A Moral Evil

The Devil stood in the corner, smiling, laughing. His whoreish servants surrounded him, writhing in supplication to his every whim. Forked tongues curled, slithering on his red flesh, begging for his favour. Their eyes sparkled like sharpened daggers, coaxing. They toss their lithe bodies in rhythmical lurches; they are his. From the darkness I can see it all. He will have his fill . . .

But no: this Devil is of a more fiendish kind, for he does not grab at their bait. His black eyes are listless, languid, show no interest. He is not even approaching humanity. Neither is he animal . . . This is something different, something beyond evil. A demon so nefarious, Hell would refuse his entrance. And so he comes to live among us poor mortals, to sabotage our magnanimity, to banish our pure innocence in a swirling conflagration. He is not of this world or the world to come, but of one which exists in the darkest gutters of our most abandoned souls. And there is only one way with which he can be dealt: immolation. Oh, how it undulates on the tongue . . . Im-mo-la-tion.  

“Christ, it’s packed,” said Lisa, entering Cruise’s. She tripped along in her heels and lifted Rory’s jumper from her head. “Thank you, Rory. You’ll have to let it dry for a while, or you’ll get pneumonia. I knew I should’ve brought the umbrella. Jesus, I can hardly hear myself . . .”

Rory and Niamh emerged from under their umbrella, and shook off whatever rain had landed on them. Niamh shivered and clung on to Rory’s arm. There wasn’t much warmth in him; he had been a weak, skinny child, and now, as a man, was no better. The bones of his elbows protruded under his short sleeves, almost threatening to break through the pale skin. He threw himself jovially around Niamh and attempted to warm up the purple flesh around her arms.

“Oh, it’s grand for ye men,” she said, muffled by Rory, “ye can wear jeans and jumpers out. Look at me in this fucking mini-skirt. Complete joke.”

Rory separated himself from her and stood back smiling. “Are ya warm now?”

“I’m better,” she laughed.

“Some crowd,” said Rory, surveying the room.

“Ah, it’s always the same on these bank holidays,” said Lisa. “If you were here tomorrow night, though, you’d see no one but the barman and the three auld drunks in here. There’s talks of it closing, you know . . .” she added in a hush.

“Really?” said Niamh. “I thought this place was flying it with the club and all.”

“Ah, mismanagement or something. Biting off more than they could chew. The usual lark, sure.”

“Well,” said Rory, “we may as well enjoy it so while it’s still with us. What’ll ye have?”

“No, Rory, you always end up buying us everything,” said Niamh. “We’re treating you tonight; after those results, you deserve something. What did Mam say, by the way? Was she jumping up and down like a mad thing?”

“Ah, she was happy all right.”

“Would ya listen to him?” he said to Lisa. “Of course she was fecking happy! You and your modesty . . . There’s times I’d love if you’d just boast your arse off for the night. Anyway, come on, what’ll you have?”

“A bottle of Corona is fine.”

“Okay, we’ll be back in a sec.” Niamh and Lisa skipped along to the bar. They’ll be there a while, thought Rory. Bloody bank holidays were all the same. But you’d no choice but to go out for them. All the old ones reviving their youth, trying to convince themselves that they’re still lookers. Woman there near the toilets, for example, her belly bulging under that horrific metallic dress. Thirty? More maybe? Late twenties, certainly. Suppose she’ll try her hand at getting into the Queen’s tonight. Looks fairly gone already, to be honest. Wet black hair: must have been out in the rain, smoking maybe. He’d have to stop with the smoking, too. It was becoming far too common an occurrence after a few drinks. His mother would kill him if she heard. She was in a bit of a fluster this evening, as well, for some reason or other. Stay with your friends, be sure and get a taxi now . . . stuff she hadn’t said since he was going out in college first. He was almost twenty-two, for goodness sake. Maybe she thought he’d go hell-bent after the results. No fear of it. Most likely he’d end up minding those other two messers after an hour or two. Are they near the bar yet? No sign. Oh, they’ll be a while. Lisa looks lovely tonight. Beautiful dress, and her eyes . . . how could he describe them? Big, bold, and white. Just beautiful, whatever it was. Strange. He was always a bit awkward around her, didn’t know what to say. He could mess away with Niamh, catch her and dance with her and cuddle her, it didn’t matter. But Lisa was different. Perhaps if she hadn’t been going out with Joseph all those years ago he could have chanced his arm . . . Well, that’s how things go. And it would have been living a lie, really. He was happier now more than ever. Yes. Comfortable, at ease with himself, and so was everyone else, it seemed. Dad was brilliant last week. So proud. Like any normal Dad would be for their normal son. Oh, why didn’t he hold back from crying; though Dad didn’t seem to care or notice, only hugging him tighter. That was a lovely day. Lovely.

Quare looking fella over there with the dishevelled hair on him. Like he just came in from the farm. Perhaps he has. Look at him staring around the bar with the wild eyes. Christ above, but you get funny folks every so often, don’t you? Don’t know anyone here at all. Maybe they’re gone into the Queen’s already? It’s late enough, like. What, half eleven, is it? Wait now, it must be that anyway. It was at least eleven when they called over in the car . . . Five to twelve, fuck me! Might get away without having to go into the club at all tonight so. It’d be grand. Can’t stick that shite on a busy night like tonight. Cattle mart is all it is. Mad young fuckers out of their skulls falling on top of women. How did they put up with that at all? Niamh there giving out about it after every night out, and there she is with the mini-skirt on again tonight. What more can she expect? . . .  Well, no, it isn’t right either. How is it they can control themselves? They’re built different, there’s no doubt. Whatever little adjusting the Man above did on the first day. Who’s that guy that keeps looking over? Talking to those girls. Look at him there at it again. Wonder is he? . . . Could be. The way he’s flapping the hand up and down. Will you ever turn around to fuck? Jesus. Does he know? Perhaps the voice gave it away? Voice always giving it away, for fuck sake. The one thing . . . The girls said they wouldn’t have known but for the voice all those years ago. Wonder how long did they know? Weren’t shocked anyway. Ah, he is for sure, making no bones about it. Oh, just a quiet night now, no need for you to be coming over here. Lord God. Let you stay there now. Good man.

Might be a good time to tell them about the news when they come back. So long as they won’t be jealous. Lisa had trouble with the exams, for sure. You’d know by the face on her every time Niamh goes on about it. Niamh got on grand, it seems. Wild but well able to study when it comes to it. Lisa just doesn’t have the same knack for it. Still, she has plenty more, and perhaps better things at that.

Belfast will be strange. Like this: standing around, knowing no one. Lord, Lord, Lord. Couldn’t go for student accommodation, could end up with some mad first years. A nice quiet apartment somewhere near the university would be lovely, but what are the chances? Never be so lucky. All changes, big changes. A Masters is tough going, don’t be under any illusions. There’ll be plenty there just as talented and better. But wasn’t the same thing said going to UL the first time, too? Awful nervous that first week. Remember the swirling knots in the stomach walking into the lecture hall. The lecturer rambling on and on about the different law books, how important the library was, about joining the debating society. Suffocating. And then there’d be the ones that felt it their duty to inform the rest of the students of their imminent genius as early as possible. Remember that tall fella with the long, curly dark hair, and the moon glasses? He never shut it for the first month. He was convincing, too. Don’t know what he does now. Didn’t see him much after first year. George was his name. Never know, could have dropped out. Wasn’t until into second year that the courage was mustered to talk up a bit. Got into it then. And the jealousy was pretty clear from some of them. Streaks ahead, may as well admit it now; as Niamh says, boast your arse off. No harm in a small bit of it, sure.

But a Masters: different story. It’ll take a while to build the confidence again, despite all the awards. Funny, isn’t it? It’s all bluffery. Is that a word, bluffery? All bullshit. All superiority is built on strong foundations of it. Bluffing! . . . Bluffery! Christ knows it’s a good job it isn’t an English Masters! Ah, not that bad at English either, to be fair. Sure, it’s more bullshit, but it’s harmless enough bullshit, all the same. They were never much good at debating, those English students. Too inclined to stick to what they believed in. Pure idealists. Admire them in one way. Doesn’t work, though.

