Departures (10 page)

Jim laughed, risked patting her arm. “Is that all?” he said heartily. “I can beat that.” And he told her how to this day he couldn't do laundry, how he'd flooded the kitchen the last time he'd tried. Somehow they got on to curiosities—she told him her ankles were double-jointed, he showed her what he could do with his ears. She said a
cousin of hers could crack his knuckles indefinitely, and her sister could fit her whole fist in her mouth if she tried; he had a friend who'd lost all his baby teeth and never grown any back. He must have wasted his wishes, she said, and that got them exchanging superstitions—point at a cemetery and your finger'll drop off, hold your breath crossing bridges and you'll never drown, never let a lamppost split you off from a friend or you and that person'll fall out before you get home.

“See a pin and let it lie, to good luck you'll say goodbye.”

“That's only for the day, but,” he answered. “Crack a mirror. That lasts seven years.”

“Spill salt,” she countered. “That's bad luck, too—I don't know for how long.”

Jim searched his memory for an effective rebuttal, but his brain was addled. Someone had bought a round for the bar, and the shot he'd ordered was taking effect.

“Rosemary beads,” he announced finally.

“Rosary beads,” Angie told him. “What about them?”

“If you break the string the pieces'll bleed.” She looked at him sharply. “That's what they tell me,” he said hastily, “I wouldn't now myself. Right enough,” he went on, more to himself than to her, “we used to steal them off the girls from Our Lady of Mercy when we were kids, and they never bled for us.” The memory made him chuckle. All that kind of carry on seemed so long ago now.

“Well,” Angie said, “thanks for the drink. I'd best be off.”

She was on her feet already, and the sudden change in her stature took him by surprise. “Ah, c'mon, it's still early, isn't it? You don't have to go yet.” He struggled up from his seat and reached for her hand. She pulled away.

“Here, don't get me wrong about them rosemary beads,” he said anxiously, “I didn't mean nothin by it.”

She stood in front of him silently, her eyes on the floor. That she didn't struggle or pull away again was encouraging, at least, and he tried to come up with something else that would make her want to stay.

“Tell us about being a Christian,” he urged. Again she looked at him as if he must be mad. “I'm not winding you up,” he promised her, hoping he'd sound sincere. He felt himself roll on a wave of panic, a physical sense of the urgency of the moment which made caution seem cowardly.

“Just, don't go,” he said. “Please.”

“Look, I'm sorry you got the wrong idea about me.” She paused, apparently struggling over what to say next. Anxious to reassure her, he shook his head.

“Okay, so you're not a Christian; it doesn't matter. Sure, there's worse things than not being Christian.” Like being Chinese, he told himself silently. The thought made him grin.

She stepped back, resolute. “Look,” she said, “I really have to go.”

He watched her push her way through the dancers till she found Denise. They spoke together briefly, then the blonde glanced over at him, her expression hard. The music stopped while the band changed instruments, and for a moment he lost sight of them in the crowd. By the time the view cleared Angie was gone; Denise had collected their coats and was headed towards the door. On the stairwell she stopped, stabbed two fingers in his direction and appeared to spit on the floor. Then she, too, was gone.

His throat felt dry, so he signaled the barman, but when the pint came the look of it put him off. Since he'd paid for it, he drank it, feeling his belly expand as he did. When time was called he realised it was later than he'd imagined, and he suddenly felt weary, drained by a fatigue that was more than physical. He found his jacket and went down the stairs to the street.

The weather had grown steadily worse while he'd been inside. He pulled his collar around his throat and peered up at the sky, wondering whether to run for it or wait till the rain died down. But then two men and a woman came out of the club, and as the entry wasn't big enough to protect them all he decided he might as well move on.

He ran to the end of the street, his head down against the wind, but the barricades were up and he couldn't get through. The rain had disoriented him; he couldn't remember which way to turn for Royal Avenue, and without people the narrow streets of the city centre were unwelcoming, the cold, iron faces of the shop fronts anonymous and severe. He blundered about for a good quarter hour, coming up against one locked security gate after another, before he finally stumbled across a main street and spotted the row of black taxis ahead.

