His Father's Son: To save the son he loves, a desparate father must confront the ghosts of his past (13 page)

“Look, I have the ticket … and wasn’t Marti bound to be worried beyond belief already. I cannot leave it any longer. I’m flying today, sure.”

“Hang on, mate, there’s got to be another way.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“Well … maybe you could go by boat.”

“Takes too long, five or six weeks. Tis madness, the idea.”

Macca eased the ute through the traffic. It was light for the hour of the day and they made the highway towards the airport in quick time. Joey stared out of the window at the dusty landscape, the patches of sand spinifex and ironstone rocks lining the roadside. He wondered when he would see the harsh reds and blues again. He was heading for a very different place entirely. He loved Australia, which had given him an honest living and good friends like Macca there, but it was time to leave. Marti needed him.

The flowering gum trees crowded together on the edge of the sand plains that stretched all the way to the huge red mountains, as they got nearer to the airport. Red and yellow banksia bushes flashed by the car window in a haze and Joey felt his throat tightening as he took in the view for the last time.

“So, this is it?” said Macca.

“It is so.”

“I don’t want you blubbering on me when we get up here.”

“No fear.”

When they reached the car park Macca took Joey’s things from the back of the ute. He stood in front of him and painted a thin smile on his face but couldn’t hide the long sigh that forced its way out when he looked into his friend’s eyes.

“What about Superman?” said Joey.

“
What
?”

“The picture, Marti’s picture.”

“Oh yeah. It’s here.” Macca put down the luggage and reached into the ute again. His kelpie lunged a slobbering tongue at him. “Get off, you silly bugger,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Joey. His voice dipped. “This really is it, then.”

“Good luck, Bluey.” Macca’s brows were creased against the brightness of the sun, the thin slits of his eyes below looked very far away. “Just remember your job is still here when you want it.”

“Thanks.” Joey and Macca stared at each other for a moment and Joey wondered should there be a handshake or a hug given, and then the moment passed as Macca broke for the ute’s door with rapid chatter breaking on his lips.

“You can’t be going in there like that,” he shouted. “But don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.”

Macca rummaged inside the door of the ute and pulled out a brown woolen hat. “Here, get that on you! Might not be the weather for it, but it’ll stop heads turning, I reckon.”

Joey took the hat and stretched it over his bandaged head. “I’m going to look a right bogger in this.”

Macca stood back and watched the hat forced into place, then reached out to hide a few stray strands of white bandage that hung around Joey’s ears. “It’s a tight enough fit, but you might just get away with it.”

Joey didn’t want to think of the alternatives. “I better had.”

This time there was a handshake and smiles. When Joey turned for the entrance Macca raised a wave and gave a smile that looked altogether more convincing, thought Joey. He was lucky to have such good friends here in Australia, he knew it, and with any luck he’d be back to see them all again some time soon.

Inside the terminal the air conditioning blasted cool bursts that chilled the skin on contact and shrill voices fired out departure times like squawking gulls. Joey felt his stomach churning as he searched the crowded lounge for the airline desks. The pain in his head had reached a new high and the drilling noise in his ear had been turned to full. Jaysus, he scolded himself, why didn’t ye take some pain relief from the hospital?

The shrill voices came back again and Joey recognised the flight. This time it was his. It was the last call, they said, and his heart jumped inside him. He tried to run but failed, then he fell into a jog, and finally a fast walk. He felt unwell, like his head was filling up with gas, the light gas that makes balloons float, he thought. He was starting to stoop over with the bag and the picture; his one free hand that held the ticket was sweating, then his airline counter loomed ahead of him. Joey passed over the ticket – it was damp now – to the girl on the counter. She seemed nice, no scanger this one, sure hadn’t he had enough of them for one day. She checked the numbers on the ticket and tipped her head towards the counter like she was going through the motions of a job she’d done a million times.

“That’s fine, Mr Driscol …” When she looked up, the girl on the counter seemed to take an awful interest in his head, her eyes widening up at the sight of the hat. “Do you have any baggage, sir?”

“Just the one,” said Joey, “and the picture – tis hand luggage, really.”

The girl on the counter took his bag and weighed it on a set of scales, smiling all the while but still staring at his head, then she attached a sticker to the handle and returned to Joey’s passport. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take off the hat, Mr Driscol.”

Joey’s heart stilled. “You
what
?”

She held up the passport. “I have to check your likeness to the picture in here.”

Joey felt a tremble pass over him. There was a hot flash like a firework had gone off behind his eyes, and then his heart started to pound. He reached a hand up to the hat and that’s when he felt the bandages falling about his ears. “Oh, God …” He felt more bandages falling as he removed the hat.

“Ouch! That looks like a bad knock you’ve had.”

He started to feel dizzy. “Tis nothing. A minor bump only.”

She made an inverted smile. “Sir, we have strict rules about head injuries because of the cabin pressure on the plane.”

“
What
?”

“Do you have a safe-to-fly cert’ from your doctor?”

“
What
?” Everything started to move wildly. Joey felt his eyes rolling.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I am … yes … fine.”

“Sir, are you sure? You look unwell.” The girl moved out from behind the counter as Joey felt his knees begin to buckle and then the lights went up. As he fell backwards he thought he heard the girl on the counter scream, but he wasn’t sure because everything went so quickly to utter blackness.

Being alone with Brother Michael in his office scared Marti. There was a big old desk and a cross on the wall and a picture of the lady in a blue hood. She was holding a baby and had the sun shining all around her. There were lots of shelves with books and silver cups and little wooden cups and little silver crosses. There was a very big picture of a man in olden times with lots of men around him and a devil with a big stick. The devil was poking the big stick in a man’s back and the man was screaming with the agony and the pain of it, and Marti thought it was a very scary picture to be hanging on your wall.