‘LLM in Human Rights Law’ – now for you, sounds impressive. Mrs. Reid over the road fierce taken by it altogether. None of hers ever did too much after college, did they? Though she had notions of medicine for them, according to mother. But, yeah, Human Rights should be good. Always liked that side of it, especially dealing with Religion and –

Fuck, love this song! And Stephen would go on now about some obscure Indie band if he was here. Fuck that, would he not just leave things alone. Each to their own. That’s Arts for you. They love anything different. God forbid they’d be normal, the poor feckers. What’s this his word is? . . . Philistine! Lord, he loves coming out with that. ‘The philistine masses . . .’ he’d say. ‘No man loves truth or goodness unless he abhors the multitude.’ Some philosopher he took that from. How stupid. Why would you spend your time hating the world? Awful waste. Only making life harder for himself in the long run. Hasn’t the world been in the hands of the masses for the last few hundreds of years, and it’s not doing too bad, is it? Still though, what a song! Love the DJs they get here, play all the good stuff. No weird shite here, not like that pub in –

“Is it daydreaming entirely you are?”

“Jesus!” said Rory, turning to see Niamh and Lisa smiling with cocktails in their hands.

“We got you one. Can’t be having you turning into a big man drinking beer all the time.”

“Ah, now . . .” Rory took the cocktail from Niamh. Sex on the beach. Wouldn’t want to be showing this off too much. Not with the kind of crowd that’d be here tonight. Not too bad, though. Nice.

“You know who we just met there?” said Lisa.

“–Cathal Burke and Margaret Whelan!” said Niamh. “Tearing the faces off each other, they were.”

“Fuck off!”

“Yeah, that’s the God-honest truth. Out of their heads, too. Won’t go down well tomorrow morning, I’m telling you. Cathal’s gang were all there, as well. Heading into the Queens. They’ll do well to get in. Very, very messy.”

“Ah, sure, that’s typical them,” said Rory, sipping through the straw on his drink.

“Remember when you used to be part of that crowd?”

“I know. Ah, well . . . Things change, people change.”

“Cathal never really changed, though.”

“I never said it was him that changed.” Rory tried to smile at Niamh. The dressing room before P.E. class. The jeers. Oh, look who’s here, lads. Arses to the wall now. Cathal. Part of his gang? “That’s the way, sure . . .”

“He’s a bollocks,” said Lisa, looking from Niamh to Rory.

“Yeah, exactly, a bollocks,” said Niamh, realising her mistake. “And he’ll never come to anything, you’ll see. Still be here in ten years, slaving away at some mind-numbing job. Not worth even thinking about those kinds of people. Not worth the shite that’d cling to your shoe. Now, what was it got us talking about those idiots? Oh, yeah, they’re going to the Queens. Will we bother heading in at all, or what?”

“I’m happy here anyway,” said Lisa. “What about you Rory?”

“Yeah, that suits me.”

Niamh nodded. “That’s grand so, we’ll stick here.”

“If you want to go in, we can. After you running through the rain in your dress, you might want to put it to some use.”

“Watch it, you!” said Niamh, smirking. “I’m not like them lot.”

“Ah, I know you’re not,” said Rory. “Here, I must go to the toilet. I’ll be back in a sec, just hold the drink there.”

“Okay, mind yourself.”

The crowd seemed to be lessening. Making their way next door. Christ, it’d be jammed in the club on a night like tonight. Thank God they weren’t going. Sorry, just get past there. Thanks. Imagine the commotion outside Supermacs tonight. Fighting like cattle to get in the doors and maul into a chicken burger and garlic chips. Always a sign they’re not getting any further with the women, those garlic chips. Where is it the toilets are again? Oh, yes. Some idiots fighting then in the queue. What was it someone said about Seamus the other day? Quare hawk, smoking all sorts. For God’s sake. Never saw him to get into a fight with anyone because of it, though. Hypocrites. Jesus, listen to this, turning into him now, ‘abhorring the multitude,’ and all that. Fuck it, there’s two in there. What now? The cubicle . . . engaged. Fuck it. Could go back and hold it for a while longer . . . No, it’s too late now, they can see. Lord, the sweat on the walls. How do they stand there and fire away like animals?

“And I said, would ya not just . . . like, get with . . . ya know?”

“Fuckin’ . . . fuckin’ whore.”

“I fuckin’ know.”

“Fuck that.”

“Fuck that, is right . . . That’s the fuckin’ truth . . . Fuck that, is right.”

The fatter one turned around with his cock still hanging out of his pants. He looked in a daze at Rory and tried to fumble it back inside. Rory looked at the roof, floor, anything.

“Well?” he said. His tongue stuck out as he continued with his trying task.

“Well,” said Rory, nodding at him.

He grinned, looked back at the other fella at the urinals, then turned to Rory again. “Are ya not goin’ takin’ a piss, at all, nah?” He left out a long, slow ‘hah’. The other one answered a few seconds later with a ‘hah’ of his own.

“I’m just waiting for . . .” Rory pointed at the cubicle.

“Ah, right. Takin’ a good shit, ya? Could do with one myself, but . . . fuck it, I’ll wait ‘til mornin’.”

The door opened. Thank fuck. Old man, grey beard, chubby face, got out. Nodded at Rory. Nodded back. Closed the door and pulled the lock across. “Good luck now, have a nice shit.” The fella outside. No laughing. He probably meant it. Poor soul.

No form for this; wonder why? Should be dying for a piss-up. Six months – more maybe? – since the last drop. All study for the last year. Didn’t go out the night after the exams either. This kind of shit, though, why would you willingly inflict it? Don’t know, but we do. Cathal and them always loved it. Hayes’ field near the G.A.A. pitch, and what was it, second year maybe? Beautiful night, – that’s it, it was the summer before second year – the red sky, shepherd’s delight and all that, the little tent pitched up by Thomas and O’Halloran. And it was O’Halloran who supplied them, from his mother’s pub. Planning it with weeks. A tenner and two cans for everyone. Had only one. That sharp taste, like munching into a sour apple, or something. Tried not to cough. Hiding it then, spluttering, pretending it was a laugh. Cathal had had loads before, absolutely loads. Experienced drinker, yes sir! Blubbering fool was wasted after half a can. And the walk – stumble - home through the long rushes, into the G.A.A pitch, and hanging off the crossbar. And then Bríd, with her chubby cheeks and curly brown hair, urged on by giggling Niamh. Into the dugout on the far side of the pitch. How strange it felt. Hands hanging limp, not knowing whether to leave them hang or go all out like someone on the telly. Felt nothing. Well, something . . . Completion maybe. Duty fulfilled. Her embarrassed smile, her eyes flicking every which way. “Will we go back?” She nodded and lurched for a hand to hold in her own, a sign that all had gone as planned, they were normal functioning animals, let there be no doubt now.

Rory zipped up his trousers and opened the door of the cubicle. No one there. It was nearly one o’clock, whoever was going to the club would be gone by now. Much quieter outside in the bar altogether. Only a few little circles of people left. Mostly older. Where were they? They hadn’t gone to the Queens without him, surely? Would Niamh chance it for the laugh? Rory looked to one of the mirrors with a poster ‘Guinness makes you stronger’ beside it in the far corner of the pub. He could see Lisa’s shining blonde hair reflected in it. Also reflected was that ragged-looking fucker from before, a dirty beard to match. His face contorted in the frame, Niamh and Lisa tried to dismiss him with their arms. Worried, red faces. Who the fuck did he think he was? Again they remonstrated. He edged closer, the cunt, his mouth moving even more rapidly. Rory walked across to them, tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and with a look of disgust, eyed him up and down.

“Excuse me,” said Rory, trying to keep his voice clear, “go on now, we’re trying to have a chat.”

Even more disgusted. Turned back again.

“I’m sorry, move on now, and don’t be annoying us.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” He didn’t look at Rory, but his face reflected in the mirror. His eyes were closed.

“Go on now. Go on.”

They stayed closed.

“Sorry, please just go now. Go on.”

Nothing.

“Go—”

And with that, he turned, his eyes aflame, scalded Rory’s, and marched out the door and into the descending ropes of rain. Like a flash of light through a tumultuous sky, he had come and gone and left his imprint, all in a brief, blazing moment. The ground between them scorched.

Lisa touched Rory’s arm. “Thanks.”

“Fucking creep,” said Niamh.

“Was he at ye long?”

“Oh, just a minute or so before you came out. It was mostly Lisa he was bothering. You always get them on nights like this. Always.”

“It’s all right now, he’s gone anyway. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.” Lisa nodded at Rory.

They looked around at the now almost empty pub. Last orders.

