Ithaca Read online

  By now I was getting fed up looking, and so I marched into Dunnes Stores Better Value Beats Them All. My hoodie pulled tight. A mean look on my face. My gun-hand ready. A quick look about the place told me one thing: grab something and run.

  I was eyeing up a bottle of vodka and a bag of crisps that said made with real ingredients when I felt the strong arm on my shoulder. And when I turned around I saw decked out in his security guard uniform the man with the beetroot face from Flukey’s funeral.

  Just looking, I said and skipped my way out of there.

  I stopped at the window of Logan’s Pharmacy, one place that didn’t look like it was on the verge of closing down. Stared at the woman in a white coat just inside the door, spraying perfume on her wrist and offering the wrist to one or two customers only too happy to take a whiff, get busy nodding and say how nice. I stepped inside the pharmacy and was about to ask white-coat what she was flogging, only to be gazumped by the loud and familiar sound of Big Beatrice Glynn stomping in front of me and wasting no time grabbing a little bottle and giving herself a right good spraying. Hmm, she said, I have to say I’m not sure about this one. I’m not sure at all. And without waiting for a word out of white-coat, she stomped further inside the pharmacy, not stopping until she reached the back counter. White-coat gave her own wrist a little squirt from the same bottle and stretched out her arm to me.

  Well, what do you think?

  You tell me, I said.

  It’s got a hint of almond. Maybe vanilla.

  Sounds like an ice cream.

  Here, she said, pushing the bottle my way. It’s called Illusion. Give it to someone special. I took the bottle, slipped it in my bag and hurried out of there before she gave me anything else.

  FLAWS

  I was coming over Station Hill, wondering where Ma stood on vanilla-with-a-hint-of-almond perfume, when I saw them. Bad enough meeting Brains and No-brains and them eager to cut loose on me with an ice cream cone. They were going to get a fair kick out of what was resting innocently in my bag.

  Look who it is, said No-brains. You’d swear he hadn’t clapped eyes on me in years.

  We’ll have to stop meeting like this, said the brother.

  What’s in the bag? No-brains asked.

  A bomb, I said. I am going to strap it to myself and walk into the Hungry Worm and blast this town to smithereens. You can come with me if you want. I’ll let you hold the detonator.

  You think you’re a funny man, pipsqueak, don’t you? You think you can stand there and make me the butt of your clever jokes.

  No-brains went on about some more things he had inside his head that I was thinking. I didn’t mind. He could go on for as long as it took him to get around to knocking my head clean off my flimsy shoulders.

  Brains wasn’t listening to any of it, though. He pushed me to the ground while at the same time grabbing the bag and pulling it off my shoulder. I could see No-brains looking closely at it, he even took a backward step when the brother flipped it open.

  What the hell is this? Brains said, holding up the bottle of Illusion.

  Vanilla with a hint of almond, I said. It will help you smell nice.

  You poofter! said his brother.

  Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, No-brains.

  What did you call me?

  Go on. Have a spray.

  I’m going to have a spray alright.

  He flipped the lid off, pointed the bottle at me and sprayed. The misty spray went everywhere, I had to cover my eyes, gagged when the stuff got in my mouth. No-brains kept spraying, enjoying himself now, not stopping until the steady hiss was no more.

  You didn’t keep any for yourself, I said, after he had tried to get a last couple of jolts out of the empty bottle and then dropped it. He drew out his arm and made to backhand me across the face. Brains let a growl out of him and No-brains lowered his arm again, made do with a hearty spit that he summoned from the arse-end of his throat and then catapulted out of his mouth and into my face.

  Come on, I heard Brains say. We have some drinking to do.

  Kick me hard. Throw a punch in my queasy gut. Nail me to a cross and later jab my insides with a long spear. Didn’t mind any of that. Could take it. What I wasn’t crazy about was jokers taking something I intended giving to someone else.

  I stayed sitting on the ground. Checking myself for any loose kidneys or a hanging-off pancreas. My arms and feet were still attached to the rest of me, didn’t even see any gushing blood. Fine men they were. Couldn’t even break my skin.

