweat fall from my nose. ‘This game is called Increase Pound, and that is exactly what it’s going to help us do. The small circle is the pound, the large circle is the bar. You shoot the taw from-’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.’ I hand her some marbles, which she takes as though they’re hand grenades.

‘Fergus, it’s three p.m., shouldn’t you be at work and not playing marbles? This is ridiculous, I have to get back to work myself. I don’t understand, what’s going on?’

‘I was fired!’ I shout suddenly, which silences her and makes her jump in fright. ‘You’re the bank,’ I say, more aggressively than I intend. ‘You throw the marble and anything you hit in the pound becomes your property. If you don’t hit anything your taw stays where it is and you go again. You have ten tries.’

I place my watch collection in the pound, the smaller inner circle. ‘Throw the marble. Hit it.’

She looks at the watch collection and then at the items lining the circles which will follow and her eyes fill.

‘Oh, Fergus, you don’t have to do this. Joe can help you. You know that he’s offered already.’

‘I’m not taking handouts,’ I say, feeling dizzy at the thought of baby Joe paying my way. Joe who was never really part of my family until Cat welcomed him in with open arms. It wouldn’t be fair to him. ‘I got myself into this mess, I’m going to get myself out of it.’

It was the marbles that got me into this situation in the first place. Getting rid of them will get me out of it. The lies, the deceit, the betrayal, me messing around, not focusing on the life I was living, splitting myself from myself and from my family. It’s Alfie’s birthday party and I can’t bring Cat to visit, because Sabrina doesn’t know Cat, she doesn’t even know my great love, and I don’t know where to start. To tell Sabrina about Cat would be to tell her about the marbles, and how can I do that? After a whole life of lying. Cat says she won’t say a word until I find a way to tell Sabrina, but it will slip out, it’s bound to, and then not to say it would be lying. Both of us lying to my daughter. Getting my marbles secretly valued in California was the real marker of how bad my financial situation had gotten. I was embarrassed, and that lie almost ended us, me showing up blind drunk back at the hotel. But she’s sticking with me. She says she understands, but it’s all a mess, it’s all a mess. It’s the marbles’ fault.

Cat throws the marble. It’s a crap throw, a deliberately bad one, and it misses. Cat and I have played marbles together on many occasions. As soon as I opened her up to my world I welcomed her into it; she has been to marble games with me, to marble conventions, she’s not a great marble player, but she’s not this bad.

‘Do it properly!’ I yell, and she starts to cry. ‘Do it, do it!’ I pick the marble up and force it into her hand. ‘Throw it!’

She throws it and it hits the watch collection in the pound.

‘Right, it’s yours. It’s the bank’s.’ I pick it up and toss it aside. ‘Next!’ I place down my ma’s engagement ring.

She misses. I yell at her to try harder.

‘Fergus, I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, please stop.’ Tears are streaming from her eyes and she collapses in a heap on the floor. I grab the marbles from her and I throw. I hit a ring box, that’s it, Mammy’s wedding ring: property of the bank. I throw it again and hit the Akro Agate Sample Box from 1930 valued between seven thousand and thirteen thousand. Of course I hit it, it is almost bigger than the pound.

Next are the World’s Best Moons, in the original box, valued between four thousand and seven thousand. I hit it. My two most valuable collections. Them first, then everything else, everything must go.

‘I’ve found a buyer for these,’ I tell Cat a few days later, as I put the marble collections down in order for me to put on my coat. ‘I’m meeting him in town later. At O’Donoghue’s. He’s flown in from London to buy them. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth, we agreed fifteen thousand euro cash.’

‘You don’t look well, Fergus.’ She runs her hand over my face, and I kiss her palm. ‘You should lie down.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I will, after I meet him.’

‘You don’t want to sell these. These are precious. All of your memories…’

‘Memories last for ever. These…’ I can barely look at them as I say it. ‘These will pay the mortgages for a few months, give me time to sort something out.’ What though? No job, no one hiring. Not at my age. Think, think, what, what. Sell the marbles.

‘You’re pale, you should lie down. Let me go for you.’

It’s the best idea and we both know it. If I go I won’t be able to part with them and I need to, or the bank will take my home from me.

She leaves with the marbles and I go to bed. She returns some time later, it’s dark, I don’t know what time it is and I feel like I haven’t slept but I must have. She comes to my bedside and I smell wine on her breath.

‘Did you sell them?’ I ask.

‘I got the money,’ she replies, placing an envelope by the bedside.

‘The marbles are gone?’

She hesitates. ‘Yes, they’re gone.’

She rubs my hair, my face, kisses me. At least I have her. I want to make a joke about her value but I can’t figure it out.

‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she says, sliding away.

As soon as I hear the water start I do something I haven’t done for a very long time, I cry. Deep and painful, like I’m a child again. I fall asleep before Cat is out of the shower. When I wake up I’m in hospital and the next time I see Cat is the first time I meet her, in a rehabilitation centre that I call home, where she is visiting a friend.