“Do ye want a drink?” Rory asked.

Niamh looked at Lisa. They both shrugged.

“Is there any point in staying any longer?”

Niamh sighed. “Not really, I suppose. That fucker has me thrown off now. Do you want the rest of your drink?”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll walk ye home so and get a taxi out then,” said Rory.

“You don’t have to,” said Niamh. “Sure, we’ve each other anyway.”

Lisa looked at Rory. He turned back to Nimah. “No, I will, it’s grand. Come on so.”

They walked out to the doorway. Niamh struggled with her umbrella, cursing this and that. The rain battered the side of her face, until finally the umbrella bloomed open. Rory felt a small squeeze on his arm. He looked down at the small face cupped in by that blonde hair. “Thanks,” whispered Lisa.

He felt something, whatever it was. Completion of duty? Nah, not that . . .

The Devil lay. Blood, not black but vermillion, on his forehead. Why not black? Fiend of a different kind. Their blood shall be upon them . . .  Red brick, how coarse it feels on the fingers, they tear so easily on its edges. How it tears, through his face. But caution, gallant Defender, Crusader, for the rock on which all that it is will not lead to his final fall. No, not it. Not it! you vulgar demon. Lie there, lie, thou wilt not crawl further. I’ th’ long grass, how suitable. No, not it. Thou shalt be slain by that which thou hast sinned with, thy nature’s most betrayed gift.

Feel the rip across your face, feel the skin buckle. Restraint, Defender, restraint. Let not passion foil this ritual, as he has foiled his nature. Lie, fiend, lie, all lies that you spout ‘gainst this virtue that is our gift. Lie, lie, Thou shalt not lie with mankind . . . It is an abomination! Thou lie at mine feet now, fiend, due penalty for your perversion.

How easy it could have been. How you could have let nature dictate as it pleased. Go on, go on, you had it so, had you not? I go, I go on now. I do my service, unlike those who fall, those Lucifers, those Non Serviums, those . . . Abominations! Restraint. What? Emotion is it I see? Tears? From thine eyes? Tears to match the tears slashed across thy cheek! No. Caution, Defender. Oh, now I go. And you would have those sirens for thyself, to allow to wallow and wilt. Or would thou pervert them to shameful lusts? Is that what you wished? Corrupt and corrode their souls as your own, vile creature of the dark!

And despite your black eyes you did not see this Crusader follow you through the night. Follow you into that vehicle. ‘Take me home’. Oh, I had him take you home all right. Back to where you belong. Protest and fulminate all you pleased, it did not work, did it, fiend? He did not listen to your cries and whimpers. Thought you had drunk from that inebriating river . . . River of poison, more like. Flowing as your blood does now. Their blood shall be upon them! How it all works, and you who did not listen. Thought it was idle talk in an empty edifice. Ah, but now the walls have fallen, with your soul, and now you see, now you hear the Crusading clamour, the blasts once blasphemed! How it pierces your ears! Your ears . . . Then Simon Peter, who had a sword, drew it and struck the high priest's servant, cutting . . . Scream! Canst thou hear the screams, canst thou hear the Defender laugh in the night? Canst thou? HA! Upon you! Thy blood is upon you!

Enough. Light rises soon. Light of the world. You shall see it, fiend, but you shall never receive it. Fiery light is all that thou shall have. Soon the farmer will walk these fields, we must act quick, my fiend. He will find you, but not I. No one can hear your cries, it is too late. Just as the driver would not hear you, would not listen to your pleas. Late, far too late. We have but one remaining part of the ritual to perform, then all will have been completed. The rest shall be silence, you unprincely Hamlet, you. Lie still, creature. No good to writhe now. I will wash and sanctify this earth of your ignoble stains. Do not kick your legs, it makes no difference, all energy has been devoured by that incarnadine rock. Who else has lowered these jeans, wanting to perform such shameful lusts? How many have you done the same to? Abominable!

There it is. Your sinful weapon. Limp, lusting, lewd, lascivious, libidinal, long ell. How you have corrupted countless souls with this. And you who thought all would be forgiven. You who ignored the perilous warnings. You who will have to suffer your due penalty! There may be no mountain, or altar on which to offer you up, but the Lord knows I do my best. The lamb has been provided by Him. No heavenly cries, just a demon’s! And I reach out my hand and take the knife to slay my son, my fiend! Now!

That which causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.

It is gone.

Your sin.

It is finished.

I take this flame to complete what must be done. Do not look at it as you do. It is nothing compared to what awaits. I only do my best. The farmer will wonder who took his red can of fuel before he finds your black body. And still you scream. Can you not see it is over? You are living the end. You are living your death. It hurts me to watch you so, cleansed being. It does no good to wait further. I drop this flaming tongue which will speak that beautiful truth: Im-mo-la-tion.

I can do no more. Into Your hands I commit this spirit. This conflagrating spirit. Once stained, sinning spirit. This spirit soaring into the starry, still sky. Look into its darkest depths. There he now lies. I feel Your gaze, I feel Your praise. Now You may rest, the Devil hath been slain.

Mainstream

wel e ws jst dif wsnt e. nt much els u cn say bout t rely. sad bt fuk t. nyway 1^st tings 1^st e ws annoyin. made u feel a idiot. e ws up der n his throne lukn dwn hawhawhaw stoopid pesants. al dat sh1t. i mean ppl cn nly tak dat so long b4 u start getn sh1t bak at u. his own fault. stil a shok lyk wen t hapend. Bt no1 els 2 blame ryt. his ma wud say dif. d uproar d day of t. nd al d cryn den. i cryd 2 bt lyk u had 2. yanno. Yea ah wel. God b gud n al. L

Preconditioned imbeciles. Inculcation. Yes, that was it: inculcation. ‘You will like this,’ and they do. Her latest one is brilliant, and so on and on . . . This is what normal people like and do; are you normal? Greatest slavery of the soul yet. Even Supreme Being benign in comparison. At least only small duties there. This is life, not an hour a week. Religion of the present self, not just immortal soul. Immortal: impossible. So what difference, really? Makes none. And it’s the same all down along the screen. Why do you bother? Depresses you in the end, the more reality becomes clear. If nothing else, it serves that function: exposes reality. They don’t see it; do they? No, they couldn’t. How could they? Everyday waking up to darkness. No, not darkness either. What, something that covers the light. Cap, canopy, covers. No. Something. Curtains. Yes. Waking up to close the curtains for another day.

                You should write it down. Put it there. It won’t get liked, you know? But who cares? They do of course. Life’s worth measured in friends and likes. Bullshit. ‘Each morning you wake up to close the curtains for another day.’ Return. See how they like that. Like. Not a hope. And are you any fucking different after all, are you? Are you not after the same thing? It’s hard to know. The noises you pump through your ears . . . Is it just because they’re noises with a different name. We’re not popular, so we’re better. But they are surely. Aren’t they? There’s meaning. Thought. Depth. There is. There has to be. Some kind of nourishment anyway. What was the word? You wrote it down . . . somewhere here. Where . . . Yes, wait now . . . vermilion: a brilliant scarlet red; effulgent: shining forth brilliantly; and, yes, here, pabulum: intellectual nourishment (or physical, such as food). Pabulum, there has to be something extra of it, surely? It’s all right, Ma, I’m only bleeding. How could you compare? Disillusioned words like bullets bark / As human gods aim for their marks. There’s more. Yes, you must be right. Whatever else, you must be right. To know you’re living a lie is not living. Death despite breath. Hmm. Put it down. Too soon again? No, what difference. When no one listens you may as well shout.

                Aha! And the masses answer . . . Let’s see, who is it? Paul. Suppose he’ll have a thesis written for you. Question for the metaphysical worth of your point, maybe?

                --wat d fuk r u on bot nw????!! curtains!! ur a fukn skitzo man!! Sort ur lif lyk

                Enlightened. ‘Schizo.’ Sort my life. Suppose I should. Though low when they give advice on what they have not themselves. Where would I start? It’d be like trying to piece together a million fragments of broken glass. Perhaps I’ll give him that, and see how he deals with it. A million fragments. All jagged. All dangerous. I could bleed to death with the slightest cut. Bleed . . .  Oh, how happy I would make them then; how much easier their lives would be. No questions, only answers. Is that not all we/they want? Here we go again . . .

                --lol!!! glass??? Ahhhh man wat hapend d curtains???? cut em up insted!!! hahahaha!!!!

