10
(1 votes)
| Rating | Rated by |  | | 10 | TheRealKarmaTse.. | |
You must login to vote
|
|
|
It was a long time ago now, of course, but Blar used to play hurling for the county. He’d go in for all of that stuff, that Irish heritage rubbish, Gaelic Language League and the Saturday night céilidh for the kiddies. I can see him, quite clearly, in my mind’s eye, his big square pate in the local papers, beaming away, all “tireless efforts” and blokey sentiment, while his chin jutted out like a doorstep.
And that is the point I am making, you see, nobody would say that Blar was a bad person. He was a do-gooder in a Kerry-green golf shirt who welled up when he heard A Nation Once Again. A bit like an overgrown Boy Scout. A lot of those men were like that.
Me, on the other hand, maybe they would all say I was bad. I don’t look at it so much that way, though. It’s a question of adaptation, see? Being suited to your surroundings. People like Blar are behind with the times, they didn’t get that important “we’re all fucked!” memo. I never saw the point, me, in propping up the place, in trying to make it safe, in wanting it to be nice. Being stuck in a shit pile like that is just nature’s way of giving you a kick up the arse, stimulate some movement, get you going, see? It’s what the yuppie folk call incentivising; if you don’t get the fuck off the estate and sharp you deserve to be stuck there ‘til the end of all time. That’s what I think. And it’s survival of the fittest, isn’t it? Getting out any which way you can. I didn’t care about God or country, I just wanted off the estate.
So you see, there are those who do the right thing for the wrong reasons and those who do the wrong things for the right reasons. You never get people who do the right thing for the right reasons. Maybe in America or Europe or somewhere you do, but not in Ireland. You only get those two types- species, if you like- and of course that special rare and endangered genus of fuck up, those who do the wrong things for the wrong reasons. I’m not saying which is the worst, which causes the most damage, but the first kind are probably happiest and the second the most miserable breed of bastard e’er breathing.
Abbot was eight stone of nothing in particular and one of life’s consummate losers, an evolutionary dead-end destined for extinction. But never let it be said that a lad with the square-root of sod all by way of talent would ever starve in this man’s army. There was always work to be done. Even for the lowliest, clumsiest, least favoured of God’s creatures. We all- as Blar would say- had our roles to play. Abbot’s, as his kind of luck would have it, was being tortured and then shot in the face.
It happened this way- but understand something first, I am not trying to make myself likeable and I don’t give a toss about your good opinion- it happened this way: Dan Murphy- a man it was universally acknowledged to be unwise to say no to- points, Lord Kitchener style, in Blar’s general direction and tells him his country needs him. Not, you understand, to do anything fine or high or noble or heroic or any such other thing more appropriate to his characteristic good nature, but an unofficial job, liberating certain funds by way of a jewellery shop across the border. Now, the main difference between an official and unofficial job is that if you are caught on an unofficial job your sponsors- as it were- will deny all knowledge. In the eyes of the law and everybody else you will be considered an ordinary, common or garden variety criminal, and best for you if it stays that way. Well, Blar being Blar and Blar knowing me, he suggests that for a small remuneration, this is something I would like to be part of, armed robbery forming a strong branch of my particular skill set. I have to say I did not fancy it much, but I did not have a lot else on, and I didn’t want to be seen to have refused an offer- if only bi-proxy- from Dan Murphy.
Abbot, on the other hand, did not need asking. In fact, it was much against Blar’s better judgement that he took the boy on as the third man at all. But he did, and that is how our happy little threesome was formed.
I have already mentioned that it did not end well, and I suppose to an outside observer, that it might look like my fault. But when an opportunity- and a convenient scapegoat- presents itself, a man would be foolish not to take it. As I said, I wanted off the estate, and the minimum wage that Blar had been instructed to offer me did not tally with my estimation of a fair price. I knew I could make more money for myself by fencing the fruits of our efforts through a friend of mine. Not all, you understand, but I could hardly be expected to see the harm in skimming a little from the top.
No, it did not end well. Somebody realised the haul had come up light and the people Dan Murphy contracted for were not best pleased. That is how we found ourselves in an empty warehouse covered in petrol, watching Abbot get his ears sliced off.
Because it had been decided, by those who decide about such things, that Abbot must be to blame for the unexpected loss of revenue. The reasoning- as much as the mental operations of such people can be so called- apparently ran like this: Blar could not be to blame as Blar was a true believer in every conceivable sense, and besides had religion to a rigorous and morally prohibitive degree. It was equally not as likely to be me, scally though I was by reputation, because I would- after what happened to my late brother and his equally late (on more than one occasion) kneecaps- know better than to do anything so stupid. Abbot, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. He had wanted to do the job at all, I largely suspect, to redeem the name of his disreputable pikey brood. It did not look good for him.