He ran straight to the first car in the queue; Silver-stream, Springmartin, Glencairn—any one of them would take him up the Shankill, and from there he could easily walk home. There were three other men already in the back and a woman in the front; Jim pulled down the seat behind the driver and sighed. What a night, he thought. I should've saved the money and stayed at home.

The driver tossed an empty crisp packet from his window and switched the cabin light out before pulling away from the curb. In the dark, lulled by the hum and gentle massage of the engine, Jim allowed himself to relax as best he could. The man opposite him was large, and had made no effort to make room for him when he'd gotten in. The other two, his age, were long and lanky; they'd stretched their legs back out as soon as Jim had entered, and the one by the door had his feet up on the empty seat. Jim closed his eyes, intrigued by his body's readiness for sleep. His mother would have saved him something—a sandwich from supper, maybe a
few chips; there might even be enough hot water left for him to have a bath before he went to bed. Tomorrow, or rather, today, was Sunday; he could go round to Fitzy's in the afternoon and let him in on the crack. He'd get a laugh out of it, anyway. See, Jim? he'd say. You're still crap with women, even without us around.

The taxi lurched suddenly over the broken road, jostling its occupants and dislodging the feet from the seat beside Jim. Their owner swore and lifted them stiffly back up again, nursing his shin. His companion laughed.

“Still sore, eh?”

The other shook his head darkly. “Too bloody right.”

“I told you she was wild, son,” the first one said with some satisfaction, “but would you listen to me?”

Jim smiled; it was good to know that other men were apparently having women troubles at the same time he was having his. The big man pinched the ash from the end of his cigarette and dropped the butt in his pocket.

“What happened to him?” he asked the boy beside him.

“He was in a fight,” the other said. His companion muttered something vicious under his breath which the first boy ignored. “If she'd been any taller she'd've really done some damage.”

“Bloody women,” the big man remarked without venom.

The statement had a universality about it which Jim could appreciate. Unable to catch the big man's attention, he gave what he hoped to be a wry smile to the boy next to him.

“What she kick him for?” the big man asked.

The other shrugged. “It's his own fault. He was keepin her goin.”

His companion looked up from his knee. “Is it my fault she can't take a joke, the stupid cow?” he demanded defensively. “It's not my bloody fault.”

“Now, now. I told you what she was like, son. But would you listen?”

The big man grunted. “They're all like that,” he said, “bloody women. There's no point talkin to them. You want to talk, talk to your mates.”

The boy beside him nodded with the expression of one who has just heard his own opinions on a subject stated succinctly by an expert in the field. His friend placed his foot gingerly on the floor of the cab with an exasperated sigh.

“It's not my bloody fault,” he repeated sullenly. “Silly cow. We should've gotten that carry out.”

“That's what I said,” Jim laughed. He'd been waiting for an opportunity to make some contribution on the other boy's behalf. Women were unpredictable; it didn't seem fair to argue that a man should have known better than to say whatever he said that upset them so.

The other boy looked up gratefully. “You too, eh? What happened to you?”

Jim grinned. “Well, she didn't kick me, anyway.”

The boy laughed. “Where was this?”

“The Abercorn.”

“Oh, aye. Good place for girls.”

Jim grimaced. “Don't know about that, now. I suppose it's better than the Road, but.” There was a general murmur of agreement. “Still,” he continued, warming to the topic, “there's good crack in the Rex on a Saturday night. Live music and all—country and western, mostly. The Three Amigos.”

The others looked at him curiously. The big man retrieved his butt and struck a fresh match on his shoe. The flame shed a disk of yellow light against his chin, and for a moment while he cupped it his hands hung disembodied, their image mirrored in the glass beside his head.

“Where'd you say you go, son?” the big man asked, dropping the match on the floor.

“The Rex,” Jim repeated amiably, “just above Agnes Street.”

The others said nothing. The boy by the door lifted both legs back onto the seat opposite him and folded his arms across his chest. The big man drew heavily on his cigarette and settled back in his seat, his eyes on Jim's face. Suddenly self-conscious, Jim looked out at the road. It was strange the way the streets and houses lost all identity in the rain. Running around like a lost sheep in the city centre had been disconcerting; he knew the town like the back of his hand, it wasn't like him to lose his way. Again he thought of Angie, and he felt his guts twist. Too much to drink, he decided. I'm going to have to cut down.