                Brilliant. The English are funny, but the Irish have wit. What idiot spouted that? It was one of those charlatans at mother’s birthday last year, wasn’t it? Oscar Wilde, she said, looking around the table, and the rest nodding away like sheep. What would she know about wit? Provide examples, Miss. And prithee tell us whether the genius in question was Irish or English, and to what extent he could be said to be both? Go on, dear, you brought this up. The Irish are funny, no doubt; are we not the laughing stock of the world, sure? Guffaw, guffaw! Of course you sat, and chewed away – chewed? masticated you could say – on your dinner; smiled politely, tittered occasionally. That’s what you do in this world. Otherwise you won’t do at all. Ain’t that the truth? Oh, wait . . .

                --Go on Paul!! Haha! U tell him! :D

                Well now, Sarah, that was less than kind. And she supposed to be one of our brightest stars. What was it they called it? It wasn’t student of the year . . . Person of the year. That was it. A nice certificate and a cheque, as well. How lovely. For generous contribution to the school and her class, both academic and extra-curricular. Yes, the ideal person. Good at science, sport, socialising, being spurious, specious. All you want in a person really. It couldn’t have been student of the year – that would have required being studious. But she was perfect. She asked the questions that could be answered. And over five hundred points she had in the end, wasn’t it? Highest in the school anyway. You could have been, you know that, don’t you? But that would have been compliance, and you could never comply. Rather stupid. It would have been something to gloat about, if only in silence. Reading The Great Gatsby instead of whatever it was they were reading in English. And you liked English. You liked Mr. Maguire. Why, then, be so stubborn and foolish? What did you achieve? Sitting here at home every day, and the rest of them in college. Academics that they are. What a gratuitous waste.

Oh, hold on, another comment, is it? Sarah has tagged one photo of you . . . Christ, not another. One from the last night again? Ah, yes. Dear, dear. Look at your eyes, for chrissake. They’re in another world, or looking into it, in any case. And your florid cheeks. That must have been towards the end of the night. Your shirt is clean there. Mother was still going on about the state of it yesterday. And it was she that had wanted you to go out socialising again. Obvious from your eyes that you were going to throw it all back again, though. And there’s Joseph laughing away. You’ll have another, won’t you? Ah, don’t be a pussy, can’t handle a few pints? You knew once you’d start that that’d be it. Your escape would eventually form an ineluctable labyrinth. Look at your hair: the wild disorder. Tufts flying in every direction. Each wanting to drag you their own way. Poor thing. This is you. This is the sorry miracle of life you’ve been granted. How fortunate you were to be graced with this most unlikely of gifts. Best to remove the tag anyway. Remove all tags of existence. Herself and her camera: why the need to capture every moment? A picture says a thousand words. There they are: the one thousand words of your reality.

--whyd u go untaggin urself agin??? L afraid mammyll c it?

Could she not just leave it? Fucking person of the year . . .

--Because they show me show me that which I despise: the one thousand words of my reality.

A sign of weakness? Yes, but in that lies strength. No? Of course not. To be strong one must forever make others weak. What had you written down there last month? Here in your notebook . . . ‘Those who are richest need not prove it with crowns.’ Bullshit. There is no other wealth but the material kind. One cannot afford wealth of the mind, it is far too dangerous.

--jesus christ man ur just gettin 2 . . .

Fuck her.  What was the point of listening to any more of it? You’d been told it all now. Making it as clear as they could for you. Hmm. What time home? Seven? Yes. Three hours. Plenty. Hmm. No. Stupid. U’d had this convo before. Never made sense afterwards. Clear mind hates hazy thoughts. Clear mind? Ha! Man ur just gettin 2 . . . 2 what? 2 everything. Der’s a length of it in the cupboard under d stairs, u saw it d last time. No. Like uncle pat. And Dad: what was wrong with the fucker? Why do this to us? 2 u? 2 himself, no1 else. U knew. U had seen d scratching under his watch weeks b4. Poor guy. It wudn’t have been ur place 2 say anything. No. D balcony ideal. Faces d bak. Nothin gruesome. Sum respect nyway. Here it is. Strong. No. & coverd in muck. wat d fuck was he usin it 4? long enuf 2. jst d job. No. wit granda n d boat. dis is d prefct knot maboy. nly thing u wer nyways gud at. caut no fish. bt he ws proud. nly 1. gone now. sleepin wit em. easy. d loops. its al jst followin a patern. do dis den dis den dis. lyk life. easy. if nly. gud nd strong. no? sum view dad sed d day ye bought dis place. lukn out on d mountains. nothin in d way. perfct. dark mountains. clouds. brandon. went climbing lst sprng. nice day. d little rivers nd streams u can c frm ere. luvly 2 jst flow. dwn d styx soon. u wudnt b so luky. dark is all. dark lyk d mountains. dark lyk d clouds loaded wit water. bt dey can let it go nd b clear agin. liter. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more    

The Tractor Run

I realise that this is quite long; if you can suffer reading it all, I'd be very grateful if you could leave a comment as to how it could be improved or changed. Thanking you...

Unlike the others, David had forgotten about the Tractor Run that Sunday. It wasn’t until his mother had asked him if was he ready to leave that it occurred to him that today was the day. His younger brothers had already left with his father, she said, and they would need to hit the road soon if they were to be in the small village of Kildysart, where the Run was to briefly stop on its way from Coolmeen, before them. David didn’t have much choice here. The Run was for his cousin after all.

“What’ll I wear?” he asked his mother.

“What does it matter what you wear? ‘Tisn’t that they’ll be looking at your clothes above on the tractors.”

   David took out an old pair of jeans and a worn out grey hoodie. It didn’t matter. It was only the locals.

“Come on, let you,” he heard his mother say, “We’re late enough as it is, and I’ve to collect the money from the church as well.”

He picked up an album from his cupboard before he left. It was the new one he had picked up before he finished college for the summer holidays. Buying CDs had a novelty about it now. He’d get a chance to listen to it while they were looking at the tractors. He thought to bring his book, but that might be taking it too far. Dostoyevsky would hardly be appreciated in the thick of the machinery. He ran out to the door where his mother stood, waiting to lock the door.

He went into the car and put in the CD. Not too loud: he couldn’t be too peremptory. They lived near the church, which stood on a hill, and could be seen clearly from their house. David looked from the car at the car park, emptier than usual because of the day that was in it. He supposed there had been a big crowd last night at mass. They had gone to a different mass: a month’s mind for a relation of a friend of his mother’s who had killed himself. The poor bugger was in fifties, a nice wife, few kids, successful business; but then again you never know what’s going on in a person’s head. Anyway, David wasn’t too worried to have missed mass at home. He avoided the rattle of the others that way, going on about the Run today. Whose tractors they’d be driving, and all that shite. And why aren’t you driving yourself, and it for your cousin, they’d say. No it was a lucky thing to have had the mass away last night, and today he’d be able to stay in the car and pretend nothing. Smile away for the few hours, and that’d be that.

“I hope we won’t be late for the money,” said his mother, entering the car. “They’re leaving over, are they?”

“Ah, not yet, I don’t think,” said David, peering his head. “They’re just coming out now, it seems.”

They drove over to the church and pulled up outside the sacristy door. David lowered the volume slightly. His parents had been given the job this year of managing the finances for this side of the parish. It meant collecting, counting, and lodging the money every week. It sickened David, but he said nothing. Every week he would sit down with his father and count the euros as they fell out of the little envelopes. The reason for each week’s collection was written on the envelopes. Most weeks it was for the Parish Fund, but sometimes you would get the Catholic Education Fund or something like that. “The Indoctrination Fund,” he said to his father one week. His father said nothing. They would write down the amount given on every envelope beside the little number for each household. These would then be given to the priest who would write up the amount donated from every family for that week. It was so you could claim back taxes on charity donations, or something. His mother arrived back into the car with the loaded down bag from the two days of masses.

“Jesus, it’s twenty-five to twelve. They’re leaving Coolmeen at twelve, you know. Or is it half twelve? You can never be sure with these things.”

“Ah, you know now it’ll probably be later than they say anyway,” said David, turning the volume back up a bit. “They’re good, aren’t they?” he said, pointing towards the CD player. “New Irish band from Waterford, I think. They’re supposed to be at Electric Picnic this year. Always nice to be discovering new bands, you know.”

“Yeah,” said his mother.