If you think that because we were not suspected of having committed the actual offence then we were somehow exempt from a bit of disciplinary corporal punishment, then you are obviously grossly misinformed about the way these things work. Because Abbot had been, to all intents and purposes, our responsibility, we too must taste the lash of exemplary justice.
Well, we were beaten, tied to chairs, doused in gasoline and generally sitting there like bloodied extras from a Quentin Tarentino film, watching the torture of Abbot. As entertainments go, I can take or leave that. I am one of those people not particularly possessed of empathy or much bothered by the suffering of others. Blar, on the other hand, sat shaking like a traumatised Vietnam vet, contorting his face, his eyes popping with horror. It’s his fault they gagged us, all that whining on. It’s not the boy’s fault, let the boy go, blah de fucking blah. See, being full of the milk of human kindness himself, he expects everybody to be susceptible to the same. Big mistake! I figured then that the only way we were ever getting out of there was if I affected an escape.
That is the thing about Dan Murphy and his ilk. They are not going to win any awards for mental agility. And Dan’s second in command- whose name escapes me- had left his pistol on the table near to where I was tied. So carried away was he in the cutting out of Abbot’s tongue that he didn’t notice my surreptitious worrying of the rope that bound me and my hand sidling towards the gun like a cartoon cat after a canary.
Bang! Well, there goes Dan Murphy for a kick off. I have to say I had never actually fired a pistol before and the pull and the noise of the thing was enough to make me quite queasy and to pop my bloody wrist out. Jerking around it was, giving the goons a proper military send off. I nearly clipped Blar besides, not on purpose you understand. But Abbot. What was I supposed to do for him anyway? What kind of a life would he have had if he’d lived? No tongue, no ears and no eyelids to speak of. In any case, he might have held it against me, his getting blamed for something I did, and I could not have that hanging over me. So, goodnight Abbot. Bang! Bang!
Blar just sits there for a moment, then he spits out his gag and shouts. What did yous do that for, eh? I tell him it was an accident and he says like fuck. At this point I am slightly worried and considering- seriously considering- plugging Blar too. But that would be a rash move. And Blar and me have known each other since school and I felt an inclination to be kind to him, him having recently suffered, not only a bereavement, but also a disillusionment, which is probably worse.
I untie him and go about picking the wallets from Dan Murphy and his fat-necked friend. The adrenaline is coursing through me and I feel like fucking Super Man. Blar just sits there with his broken thumbs, his shoulders going up and down. I think that’s a bit ungrateful of him, and when he starts throwing his weight around saying as what we will have to do now, I am a bit put out, because I think, in this whole proceeding, his leadership skills have been sadly lacking. But I don’t have a better idea than that so let the baby have his bottle and eastwards it is.
This, I think, is where accounts of events will differ, and in all honesty I have had a hard time making it out, what actually happened, the truth of the thing. The first leg of the journey we slunk on to a train and hid from the guard in an out of order shitter. I wanted to help myself to a change of clothes from a suitcase in the luggage rack but Blar says no, like he’s the boss of me. So we just stand there in the shitter, stinks as well, the entire trip, and not exactly a comfortable silence either. I can’t speak for Blar, obviously, but my mind was working as to how to get back- when the heat’s off- and collect the loot I had made. That kept me entertained until we were sneaking off at the other end, creeping behind the carriages in the depot, under the cover of darkness. Christ, I could’ve been in the SAS me, I’m that good at it!
Second leg of the journey was not so much fun. Blar says we’d better be on foot. Can’t hitch-hike looking the way we do, and besides somebody will be keeping an eye out for us by now, either the peelers or the other. It’s obvious to me he doesn’t have much of a plan so I suggest we make for some people I know, some friends of my family who live out past Kilbeggan. He just sort of nods in a so-be-it kind of way, so it’s me in the lead and I like that much better. But he’s in a right royal temper, muttering to himself and kicking up dirt and clipping me round the ear.
Then it starts to snow and I think I lose my way a bit. Not my fault, is it? Snow’s disorientating. But Blar gives me the eyeball as if I made it snow on purpose. I don’t like the looks he’s giving me in general, if truth be known, and I’m getting proper antsy, turning round to glance at him every chance I get. Gave myself whiplash, I very nearly did. As I said before, Blar used to play hurling for the county, he’s not built like some tender spring flower. I got the gun, though. I pat it in my pocket when I’m sure that Blar’s not looking. It consoles me, that and the thought of the loot, and it occurs to me that a man doesn’t need much to be happy in this world.
The snow comes down harder. Neither of us are dressed for this weather but Blar’s shoes are the funniest things, almost falling to pieces like bits of old card, and his teeth are chattering and I can hear him behind me, and he’s cursing and keeps asking me how much further. We’re limping along down this bit of a lane and it’s not so bad here because the trees over hang it and shield us from the worst of the wind. Fucking creepy, though, I don’t mind telling you, and Blar rattling away behind, heavy breathing like a stalker in a slasher film.