  *

  I was still on Station Hill, by now leaning over the railings. It had just rained and I was staring at a perfect rainbow arching from one side of town to the other. For a few minutes I could make out each of the different colours. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Then, one by one, they began to fade. Then I was looking down at the tracks. Could hear Mellows, the signal man, mumbling as he hobbled along. The way to God-knows-where, I could have sworn I heard him say.

  And for some reason I was remembering Ma and me together some time in the past. It was about four o’clock in the morning, neither of us had been sleeping and we ended up in the kitchen, me with a glass of milk and Ma with a glass of vodka. She took her drink into the sitting room, switched on the TV, scanned the channels for a movie she might like, a chat show of some kind, something with music.

  She couldn’t find anything, though, and she was up again, heading for the kitchen table. Like the numpty I was fast becoming, I followed her, sat into a chair beside her. Watched her run a finger down the side of her glass. Wondered at the thoughts going through her boozy head.

  You know, everybody has a flaw, she said after a few minutes of quiet passed between us. Some little thing working against them, at times without them even knowing what it is.

  What’s Da’s flaw? I asked her.

  How the hell should I know, she said, and took a mouthful of vodka.

  What’s my flaw? I asked her.

  How the hell should I know, she said, and took another mouthful of vodka.

  What’s your flaw? I asked her.

  Don’t get me started, she said, and refilled her glass.

  Screeching car gears took me out of that memory and I looked round me just in time to see Mattie’s car come speeding along. I knew it! I knew her gloomy mood wouldn’t last. Hey, Ma, I called out, raising my arms. Where are we off to this time? By now, I was flagging down Mattie’s car and getting ready to jump in. Only it wasn’t slowing down. I knew she must be able to see me, she couldn’t miss me because I was practically out on the road in front of her, waving like a let-loose lunatic. If anything, she was speeding up as soon as she noticed me, and round me she swerved and kept going. She didn’t even roll down the window and wave out, shout her magic words. Ah, Ma, I said, slumping back against the railings. I put a hand in my pocket, felt for the rusty nail.

  COUNTRIES ON MY SHOULDERS

  Into August and some teapot on the news was listing out the terrible times in store for us. There was going to be hell to pay, he reckoned. CUTS, CUTS AND MORE CUTS! he boomed. Everyone was going to feel the pain. The old. The young. Those lying on hospital floors waiting for a bed. Everyone. Thanks to the Bank of Wank-me-with-a-Spoon, the whole lot was fast going down the tubes. Ah, there’s no need to be like that, chipped in another genius, the rosy head on him going like a nodding toy, and he started on about something called NAMA that was going to solve everything. NAMA. Sounded to me like one of those hideous breakfasts supposed to make you live for a hundred years, something lumpy and green. And I could picture Rosy Face on TV doing his ad for the drivel. Here you are now. Eat your NAMA and everything’s gonna be alright. Hey, you! Pipsqueak! Did you eat your NAMA? Of course I have, I’d say. And fling the stuff in his happy face.

  Meantime, Ma hadn’t a word to say about her latest spin in Mattie’s car. Fact was, she said hardly a word for the first two weeks of August. Like Flukey in his coffin that time, it was hard to get used to. Into the k
itchen she’d appear, in turn opening the doors to the food press, fridge and freezer box, and grab whatever was there. A Mars bar. Shrivelled grapes. Mouldy yoghurt. Another Mars bar. Some orange juice to wash down vodka. Another Mars bar.

  One morning she appeared and when she pulled open the freezer door it came off its hinges and clattered to the kitchen floor. She shrugged her shoulders and once she saw that the ice tray was full, she loaded up an empty glass, grabbed the orange juice and vodka bottle and made straight for the doorstep. She made a rollie and lit up. Sipped from her glass. From time to time she grabbed herself and shivered.