They travelled for a while with noise only from the CD player. The roads were quiet for a few miles until about halfway towards Coolmeen, where they met a small, blue vintage tractor on its way over to the Run.

“Who’s that now?” said his mother.

David didn’t answer. How would he know? His mother overtook him, slowly. David didn’t recognise the face.

“Ah, it’s Gerry Casey,” said his mother. “Well now, I didn’t know he had a vintage tractor. Sure, isn’t he right good now to support it?”

“I’m sure he’d be going in any case, regardless of Jack,” said David. “Those people are only looking for a day out.”

“Ah, yes, I know, but still, it’s nice to see people making an effort. You see, they need to do more things like this. It’s all well and good asking people for donations, but when you give them something back in return for their money it makes all the difference. I hope the crowd will be good now. There’s a few of your friends going, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, there’s a few all right. John, Gerry, and two of the Fitzpatricks, I think.”

“That’s great.”

“‘Tis, I suppose.”

It was a pleasant enough day, a bit windy, but the rain had held off which was the main thing. The men in the vintage tractors without cabs would be especially hoping for a dry day. It didn’t so much matter for the others, but a nice day always encouraged a few more to sit outside and enjoy a pint when they’d stop in Kildysart. That was the most important part of the day, much more important than Jack was, David knew that much.

“Did you get much read yesterday?” his mother asked. “That’s a frightfully big book I see you with.”

“Ah, a bit here and there.” He had read about ten or twelve pages and given up. He wasn’t in form for heavy reading yesterday.

“And what about the writing? Are you getting any of that done?”

“Small bits, yeah.” He hadn’t written anything worthwhile since he left college for the summer. Just a few lines that were quickly thrown away.

“That’s good, no harm to keep up the practice. Have to keep pushing yourself, I suppose.” David nodded.

They fell silent again for another while before his mother shouted out:  

“Oh, look! Up there, up past the hill there.”

David’s mother was pointing towards a long line of tractors slowly making their way into Coolmeen. There must have been at least ten in the line, and by the looks of things the car-park outside the pub was already full. In the line were tractors coloured green, red, orange, blue and everything in between. David stopped himself from being unduly ignorant; he did know the names, at least of some of them. New Hollands were blue, Massey Fergusons were red (his father had one of them), and the green ones were probably John Deeres. So he did know something. No point apotheosising his lack of knowledge – there was enough of people in the world to do that.

“Well, that’s a brilliant crowd by the looks of things. Did I tell you the O’Briens have sent over four tractors to it? That’s eighty euro given by just one family. People can be great, there’s no doubt.”

“It’s great all right,” said David. They were approaching the end of the line into Coolmeen, and could make out a few people in the cabs. “No sign of Dad and the lads?” he said.

“No, I can’t make them out. They could be gone down to the G.A.A. pitch; I think that was the plan if it got overcrowded here. And it certainly has, it seems. Look, there’s not a space outside the pub.”

All around the front of the pub there were people jumping out of tractors, all smiling, laughing, clapping each other on the back, nodding their heads towards the tractors. David saw a few familiar faces, though many of them he couldn’t make out. Most striking was the age of them: most were his age or younger. Although there were plenty of adults and old folk, it seemed that this was a day for the young farmers to show off their driving capabilities more than anything else.

His mother turned to David, a look of concern in her face, and said in a low voice, “Do you want to go out with them?”

“What?”

“Do you want to get out, and go with one of them?”

“But sure Dad has the lads; he wouldn’t have space.”

“You don’t have to go with Dad. Look over there, isn’t John there. He’d only love a bit of company. Go on, it’ll be good for you.”

“Ah, no, what would I want going for?”

“What do you mean? You’ve no need being ashamed of where you come from. It’ll look worse you not going.”

“No, stop now, I’m grand where I am.”

“Ah, David, for God’s sake, what is stopping you? Wouldn’t it be a great experience for you? Wouldn’t it be something to write a short story about? You need to go out and experience the world, David.”

“Stop it now! I don’t want to; I’d feel awful awkward and stupid. And will you stop with your ‘it’ll be something to write about’. Not everything deserves to be written about. What’s wrong with me staying here as we’d planned?”

“I’m just trying to get you socialising is all. And why would you feel awkward? Haven’t you as much right as any of the rest of them to be up there? And it for Jack, as well. You’ve more a right, in fact . . . Well?”

David looked around at all the tractors monstering over him, their lights glowing like nefarious eyes in the dark at him. He couldn’t get out now like some child and ask could I please, sir, go on your tractor. Why was this so much a problem to both of them?

“Well, come on, are you? We’ll be gone now. Come on.”

“No. No, I’m not. Keep going.”

“Ara, all right so,” his mother pushed the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. “I’m only trying to get you out and about with your friends.”

David said nothing. They weren’t supposed to be his kind of friends. His friends should be the ones in College who wrote stories in their spare time, read volumes of books, and listened to good music by bands he had never heard of. But that, too, was a lie. Like a seed has no choice where it is sown, here he was planted, and here he must grow. There was no point pining for other more nourishing soil when roots had already taken hold, for good and glory and otherwise. This was his home, and no amount of idle theorising would change that.

They sat in a silence which lasted a long time. His mother got a phone call from his grandmother asking if they were calling to collect her first. They were. At least it would be someone to talk to. His grandmother was a jovial character. She had an irresistible lust for life and a constant desire to make game whenever possible. His grandfather was quieter, but had a similarly positive attitude to life. He was part of the G.A.A. in his own parish since he was a teenager and was known by someone almost everywhere he went, be it Dublin, Cork or Donegal. David was said to take after the other side of the family. He didn’t argue with that.

Things had changed in the last year following Jack’s accident, however. His grandmother, while still bubbly, would sigh every so often, and look at the ground. His grandfather said very little, and couldn’t bring himself to go to G.A.A. matches anymore. It was tough to accept for his mother and her siblings: that two healthy elders should be brought down by the ill-health of one so young. But such are the complexities of blood.           

 They approached the old cottage where his grandparents lived. It was a well kept little house, supposedly over two hundred and fifty years old. The garden outside was neat, with a huge apple tree looming over the back of the house. The ground outside had rough gravel strewn across it. Sheds, bigger than the house itself, kept cattle and cows right beside the house. On the hill behind the house sheep grazed the terraces of harsh land covered with reeds. The inside of the house, while having all the modern equipment one could hope for in a home, still retained that archaic feel to it. David loved it; it was like stepping back in time once you crossed that threshold.

Standing at the door was his grandmother. She had a ragged, old, white tea towel in her shaking hand which she waved at them. Her smile lit up her wrinkled face as it shook. She looked unfamiliar wearing a nice purple coat and other ‘good’ clothes. She would be the best dressed lady at the Tractor Run. She was also muttering something.

David got out of the car. “What are you say . . . Oh!”

“ . . . Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” she beckoned at David to come in. As usual, she opened her arms, wrapped them around his back, and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “How are you?” she whispered into his ear. Inside, his grandfather was seated on the couch with his rosary beads in his hands, ripping through the Fifth Glorious Mystery - Mary’s Coronation. He saluted David mid-prayer.

“Bridget . . .” his grandmother saluted David’s mother. “Sit down inside, we’re nearly finished. We said we’d get it out of the way early in the day.”

“That’s fine, take your time,” said his mother.

David sat down beside his grandfather on the couch. His grandfather held his dead brother’s wooden rosary beads in his hands, almost stretching them out before him in reverence. David joined in the prayers with them. He didn’t mind it. He mouthed along to the parts he didn’t know. All the time his grandmother held his arm with her shaking hand in an almost protective manner. They moved through the last mystery and onto the seemingly never-ending mantra of “Pray for us”. David remembered the holidays he used to spend in the house with his cousins when he was younger. They used to always enjoy this part, shouting the “Pray for us,” over the rest of the house. Their grandparents only laughed at their carry on. Religion was important in this house, but never a punitive exercise. In a way, David’s rebellion was always quelled when he was here. It seemed joyous, hopeful and, most importantly of all, harmless. Why rebel against the harmless, he asked himself. That feeling would last until the next Sunday came around, when he saw it all again in its most irascible and basest form. Sitting here now, though, it was just a story, and a beautiful one at that.

They finished up the prayers, and David’s grandmother turned to him. “How’re you keeping?” she said, smiling.

“Ah, I’m okay. It’s nice these days anyway.”

“‘Tis, and tell me: Are you still reading?”

“I am.”