Why’d yous do that to Abbot?
The way he says it is sort of quiet, sort of a monotone. He can’t be more than ten paces behind me now. I turn around slowly and try to look him square in the face, but it’s dark and wet so I have to squint and that ruins the desired effect somewhat.
I asked yous a question.
I feel for the gun. It’s in my pocket, smooth and cold. I touch it and feel renewed in strength, like some kind of Holy Communion. I swallow and try to make my voice level and calm.
It was an accident, Blar. I already said.
Accident. Accident. He’s mulling it over, rolling it round his mouth like a loose tooth, chewing it like cud. He shakes his head. Nah, he says, nah, I don’t think so. He takes a step forward and a chill goes through me. I close my fist around the gun and make a fumbling play for it. My fingers are numb from the cold, though, aren’t they? I can’t get a grip on it. Blar comes closer. Then the wind gets up and the trees shake themselves like a lot of wet dogs and a flurry of leaves and heavy snow fall down, hitting us, knocking us over, breaking the spell.
...
It shat me up, I don’t mind telling you, Blar making lethal overtures like that. We do much of the rest of the walk in silence. I can’t get my voice out in a straight line anyway. We seem to be going along the old canal basin, but there’s no real way I can be sure. And Blar’s still behind me, staggering slightly, a look of intense concentration on his face. In the occasional snatches of half-light I can see his lips moving, but no sound seems to be coming out. I have a feeling like when somebody walks over your grave and I half convince myself that Blar is dead, that I really did kill him, back in that warehouse or later on in the lane, that Blar is a ghost, following me to torment me and when he eventually catches a hold of my coat he will drag me down through the hole in the wall to hell. I imagine I can see his wounds even, the holes in his head where I shot him. But all it is are the bruises from the beating. I know this really, but still, you get me?
And I’m in that kind of spooky frame of mind when we come on the village. Blar says Ballykilroe? But I don’t reckon it is and a big part of me doesn’t want to go down that hill and I think to myself that maybe it’s time Blar and I parted company. I let him go down ahead of me and I think I’ll just watch ‘til he’s out of sight, then I’ll turn around and go back the way I came. But Blar doesn’t go on without me. He stops at the bottom and looks back. He’s faintly luminous in the moon and the snow and his face is like a death’s head, winking whitely back at me. And it has a strange effect, this look. I am both afraid of him and afraid to be alone. I thrown myself down the slope after him, wincing all the while as I get nearer, his pale pate shiny as a skull.
It’s the cold, I suppose. Delirious from the cold. We’re neither of us doing too well. Blar might look like the walking dead but I can’t look much better to him, can I? Our clothes are creaking and cracking with snow, so stiff are they from the freezing. We’re making our slow way down a silent street. An old place unchanged by the march of progress. Blar should feel right at home here, walking anachronism that he is. I’d make a joke but I can’t find my voice, and besides, I doubt he would appreciate it.
We find this pub, a B & B type thing. They’re snooty enough but they agree to feed us. I let Blar do the talking, his manner is more plausible. He tells them our car come off the road. They look at him like he’s batty but they feed us and water us all the same. Not that I get a drink in edgeways. But I figure that’s all to the good. I can make my escape in the morning, while he’s lying there in his hung-over funk. Goodbye, Blar, it’s been fun and all that, but it’s time for me to strike out on my own.
...
The room is not much better than the shitter on the train and every time I start to doze an awful nightmare comes to me. I try to call out but Blar’s not in the mood and he snaps at me mean as a junkyard dog. There’s something that’s bothering me, though. Something about the village and I don’t know what it is. It comes to me all of a sudden and I shout it out despite myself.
No church!
That’s what there should be and there isn’t. It gives the place an incomplete look, an unnatural aspect. I say as much but I’m told to shut up. But it’s true, and I’m not what you’d call religious neither, but a village in rural Ireland without a church? That’s more than peculiar, that’s a genuine phenomenon.
I decide at that point to get out as soon as the sun come up. And I am pulling my clothes on again when I hear it. I hear that knocking come from the window. Or it seems to, and yet there is nothing there. And it come again, both inside and outside my head that time. I pull on my boots and cross to the window to look out. There’s a figure in the snow, and fuck me if it doesn’t look the spitting image of Abbot. There he is out in the street, pointing away back the way we come. A cold come over me but I think I know what’s on his mind. Back the way we come is the loot. And if Blar is gone I don’t have to share it. Abbot knows, Abbot understands, he’s my good omen, my sign to go back.
I follow the figure out of the village and I only stop to look back once. I can’t make out any of the houses any more. I can’t see where I have come from. I only know that I have to go back. I been walking ever since.
------
The human race, the only race I know where everybody loses.
|
we are not amused