Through the window he watched the rows of terraced houses flow by, their outlines blurred by the thin film of rainwater wobbling over the pane. They passed a kebab house, and the sight of it made him hungry; if the weather had been any better he would have gotten off there, bought himself a chip and curry, and walked the rest of the way home.

He was falling asleep when the taxi finally slowed and pulled into the curb. The door opened and a man climbed in, pulling a duffel bag in behind him. He exchanged a terse greeting with the man opposite Jim and nodded to the other two. Then the light went out and the taxi drew away.

The big man cleared his throat. “How was it?” he asked.

“Fine, fine,” the other said.

“Did youse win today?”

The other grunted. “We never do.”

“Bloody hurley,” the big man sympathised, and the other silently agreed.

Casually, so as not to draw attention to himself, Jim turned to face the window. He could see shops now, some with their shutters down, a few others standing empty, their windows smashed, their signs removed. On the gables of the houses that rubbed shoulders with the road he could see the murals, shadows of gunmen, weapons, flags. His throat dry, Jim turned round to the driver.

“Next stop, mate.”

A silence had fallen over the men in the back of the cab. Jim continued to watch the road over the driver's shoulder, but he could feel the others' eyes upon him. The woman in the passenger seat shifted uncomfortably, readying her money in anticipation of getting out. As he slowed to a stop, the driver switched on the overhead light to take the coins from her and make her change. Still searching for his own money, Jim twisted towards the window between the front and back parts of the cab, but it was closed and he had to wait for the woman to put her purse away and gather her bags. She climbed out and slammed the door behind her; then the driver switched the light out and once more pulled away.

“Here, wait a minute,” Jim said, “I'm gettin off.”

The taxi gathered speed. Jim's hands were cold; he curled his fingers into his palms to warm them but the chill that had plagued him since he'd left the club had settled in his bones. Outside, the rows of dark and silent council houses swept past, their blinds and curtains drawn. The road had grown wider and was rising above the estates on either side, the buildings below black and uniform, falling ever farther away from the kerb. His eyes smarting, nearly blinded by tears, Jim turned away from the window and folded his arms, waiting for it to be over.

Inheritance

In my mind I have always remembered Mandy's sixth birthday as the day my mother began her affair with Big John Trowbridge, at six-foot-seven the tallest man any of us had ever seen. He had come to Belfast from America like so many others, to volunteer in the west of the city and observe the war at firsthand. It would have been easier if he had been somehow different from the rest, from those who came for a year, maybe two, and then went home to their families or their educations, got on with their year of travel or returned to their proper jobs. But he was not different. He was an ordinary man of indeterminate qualifications, remarkable only for his silence and his stature, who was neither good nor bad with children. Compared against all others, he was a youth worker of indifferent talent. If we did not love him, we tolerated his presence, and in deference to his size accepted his authority as Craft Room Supervisor in the House.

The House was semidetached with four bedrooms, the last in a row of terraced public dwellings. So poorly had it been constructed that it had been scheduled for demolition almost from the day it had been built. Though it had never been residential, now and again a volunteer arrived whose personality was of sufficient strength to assert itself above all others. In this way the House had been known as Jill's, then Edgert's, then Henri's, then Oskar's, each individual imparting the faint flavour of his native land through his name until some other came to take his place.
Ostensibly the House still belonged to the same church which once had hoped to fashion it as a small, unofficial headquarters for local youth evangelism, though these efforts had been without success. Gradually we had taken it over, until in the end we had cemented its reputation as an unruly, ill-managed community youth club. Complaints were lodged with the Housing Executive that the House had become a haven for alcohol and solvent abusers of all descriptions, yet still it survived every attempt to close it down. Quietly, then, and with few regrets, the church had disavowed all public connection with the House; privately, however, it still channeled a few pound per week towards its upkeep, and continued to solicit the services of foreign volunteers in the hopes that they might preserve some semblance of respectability until the Executive finally did tear it down.