She laughed and held his arm even tighter. “Aren’t you great? I don’t know how you do all that reading. But isn’t it a great pastime, all the same? I sometimes think when we’re above with Jack that wasn’t it a great pity that he never was into the reading. ‘Twould make a great pastime for him now, I always say. Sure, I know he was good with the books and learning his studies, but he never read as a pastime the way you do. He’d be out playing football, or something like that. But ‘tis a pity now, for ‘twould knock away the hours no bother. But all those things he was into are gone now.” She raised her hands in a slow, despondent fashion.

Turning to David’s mother she said: “Bridget, are they coming this way, do you know?”

“No, sure didn’t I say that on the phone. They’re going straight into Kildysart. We’ll drive into the village in a while, another ten minutes or so. They haven’t left back in Coolmeen yet, and you know how long it’ll take them to get all of them going. We’ll be in plenty time.”

“I thought they’d come this way on account of Jack.” His grandmother turned to David. “Are your father and brothers gone in it?”

“They are. I think he said he’d give us a text when they were leaving.”

“Well, isn’t that lovely. I’m sure the lads are only delighted to be off with him. Sure, isn’t it a lovely day out when you think of it?”

David nodded away. He didn’t look up in the direction of his mother. Just then his grandfather made a sudden rise from the couch and announced that he would drive into Kildysart himself now.

“Will you not come with us?” said David’s mother.

“No, I’ll go in myself.” He walked towards the front door and shook some holy water on his forehead before he left.

They stayed quiet in the house until the car moved away. His mother turned around and shook her head. “What does he want driving in himself for?”

“Ah, leave him,” said his grandmother. “He doesn’t want to be around a crowd today. He’ll be happier sitting in the car on his own. He’ll see the tractors, and that’ll do him.”

“I’m surprised it’s still getting at him at stage. I mean, it’s over a year now.”

“It’s not that, Bridget,” said his grandmother. “It’s the begging, that’s what gets him. The shame of it. I’ve told him that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that people are only too happy to be able to help out whatever way they can, but he won’t listen. It’s begging to him, and nothing else.”

“Begging? Wouldn’t it be the same for anyone else around if it had happened to them. There’s very few could afford to cope with the burden they have.”

“I know, I know, that’s what I’m the whole time saying. He doesn’t hear it.”

David’s mother’s phone went off just as his grandmother was speaking. She read the text and looked up. “It’s them. They’re after leaving just there. He makes off that it’ll be a good twenty minutes before the first of them arrive into Kildysart. We may as well leave now anyway. But listen to this: He says there’s supposed to be over two hundred in it!”

“Oh, Jesus!” said his grandmother, holding her hand across her mouth in shock. “Two hundred?”

“That’s right, isn’t it brilliant?”

“My God.” David could see her eyes begin to water ever so slightly. She held herself together, though, and smiled at David. “All for Jack,” she said.

David nodded. He wouldn’t say anything.

“Come on now,” said David’s mother. “We may as well head in to Kildysart.”

David’s grandparents lived about five minutes from the village of Kildysart. His grandfather drove in almost every morning to get the paper and his daily bottle of orange. He was in his mid-eighties but still drove very well. The journey into Kildysart every day kept him in practice, and just the previous year he had driven to David’s uncle in Kilkenny on his own. All his children had confidence in his driving and never worried about these long voyages. He never drank alcohol or smoked, the daily bottle of orange being his only indulgence.

They soon arrived in the village. The place was almost a small town at this stage. It had a bank, a chipper, a community centre, an impressive church, about three small shops, and nearly ten pubs. That day there were streamers hanging across the main street to welcome in the tractors. The local team’s colours of light blue and dark navy also adorned the street at almost every lamp post. There were already many people out of their cars waiting for the Run to arrive. They spotted David’s grandfather in his car facing out from the village, clearly waiting for the first opportunity to get out once they Run had passed.                    

  They parked up near him and got out of the car. A few people saluted his mother and grandmother. David didn’t know them. Some came up and spoke to them, quietly asking his mother questions in her ear. He knew it was about Jack. They would place their hand on his mother’s shoulder and nod in an understanding manner. They’d offer the few usual heartening words. He’ll be right as rain in no time; he’s a real fighter; if anyone will, he will; ye’re so strong, I don’t know how ye do it; and all the rest. They meant well, he supposed. And they also wanted news. But that was the way; he would be the very same, he told himself . . .

They had not to wait for long. Past the bend out of town came the first sight of an enormous blue New Holland entering the village. A big cheer went up from the crowd. They all waved at the driver who had his young son sitting on his lap. The driver and boy waved and smiled down at the crowd. David looked around at the people near him. They were mostly women, it seemed. More tractors passed, along with more waves and smiles. The local drivers seemed to make a special effort to wave at his grandparents. But they were few; most didn’t know either of them or the sky above their heads. After a few passed David could make out his father and two brothers arriving. They almost went into a frenzy smiling and waving at them. “Aren’t they having a great time?” said his grandmother.

It dragged on and on. They were right when they said there was over two hundred in it. David looked at his watch. Over twenty minutes had passed since the first tractor had arrived, and the line looked as long as ever. And then he saw the Fitzpatricks one after the other. David fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie. He would have to give them a strong wave. Maybe smirk as well. Show that he wasn’t put out by them. Confident, that’s what he would have to be.

They caught sight of him immediately. Paul, the younger of the two, glowered down at him with that familiar sardonic smile. He raised the hand like a man would, and picked up speed as he strode past him. The older one, Martin, had the same mirthful glare to him and made some gesture at him. David couldn’t make out what he was trying to do. His grandmother looked at him, as if to say ‘Do you know them?’ David felt his cheeks glow and kept his head down. This was their day, and they were making sure to let him know. Their smirks had said it all: the sun shines on us now, David. Who was there to protect him from the boorish and the philistine? His grandmother couldn’t hold his arm here. This was how things worked. Those who were meek in cultivation had inherited the earth, as the Great Son had promised. And this was their Kingdom. Their domain. Their laws.

He continued to wave, almost mechanically. More young ones passed, some three or four years younger than himself. And then he could see John and Gerry arriving. He made a real effort to smile at them. Both waved respectfully back. “They’re lads from home,” he said to his grandmother. She smiled. David stopped himself. He could be proud of saying they were from home, couldn’t he? He could be proud looking at them driving, couldn’t he? Yet were they any different from the Fitzpatricks? They were out here for the same reasons surely. And yet they were different. They had inherited the earth as well, but theirs was a Kingdom to share. They were munificent lords. Yes, and they would not judge with sardonic glares. Being uncultivated did not mean being boorish, he had to tell himself that. It was sometimes easy to forget.

The last tractors passed by. It had been a very long line. His grandmother turned around to his mother and sighed. “Well, aren’t they very good now?” she said. Her eyes grew darker and flicked towards the ground. David could hear the quiet sighs as she crossed the road. Oh, God, sure. What can you do? Only he could hear them. Quiet, ever so quiet.

“Will we go down to Cahill’s so? I think they’re stopping in there for a while,” said his mother.

Oh, Jesus, not more, thought David. He could see his grandmother was the same. The Run had been long enough. The last thing they needed to see now was a boozing session. He’d have to listen to the Fitzpatricks going on, and humour their ignorance. He just wanted to be away from here.

“We can, sure,” said his grandmother.

“I’ll go away home, anyway,” David’s grandfather said as he walked back into his car. He was right, too. No point putting himself through any more of it.

They passed down onto the main street. Tractors lined the right-hand side of the street, barely leaving space for any passing cars to make their way down. Young men jumped out of them and chattered like they had in Coolmeen earlier. There was much scrutinising of engines and kicking of wheels, because that’s what you do. Down at the end of the street, past the bank and the Church, was Cahill’s pub. Already there was a large crowd gathered outside it. Yelps and laughs and ohos rose through the air from them. Surely they would not have to stay too long . . .

“Look, David,” said his mother, pointing to one of the tractors near them. “Is that John?”

She was right. Standing behind a red Massey Ferguson was John, his mobile in his hand, texting someone or other while he struggled to put on a jacket at the same time. He towered over everyone else, being well-built, though awkward. Gerry appeared around the side of the tractor, looked up and said something to him. John smirked.

“Go on away over to them,” she said.

John spotted him. He had no choice now. John saluted across the road with his giant hand, his huge blocks for fingers pointing at him. David walked across and smiled. He heard his mother say hello and then walk on. He was left to them now.