  When I saw her shivering, I went and dredged the back lane ditch for scraps of timber, hunks of wood, tree branches, bits of logs, anything I could use. I dragged it all inside the house, crammed it into the grate, on top of the pay-up-or-else letters I’d twisted into paper sticks, then flicked a lit match. In no time we had a blazing fire. What are you doing, you maniac? she howled at me, when she showed up in the living room and the gathering flames threatening to take over the place. I’m keeping you warm, I replied. It’s the middle of summer, you crazy boy, she roared. But she was still shivering.

  Then I was answering the telephone. And telling Cunthook and Gob-prick and all the arse bandits that no, Ma wasn’t here, she was gone to the moon for the rest of the summer, and sorry, no, she had left no contact number, and sorry again, I have another call coming in, goodbye and good riddance. And when I took that call, I was letting Barry from the Bank-of-Wank know that she was choking on a lump of coal and so couldn’t come to the phone right now, indeed it was likely she wouldn’t be coming to the phone for a good while into the future and so good luck to you, bank clerk.

  And I was opening the front door to a host of teapots who had no qualms about hammering away until someone talked to them. Barrabas Diffley was tiptoeing up to our front door with his letters. Up he came, the sneaky teapot, without a whistle or a boo, and slipped his bad news through our letterbox and made sure he was well out of the way before she had a chance to scalp him with the hurley stick. One or two women called around to haul her off to another Happy Hour but she had no interest. She just made sure her drink was topped up, checked her tobacco pouch and sipped and puffed. She didn’t even turn on the radio, that was fine by me. There was no falling-off-a-cliff singing to have to listen to.

  A few days into this she started staying in bed. Sometimes not getting up until late in the day, sometimes not at all. Get up, Ma, I said, you need to get some air. Listen to this, Ma, I said, opening out the newspaper. Let’s get out of Dodge, I said, trying to summon up some life. I saw a nice car you could drive, I told her. Go away, stay away, was all I could get out of her. No, I do not want to listen to the radio. Touch that curtain and you die.

  She skipped her night-time dates with the late movie and yet more repeat episodes of her favourite TV show. Look, I said, if she happened to come marching through the living room. It’s Tony Soprano, I said, flicking to a scene involving Tony whacking a lad’s nose into the middle of next week. Look at this, I said, flicking to the news. A madman has set himself on fire inside a fast food restaurant. Look, they are looking for volunteers for a one-way trip to Mars. I might as well have been talking to the back lane trees.

  I tried bringing her stuff. Breakfast in bed. Afternoon tea. A late night treat. When I couldn’t think of anything else I even considered baking her a cake. I got a hold of the recipe book she’d borrowed from the Hungry Worm ages ago and flicked straight to the cakes section. I read down through a list of stuff our kitchen press had never heard of – double cream, caster sugar, cocoa powder, vanilla pods – and decided to put off that idea for another time. Instead, I thought of dragging the television upstairs. Go away, she yelled at me, shivering. Go away. GO AWAY! GO AWAY!

  I had no idea what was going on. It brought out some crazy notions in me. Ma, I’d say, if she appeared in the sitting room, by any chance could you use a new TV? Those LED lads have a great picture.

  No chance, she’d say.

  What about a new car? A BMW? Or a Volvo? I hear those things go like a dream.

  Dream on, she’d say.

  We should get ourselves a new tumble dryer.

  To replace the old one we don’t already have, I suppose.

  Tell you what. Let’s move house. Let’s move to the hill. There are great views.

  Look at these shoulders, she said to that, tapping me on the head with the vodka bottle. By now, she was standing over me, waiting for me to look at her shoulders. Now, tell me what you see.

  I see shoulders.

  Look closer. Closer. Closer. That’s my boy. Now, what do you see?

  Shoulders.

  There are countries on my shoulders, you blind bat. Countries.

  Which countries?

  LARGE COUNTRIES! The largest countries you can think of.

  Russia and Egypt, I said, and the vodka bottle came tapping at me again.

  As soon as she was out of there, I grabbed the hurley stick and whacked the television picture back from green to pink. Of course, when she made another vodka run and noticed what I’d done, she took her turn with the hurley and whacked it back to green again.

