Eureka Street: A Novel of Ireland Like No Other (51 page)

I met her brown-haired mother. I met her wheelchaired father. They watched uncomfortably as I apologized to their daughter for something they didn't understand. Restrained in their presence, she could only listen, she could only accept my regret.

The parents invited me to stay for dinner while their daughter glowered mutinously. The mother suggested that in the meantime her daughter show me round their land. Silently she stood up and beckoned me to follow. The mother smiled approvingly at me as we left.

We walked out into all the green and the shit and the spiders. It was the first time we'd been alone since I'd arrived. My face was hot and my lips did not move. She, too, was silent, her face not turning my way. It looked like this would be an unproductive walk.

We walked in virtual silence for nearly twenty minutes. The sun got low and the hedges and trees went all red. Sheep baaed, cows mooed, birds chirped and all the beasts did their thing. We stopped at a five-bar gate at the edge of their land. Aoirghe turned to me for the first time.

`Jake,' she said.

I drove back to Belfast that night. Aoirghe was going to follow in a couple of days. I called Chuckie to see if he was OK. Chuckie seemed to be OK. I told him I wasn't coming in to work for a couple of days. He continued telling me how OK he was. I hung up after twenty minutes or so.

I checked up on Roche, too. He was still in hospital but only had a few days to go. He greeted me with a volley of complaints so obscene that one of the nurses turned green. He'd met his foster-folks. They'd met him. Despite this, they had agreed to take him on when he got out of hospital. He told me they lived in a big house near Dunmurry. He was disappointed that the wife was a little out of his age-range (the woman was in her late thirties) but apparently they had a whole shitload of seventeen-year-old nieces. The little creep tried to rub his hands with glee but his arms were still too fucked.

He asked me about Aoirghe. I told him. He laughed like a drain.

The new foster-folks came in.They seemed like a nice couple, good-natured and amiable. They had talked to the doctors. Roche would he allowed out in a couple of days but would have to miss at least a month of school. Roche looked confused as though he couldn't understand what difference this would make to his life. They hadn't been informed of his truancy rates. They were nice, these people, but they had a lot to learn.

I said goodbye.

'Hey, Jake; said Roche.'Thanks'

'What for?'

'I don't know. Just thanks'

I waited expectantly. There was silence. They all looked at me.

'What?' I asked.'No snappy line? No obscenities?'

Roche settled back comfortably amongst his pillows. 'Nah,' he said.'I'm too fucking sick.'

Later that day, after much sweating and swallowing, I called Sarah. I had never used the number she had left. It was near a year now. My heart hammered as I tapped out the number.

`Hello,' said a man's voice. My chest went hot with jealousy and fear.

'Could I speak to Sarah, please?'

'She's not here, I'm afraid. Are you Jake?'

'How did you know?'

`The accent.'

'Right !

There was a pause.

`Could you tell her I got her letter and I was just calling to see how she was,' I said.

Somehow the next pause felt more comfortable, more generous.

`She's fine and my name's Peter,' said Peter. `You don't sound like such a wild man to me.'

`You should see how I look.'

And, well, we had a long old chat there, Peter and I. Soon I was feeling disconcerting amounts of warmth for Peter. It was tricky at first. We weren't talking about the size of our penises or anything like that but it was a little tense, a little territorial. Then he asked me whether I had anyone in my life. I told him that I had. He warmed noticeably after that. It was endearing. Soon enough we were burbling like old ladies in a hairdresser's.

He sounded OK, Peter. He sounded like the kind of boy I'd have wanted my daughters to date. Level-headed, funny, gentle. A part of me wondered why I was so glad. But only a part of me.

`Make sure and tell her I called,' I said finally.

`I won't forget,' said Peter.

I did a lot of other stuff. I checked out my friends. I checked out everybody I'd ever met. I even called in at the Europa and said hi to Ronnie Clay and Rajinder. I seemed to have reserves of goodwill that were suddenly enormous. I wandered around the city greeting the citizens.

Then she came back to Belfast. She came round to Poetry Street that night with an uncertain expression and eyes like a forties film star.

`Hello,' I said.

Now, she's sleeping four feet behind me and my room is magical with her presence.A solitary cat yowls its own melancholy klaxon. I'm forced to admit that it sounds like my cat. I ignore it.

My curtains are open and I'm looking out tonight. I've had two good hours to myself. I've never felt less lonely. It has rained and the raindrops on the outside of the window panes glitter like cheap beads. We're talking about spilt beer, we're talking about the end of the world.

I light a cigarette. I'll give up some time soon. The window starts to shed light, a dubious rumour of dawn. I look out as the thing speeds up. It's getting glossy out there. Buildings and roads begin to look pale and flat, hung over in the ebbing strength of the street-lamp shine.

She stirs in the bed. The dark smudge of her face settles against my pillows. I'm tired but [ think I'll watch her sleep some more. I think I'll wait for her to wake.

Chuckie called me a while ago and ranted about all kinds of stuff. He told me he'd seen the OTG man and that he was setting up a political party. I'm worried, frankly. Chuckle win probably succeed. When Chuckle's around, comedy isn't funny. Comedy is serious.

And that was what the OTG man didn't even know he was for.You want to know what OTG means?

Almost everything.

That was the point. All the other letters written on our walls were dark minority stuff. The world's grand, lazy majority will never be arsed writing anything anywhere and, anyway, they wouldn't know what to write. They would change their permissive, clement, heterogeneous minds half-way through.

That's why OTG was written for them. It could mean anything they wanted. It did mean anything they wanted. Order The Gammon. Octogenarians Tote Guns. Openly Titular Gesture. One True God.

I make coffee. The percolator gurgles and clicks. Dazed, my head is filled with the lush music of euphoria. I don't know. Maybe she won't make me feel like this in a year. Maybe six months. Maybe some day I won't even remember the velocity in my veins tonight. Maybe some day some other woman, some other sleeping presence will make me feel like this again and I'll think I've never felt it before. I don't know and I don't care. Maybe we'll all be dead six months hence. It's a big world and there's room for all kinds of endings and any number of commencements.

I don't care because this is enough.

I pour some coffee and put the cups on a tray. The birds gossip loudly outside my kitchen window. I look out into that murk and see my cat swipe inexpertly at a swooping sparrow. He misses and then starts licking his fur, pretending he wasn't really trying. I knock on the window and he looks up. I just wanted him to know that I saw. I think I'll get a new cat.

I go back into the bedroom and leave the tray on the bedside table. Gently, I brush her hair from her brow and she stirs slightly. She'll be awake in a minute. I have only a few moments left on my own.

The mountain looks flat and grand. In the greyness, it is stupidly green. It looks like all cities this morning, Belfast. It's a tender frail thing, composite of houses, roads and car parks. Where are the people? They are waking or failing to wake. Tender is a small word for what I feel for this town. I think of my city's conglomerate of bodies. A Belfastful of spines, kidneys, hearts, livers and lungs. Sometimes, this frail cityful of organs makes me seethe and boil with tenderness. They seem so unmurderable and, because I think of them, they belong to me.

a jumble of streets and a few big bumps in the ground, only a whisper of God.

Oh, world, I think, aren't you pretty?

Aren't you big?

I hear a noise and I turn towards the bed. She has woken. She stirs slowly. She sits up and runs her hand through her disordered hair. She turns in my direction.

She smiles and she looks at me with clear eyes.