“How’re you John, Gerry?”

“Good now,” said John.

“Ara, not so bad,” said Gerry.

“What about yourself?” added John.

“I’m all right now. . . . Fine crowd, isn’t there?”

“Great crowd. Sure, they’re only looking for the excuse to be out . . . like ourselves! ‘Twill be some session tonight, I can tell you. Here, do you want a lift back home in the tractor with me? I meant to say it to you earlier.”

“Ah, I will so. I was going to get out in Coolmeen, but I didn’t get the chance to stop. Sound. Are you sure you’ll be able to bring me home?”

“I will, of course. Will we go down to the pub here? I think there’s a bit of food as well.”

“Yeah, sure. How’re you Gerry?”

“I’m good now. Yourself?”

“I’m all right now. How’s school going?”

“Oh, sure . . . ‘tis going anyway!”

“There mustn’t be much left now.”

“Only a week and a bit with the tests. But I’ll knock a few days out of that with the silage next week!”

“Good man, only too right.”

“Come here, David,” said John. “Do you want a drink? The two of us are driving, so we’ll have to take it easy, isn’t that right Gerry? Not that that is stopping Fitz over with the head on him. He’s after having two before we left in Coolmeen, and he’ll knock a few more back by the looks of him, here. But anyway, will you have one?”

“Ah, no, I’ll be all right.” He couldn’t. His poor grandmother walking around. What would she say. The poison that felled Jack being embraced by another grandson: No.

“You’re sure now?”

“Ah, I am. Thanks anyway.”

John went inside and left David and Gerry beside the oldest of the Fitzpatricks, Martin. He turned his bulging belly towards David and sneered at him with his pint in hand.

“Well, would you look at himself? And tell me now, David, for I’m very disappointed, so I am, but why, oh why, is it that you weren’t in your father’s tractor today. Hmm?”

Say something. “Ah, sure,” David tried to shrug it off, smile, anything. “I didn’t want to.” You didn’t want to? That was just bait for them. Christ.

“You didn’t want to?” he said, incredulous. “You didn’t want to? No, you couldn’t, that’s why.” He turned and smirked at the others. “Dragging your poor father back here when you could have done it yourself. Did you see young Meehan? He’s only fourteen . . . or fifteen, I can’t be sure. No bother to him to drive a tractor. You’re a gas man, David, I’ll give you that. Will you have a drink?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Thanks. How supplicant.

“Oh, he won’t drink either! Is the mother here, or something? I dunno about you.”

He heaved himself away again and continued talking to the crowd around him, towering over them in voice and body. Stupid cunt. There was more air in his head than the tyres of his tractor. Ha! Why could he not have said that to him just there? He couldn’t say it now. He wouldn’t have anyway. Push it too far. No going back then, and he wasn’t made for that. There was a lot he wasn’t made for, it seemed. John arrived out with a pint in his hand. Oh, no, he hasn’t, has he? After he telling him and everything. No, thank god, he took a sip himself.

“I said I’d just have the one before we set off again. Wet the tongue, you know?”

“Ah yeah, no bother. How’s the ESB going, by the way? Or are ye still in college?”

“Still in college. Another two weeks of it now, and then we’ll be back out as normal. Jesus, I don’t know how ye stick it. We’d only to do ten weeks of class work. What do ye have? Is it twenty-something?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Christ, I couldn’t do it. Drives me demented to be in a classroom. I swore after the Leaving Cert that I’d never set foot in a classroom again, but sure, we’re nearly finished it now. How’s your own course going? Art, is it?”

“Arts. It’s just a few different subjects. English, French, that kind of stuff. Yeah, it’s fine. Got the results back last week, and everything was fine, so yeah . . .”

“Good man. Jesus, Gerry here won’t feel till ‘twill his turn to do the big LC. Another year is all.”

“Will you g’way!” said Gerry. “I don’t even want to think of it.”

“What are you thinking of doing, actually?” David asked.

“Hopefully the Agricultural College in Galway. There might be one in Cork as well. Anything to get out of here for a small while, at least.”

“And do a bit of drinking!” added John as he sipped.

“That as well!”

David’s phone went off. It was his mother. ‘R u alright 4 a lift home?’

‘John has said he’ll bring me back,’ he texted back. John was knocking back his pint. He hoped that he’d keep his promise.

Paul, the younger of the Fitzs, arrived out loaded down with drink. He placed one pint into John’s hand.

“What are you doing that for?” said John.

“Will you drink up, and don’t mind your talk!”

“Fuck it, I’ve to drive home, Paul.”

“Haven’t we all to do that, sure.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s the end of it now, though.”

David looked at Martin. He was looking over at his brother. Paul nodded back. Martin started walking back in towards the bar. David knew what they were at.

A musty, urinous smell began to drift up behind David. He felt a hand grope around his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a frail old man, wearing a heavy yellow jacket and a thick woolly cap, despite the heat. David had seen him around the village before. He had a crumby white beard with red cheeks underneath. His yellowish eyes stood out like an eagle’s. He didn’t look well.

“Ye wouldn’t have a bob, boys, would ye?” he asked. He bent down as he asked it, making his head look abnormally small. Gerry turned around and said nothing. David made to do the same. The hand kept holding his hoodie. Keep calm, he’ll go away. See how he doesn’t bother Gerry. Just keep looking on.

But the hand wouldn’t let go. He shook it again. “Ha? A bob, lads, that’s all I want. Go on, just for a small sup, is all.” David could feel his heart thump. Bet that old fucker could feel the vibrations, too. He’d know he had him. He had a fiver in his pocket. It’d be all finished with if he just gave it to him. There’d be no problem then. But you weren’t supposed to do that. It was for their own good that you didn’t give them money. He kept tugging at the hoodie. “Go on, my boy, please,” he said. The poor fucker.

“Fuck off, let you!” said Gerry. The old man scampered back, cowering from Gerry. He limped along to the other side of the street. David let out a big breath. He looked at Gerry but said nothing.

“Fucking idiot,” said Gerry.

John shook his head and sipped on the pint. “Low-lives,” he said.

Martin arrived out from the bar and approached John from behind. He snuck another glass into John’s hand, and stood back and laughed.

“What the fuck . . . ?” said John.

“Ha! Ha!” said Martin. “Drink up, drink up!”

“I’ve to drive home,” said John again.

“I told you,” said Paul, “that we all have to. Now do as the man says and drink up to fuck!”

“Christ, but ye’ll be the death of me,” said John.

The Fitzpatricks laughed and took large gulps from their own glasses.

John shook his head and looked down at the two pints in his hands. He smiled a smile of bewilderment. There was no sign of his mother or his grandparents. They’d be gone home. And who could blame him? For these people Jack was just a name: a name to drink to. For his grandmother, her withered sunken face staring at the ground, that name was an image, one of helplessness and futility. Her wrinkled, shaking hands had held his freely pivoting head and spoken of times she had made him his favourite cake and times she had brought him in from school. She had told him about how her heart had given her that little electric buzz when she saw him winning the county championship last year, or when he had got the highest in the school for his Leaving Cert. So much that she told him . . . But she didn’t tell him about the frenzied darkness that dropped all around that morning as she put down the phone. And she didn’t tell him how everyday she would wait for them all to leave for the farm so she could light her candle and watch as it burned down to its wick through her watery eyes. And he: he told her nothing. And for that she thanked his wide smiling eyes.

How could John drive home at this rate? The Fitzpatricks were going to continue along with this until it became inevitable that a taxi would be needed. Wasn’t it the same every year? Tractors lined along the street until the following afternoon, waiting like discarded animals for their owners to return. Soggy heads trudging back home, radios blaring out aural sewage to quell the cacophonous vituperation inside of themselves. Wouldn’t he love to see that Martin tomorrow, heaving, belching, groaning his way home. He assumed that it’d be like that, though they had been known to drive through worse.

Gerry looked at his watch, at the Fitzs, and at his watch again. He waited for the appropriate lull to speak up. Their little circle laughed. He hadn’t caught what it was they were on about, but now they were quiet.

“Lads, I’ve to be home for the milking, so I’d want to be leaving now.”

“Ah, Gerry,” said Paul, “will you not have a drink?”

“No, no, better not now.”

“Ah, alright. Good luck!”

“Good luck.”

“Good luck.”

This’d be David’s only chance home. He grabbed a hold of Gerry’s arm just as he was turning to go. Shouldn’t be too obvious.