“Tis the Last Judgement,” said Brother Michael, “the picture. Do ye like the picture?”

“It’s scary,” said Marti.

“Ah, now, the Last Judgement was never meant to be a day at the races, Marti. Lookit, that’s Christ in Glory and those are the resurrected souls around him, with the Devil himself there, on his right, with … is it a trident? Sure it looks just like a pitchfork. Anyway, himself’s ready to chase the damned souls into Hell. Do you know what Hell is, Marti?”

“It’s a bad place.”

“Oh, it’s that all right. It’s a very bad place,” said Brother Michael, “but that’s enough about Hell on your first day. Sure and haven’t I my orders from your mam to be keeping well away from the religion altogether. Now you be minding yeer mam, d’ye hear, Marti? She has the look of one not long for this world herself.”

“I will.”

“Good, and don’t be telling her I’m after talking about Hell the minute her back’s turned.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’d have my eye dyed for that, so I would. We’ll stick to the curriculum I think.”

Brother Michael told Marti to sit down and then he took out one of his cigarettes. The room was full of the smell of cigarettes already and when Brother Michael blew out the smoke Marti thought he could taste the grey and white wisps that were everywhere.

A knock sounded on the door and a boy was called in by Brother Michael. The boy had very straight black hair combed over his eyes all in a straight line like it was a black curtain he had on his head. “Ah, Pat, I have a job for ye,” said Brother Michael. “I want ye to take young Marti here under your wing. Mind him through the lunch and back to class.”

“Yes, Brother,” said the boy, and then he raised his thumb and smiled at Marti.

“Fine so, Pat. Ye can give Marti the grand tour and save my legs, which are a terrible, terrible affliction I have these latter years.”

Outside Brother Michael’s office Pat said only the senior boys and the prefects could leave the school at the lunch if you didn’t have the pass. The brothers didn’t give the pass when all you were after was a bag of chips and a bit of craic up the town. The chips were great, amazing, all dripping in the vinegar and with the salt running down them. Marti wanted to get the chips and followed Pat through the gap in the railings where you could get out the school. Pat said the prefects would kick the shite out of ye if they caught you, but wasn’t it a torture to spend the whole lunch doddering about in the school.

Pat wanted to know all about Australia and asked if Marti had ever shot a kangaroo or if there were any wars in Australia. Marti said he hadn’t shot a kangaroo and he didn’t think there were any wars, but Pat said it didn’t matter anyway because he wanted to go to Italy and get the scooter like they have on the films and ride around Rome giving the two fingers to the Pope. Pat said he was for leaving Ireland because everyone in Ireland had the name Pat Kelly and there were no great footballers called Pat Kelly and all the great footballers were from Italy with names like
Giorgio
.

Pat said he wanted to go to Italy and see all the great footballers and get the scooter and didn’t he have the hair for it too because everyone in Italy had the black hair. Marti had the black hair too, just like Mam, and Pat said he could go to Italy too, and Marti thought it would be grand fun to get the scooter and ride around Rome.

Pat said they had to go the long way over the cobbles and keep off the roads. The brothers take the roads with their cars and didn’t the prefects take the roads with their bikes and wouldn’t they both have their guts for garters if they caught them out on the roads just parading about without the pass. Pat said the guards were okay and didn’t they never mind you, because Billy Finneran’s father was a guard and he said they were too busy looking out for the criminal element to be minding young boys who were just needing a good fong in the arse most of the time anyway.

“There c’mon, Marti. That’s the chipper,” said Pat and started running and Marti had to run too. The chipper was very small and all painted green on the outside with a word Marti couldn’t read because it was in the Irish. All the green paint was peeling off and there were boys all in a queue outside waiting to buy the chips.

“Arrah, Mick,” said Pat when they got inside the chipper, and a man with a sweaty brow said, “Howya, Pat, is it the chips?”

“Tis,” said Pat, and then he said, “this is my new friend, Marti Driscol from Australia.”

“Howya, Marti. Australia, is it? Well, I’ve no prawns for yeer barbie, but I could do ye a haddock,” said Mick, and started the laughing.

“I’ll have chips,” said Marti.

“All right so, the chips it is,” said Mick, and rolled up the two bags of chips in newspaper very quickly.

Marti followed Pat out of the chipper and round to the back of the street and there were lots of boys from Saint Joseph’s All Boys Catholic School eating the chips and Pat said howya to some of them. The chips were lovely, all dripping in the vinegar and with the salt running down them, thought Marti, but he couldn’t cram them into his mouth as fast as Pat.

“Aren’t the chips mighty, Marti?” said Pat.

“They are,” said Marti, and when he spoke one of the boys from school said, “Ah look now, it’s Skippy,” and there was laughing from the other boys.

Pat kept cramming the chips into his mouth and said, “Don’t mind them, Marti, aren’t they Brother Declan’s class. They’re all eejits.” The boys stopped laughing and when Pat was finished the chips he started to roll up the newspaper.

“
Please, please
, the paper,” said a boy to Pat. He had a very dirty face and very dirty old clothes.

“Feck off, knacker,” said Pat and the boy said, “
Please, please
,” again and Pat threw the newspaper away into the back of the yard behind the chipper. “Ye can’t be encouraging them, Marti,” said Pat. “The knackers would never leave us alone if ye gave them so much as the one chip, I swear it.”

The knacker boy ran after the newspaper and there were big old brown rats at the newspaper before he could get to it. The rats were very quick running about until the knacker boy picked up the newspaper and started to unravel it, and then he flattened the newspaper out and started the licking of it to taste where the chips had been.

“I’m for a lemonade. Will ye have one, Marti?” said Pat.