  I didn’t know what was going on. I really didn’t. And I thought to myself: Women. A pity they weren’t more like kettles. That way you could switch them off when they were boiling.

  That’s how it was for those early August days. She raided the fridge. She took her rollie to her step. She sipped from her glass of vodka and orange juice until it was empty, which it never was. She grabbed herself and shivered, even though the sun was shining bright. She took to her bed.

  You need a visitor, I was all set to risk saying one morning. And again I was quickly thinking of the girl’s da and his sorry tears and slamming fists. But the sight of Ma burying herself beneath the duvet was enough to let me know that any mention of visitors and she was ready to slam me with her own fists.

  Then one night she showed up downstairs. I had been outside looking at the moon, and once back inside, there she was, in her red and white dress, holding herself and dancing slowly around the kitchen floor. I made a move to turn on the radio, so that at least she could have some music to dance with. But something told me, no, leave it, this is the way she wants it. And so for a few minutes I watched her glide about the floor, slowly turning circles, listening to a song only she could hear.

  People say I’m the life of the party

  ’Cause I tell a joke or two

  Although I might be laughing loud and hearty

  Deep inside I’m blue

  She was still at it when I left the kitchen and went upstairs.

  Ma.

  I couldn’t figure this woman out. One minute she was in great form, dragging Mario up the stairs into her room, cooing away at Paris promises, throwing money my way. Next thing she was smashing up the place, telling me where to go, ridiculing my time with the girl. Now I could hardly get so much as a peep out of her. If she was thinking about anything, it was impossible to say. Her face was a blank page, a folded-up map, an empty place.

  It was a see-saw time we were having together, a flip-flop shoe of an existence.

  Who knew what was going to happen tomorrow?

  THE BIGGER PICTURE

  Night.

  It brought silence to the town. Emptied streets. Scattered cars into the troubled distances. Brought me out walking. Took me as far as Violin Bridge.

  I listened to the creaky sounds coming out of it. Wondered at the cause: the crack going across the road. The ancient stones it was made from. The brittle mortar keeping it together. It could be the black water below, cursed with Flukey’s ghost and the ghosts of others down there I didn’t know about, others who felt they had to take a running jump, others who were pushed.

  I stretched out on the bridge wall, peered over the edge. There was nothing, only the black abyss. A great big nothing. How bad Flukey must have felt to convince himself that all he had left was to h
url himself into a great big nothing. I turned over onto my back and stared up at the black night. What about it, stars? Have you any light to throw on the subject? I tried to find the one that sailors used to guide them. It was up there, I knew it was. But I had no idea which one.

  The stars, the stars.

  So far away.

  Lucky things.

  Rolled up my sleeve and looked at a fresh cut I’d made, peeled off the plasters covering other ones, picked at the crusty scabs. Reached in my pocket for the shard of glass I’d kept since Ma’s tantrum, traced it along the thick crust that had formed over the very first cut I’d made that time up on Rich Hill. And I was thinking about some of the daft notions I’d had about Flukey, and was wondering what had happened to the Paris trip with Mario and was that still on, and I got to thinking about the girl and what was going on with her da, and then, out of where, I couldn’t say, another memory came to me, a long-ago memory. It was late and I was downstairs, watching something on TV, one of those gangster films, and I was by myself and wondering where Ma was and I went wandering about the place looking for her, through the kitchen, then upstairs, and into her bedroom and there she was, curled up in bed, sobbing quietly to herself, and she had something in her hand and I tried to see what it was, it looked like a photograph she had crumpled up, and who was it, I was wondering. Who was it?

  I leaned in and tore the scab clean off. The sting was so sharp and thrilling it took away my breath, and for a moment I sat there unable to move. Watched the blood silently drip. Then the waves hit me and I was breathing fast again, excited now and so charged-up I ripped and tore at other scabs. And the more I opened the better I felt. Inside my head was like a spinning top. A whirlpool going around and around and around. Making me happy-dizzy. And all the time the blood surging through me, dying to get out.