“Eh, Gerry, might it be easier, maybe, if I got home with you. I think I’ve to be home soon, as well. Milking and all that.” Lie. And obvious.

“Of course, of course. That’s no problem at all. And,” he added in a hush, “it doesn’t look like John is leaving anytime too soon either.”

Saw right through it. “Sound, thanks a million, Gerry.” Decent sort, Gerry. Of course, like the others, he’d have his judgement, but he wouldn’t say it. And what isn’t said isn’t really there at all.

They walked back up the street, past kids with ice-creams, making the most of the first bit of sunshine of the summer. Gerry’s father’s New Holland was towards the end of the street. It had only just been bought, David had heard his father say. David would have to say something about it.

“Well wear,” he said.

“Ah, sure, thanks,” said Gerry.

“Is it going well?” Pointless question. Display of ignorance.

“It is, then. Much nicer than the older model. You can do forty-two in her.”

“Can you, then?” Whatever that was.

“Yeah, the old one now would only give you thirty-eight at most. This is a fine one, though. Lovely suspension on the seat as well. You don’t feel a thing.”

“That’s handy.”

“Yeah, right good now. Sit yourself there on the ledge. It’ll be a bit rockier for you, but we’ll take it handy.”

“Thanks.” A small ledge folded out from the side and acted as a seat. David looked around for a seat belt but there wasn’t any. He hoped he’d take it handy. Gerry started up the tractor and drove in the opposite direction from Cahill’s. The village was quiet here. Everyone else had gone home. He couldn’t keep up talking about tractors all the way home. What else had they a mutual relationship to? What year was he? Fifth year, that’s right. He’d probably be going to the Gaeltacht for the summer. Didn’t everyone, sure?

“Looking forward to being finished for the summer now?”

“Oh, Christ, I am.” Clunk! David’s arse hopped two inches from the seat as they went over the ramp outside the village. “Sorry, bit bumpy. But yeah, I can’t wait to be finished with it. Just the tests now.” He threw his eyes skywards.

“Ah, not so bad. Any plans then for the summer? Or are you going to the Gaeltacht?”

“The Gaeltacht? Jesus, not a chance. I couldn’t put up with a month of speaking that shite. Oh Lord, no way. You went a few years ago, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did.” An Spidéal. Connamara Irish: An Shhhpidheaaal. Arse end of nowhere. Like here, suppose. Rocks, rocks, rocks. The stony grey soil of Monaghan, and all that. Ar chuala mé Béarla? The thief’s tongue, isn’t that what they told us? Dirty robber language, not like the almost virginal purity of our natural tongue. As if speaking was natural. Speak the speech I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. Beauty doesn’t demand natural obligations, it just is in and of itself. Yeah, he had been to the Gaeltacht. “You’re as well off not to bother, I think.”

“Well, I couldn’t stick it anyway. ‘Tis enough to be in school the length we are, not to mind asking for more.”

“True for you.” What need had he for school? Nothing he would see in a book would be of any use. David didn’t want to farm, and so he didn’t. Gerry didn’t want to go to school, but he had to. But what hope for the eradication of ignorance otherwise? Was it not alive and well anyway, despite all the schooling? The most important things in life can’t be taught. Who said that? Some wise man, Yeats probably. Someone who had been taught plenty anyway.

“Have you the provisional licence, David?”

“What? No, not yet.” Of course he hadn’t. “I haven’t a bull’s notion, to be honest with you. Have you it long?”

“Yeah, I did it as soon as I could, back there before Easter. It’s easy, only a few questions. You should do it, ‘twould be no bother to you.”

“Sure, like . . .” He might as well be honest. “I can’t drive or nothing, Gerry. It’d be pointless.”

“But sure, you’ll learn. This summer, sure. We’ll have you out drawing in the silage with us.”

Not a hope. The eternal optimist, Gerry. “I dunno about that, then. You see, Gerry, when I was younger, like fourteen or so, when people usually start driving, I had no interest. Couldn’t see the point. Now that I need to, I don’t . . . you know?” Gerry looked at him, not knowing what to do or say. He hadn’t meant to say that. What had he meant to say?

“Ah, no, don’t mind that talk,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “There’s nothing to stop you learning. There’s a Tractor Run on in a few weeks. We’ll have you out with us, driving your father’s Massey.”

Nothing to stop him, except himself. Why this notion that he wouldn’t be able? Just a notion. That was all it was. And yet . . . drive your father’s tractor. Why? Which is more, you’ll be a Man my son! Fathers don’t feel threatened by their sons growing up and taking over: it’s when they stay small that they become frightening. If, if, if.

“We’ll see, sure.” Yes, they’d all see.

“I meant to ask you, by the way,” Gerry turned from looking at the road and stared at the ground around David’s trousers, it seemed, “How is the cousin? Jack, isn’t it?”

The only one to ask. Jack, how was Jack? Simple question.

“He’s not too bad now at all. Coming along grand. And in great form too.”

“That’s good, that’s good. How long is it now?”

“It’ll be a year May 19^th.”

“That long? Jesus, ‘twas a tough year they put down. Is there any hope, you know, of him . . . getting up . . . and . . .”

“No, there isn’t, if I’m being honest, Gerry. They’re still clinging onto the hope that he’ll twitch his leg or curl his toe or something, but I can’t see it now. All the doctors are saying the same thing. Chest down paralysis. Sure, I don’t see how you could have that one day, and it be gone the next.”

“Ah, yeah, ‘tis tough, but you never know. Keep praying, and hope to God, sure.”

“Yeah, that’s all you can do, sure.”

“Yeah, no one knows, do they?”

“They don’t.”

“They don’t, ‘tis true for you.”

“Yeah.”

“We made good headway, didn’t we?”

“You did, then. Roads are nice and quiet now.”

“Have ye a new gate there near the western field?”

“Yeah, I think Dad put that up yesterday.”

“‘Tis nice.”

“‘Tis grand, I suppose.”

“A grand job now.”

Gerry stopped the tractor at the front gate, and waited for David to make his way down the steps.

“Yeah, anyway, thanks a million for the lift. Eh, I suppose I’ll see you at the silage next week.”

“Oh, you will, sure. We’ll probably need the bit of help.”

“No problem. And, eh, best of luck with the few exams as well.”

“Ha! Ah, we won’t think about that.”

“No, don’t . . . Alright, we’ll be talking to you.”

“Alright, good luck now.”

“Good luck, good luck.”

David closed the door of the tractor and turned to the house. Half five. They’d be above having tea. What happened today? Ah, nothing much. Did you enjoy the craic with the tractor crowd? Ah, sure, ‘twas alright. And you that didn’t want to go. Didn’t I say you’d like it? You did, you did. A good experience, though, wasn’t it? You need to experience different things. Yeah, yeah. I do, sure.

The ward in Dublin Mater Hospital was quiet after the day’s visitors. His parents were gone for another day. They’d probably get mass again tonight. A nurse fluttered around scribbling notes on each patient’s file. What would she scribble on his? Same as yesterday, and day before, and day before that. Legs: calm. He: calm. Why? What else could he do? All the cards from his twenty-first lay on his table beside him. Granny’s one at the front. She had given him the fifty euro, as usual. Whatever she thought he would do with it. They had all written long essays on the cards, all except her. She just had “Jack, we miss you, come home to me and I’ll have some of your favourite cake made. Love Granny.” He wanted to see her writing. He hadn’t seen it yet today. Why didn’t he remember when they were here? He willed his hand to move. Slowly it slid across the pillow. They loved telling everyone how his hands were so good to move. Come on, God dammit, move! Slow now, slow. A sudden jerk would destroy it all. He opened his fingers like a flower blooming slowly. Opening his fingerly petals around the thin card with the rose on the front. Slow, slow. Grip and lift. The card scratched along the wood. Slow, slow. Scratch along. Her writing, there it was. The shake of her hand made it look rivers scattered on a map. “Jack, we miss you, come home to me . . .” No! For fuck sake!

“Are you all right, Jack?” The nurse. “Do you want your Granny’s card, yeah? Here, I’ll pick it up for you. That’s okay. Don’t worry . . . Don’t worry, Jack.”

David’s fingers gripped the pen. The page lay pure white in front of him. Words fell like soft snow, drifting slowly before his eyes, slow enough to be plucked out from their descent. He sat down at the table and whispered that some things didn’t deserve to be written about.