Here Are the Young Men (9 page)

‘You'd blow yer load!' shouted Kearney.

‘I'd lash it in and out in a repetitive fashion until there was enough friction to trigger an orgasm. I'm talkin about me own orgasm, but it's possible that she'd be stimulated enough by this point to have an orgasm as well. Who knows. But I wouldn't be doin any of this for the purposes of procreation, now. No way, lads. I'd be doin it purely for the pleasure of it. Too fuckin right I would.'

After a few minutes the bottle was two-thirds gone. Cocker, lightweight as ever, was already wobbling. Cackling, he shuffled over to the gate, pulled down his zip and started pissing through the bars. ‘There yis go,' he shouted. ‘Christian Brother paedo brigade. That's what I think of all yer mercy and all yer bleedin …' His voice trailed off in boozy mutterings, his head slumping against the bars. ‘Loada me hole,' he added.

‘Put that thing away, Cocker, you're killin the planet,' called Rez.

‘Yeah well, I have to kill it before it kills me,' Cocker slurred back, trying to spit and dribbling it across his chin.

‘That's true. I'll give ye that.'

Kearney pointed through the bars of the gate at the chapel.

‘God is in his church!' he declared.

We looked at him.

‘God is in his church!' he repeated, giggling like a perv.

Rez
swilled on the vodka, gasped at the harsh taste, and passed it my way. I drank and then looked through the gates at the chapel.

‘Do you believe in God, Rez?' I asked, for no real reason.

He grinned, looking at the church and then back at me. ‘Are ye serious?'

I thought about this. ‘No,' I said. ‘I don't think I am.' For some reason this seemed hilarious and we both cracked up.

When the giggles had subsided Rez said, ‘Nobody believes in God any more. Everyone knows it's bollocks. These kiddie-fiddlers in their black fuckin gowns are the only ones who don't realize it.'

‘That's why we drink so much, because we don't believe in God,' I said. The thought had only occurred to me as I was saying it. It struck me that my most penetrating insights happened when I was off my face.

‘Do ye reckon?' said Rez, considering this, smiling faintly at Cocker who had turned and was wagging a finger at us, eyes half shut and face puffy red. ‘Yeah, actually I reckon you're right. It's like, if ye believe in God and that yer goin to go to heaven and all that, ye don't really need to have a mad one down here on earth. But if ye know that it's all just dreams and that we're just down here on our own and there's nothing better goin to come of it, then ye may as well take a load of pills and get fucked all the time and try to have a bit of fun.'

‘It's kind of sad,' I said unsurely.

‘No it's not. Why? Past people used God stories to get them through life and make it all seem okay, and we use other things. Why shouldn't we? There's nothing sad about it.'

‘Yeah, I suppose so,' I said. I was warily watching Kearney who had circled back towards us, still grinning at fuck knew what. He seemed different to me now, after I'd seen him loafing the junkie.

Kearney held his two fists up, wrists facing me, doing a weird little dance. Again he said, ‘God is in his church!' This triggered a laughing fit so severe he had to bend over until it passed.

‘
“If God does not exist, then I am God.” Do you know who said that?' asked Rez.

‘Robbie Keane,' said Cocker.

‘Pat Kenny,' I said.

‘Bertie fuckin Ahern!' roared Kearney.

Cocker gulped on the vodka. ‘Do yis wanna hear a joke, lads?' he said.

We nodded eagerly.

‘Why do women fake orgasms?'

We didn't know.

Cocker shrugged. ‘Who cares?'

A moment later he held up the vodka and said, ‘Here lads, the bottle's just about empty. I dare someone to fuck it at the school.'

No sooner had he said it than Rez stepped forward and grabbed the bottle from Cocker's hand. He drained the vodka, reached back and then hurled the bottle over the gate. We watched it lope through the air and explode against the red-brick wall of the school, narrowly missing a classroom window. We cheered, excited by the eruption of violence, of destruction for its own sake.

A moment later Mr Landerton appeared. He came running out of the school – apparently he had been up to something in there before heading into the church – and bounded down the driveway towards us. His face was pink with rage. We stood our ground, brave with drink, and sneering as he bore down on us. Then he began to slow, and the fury in his face changed to doubt, caution. He was realizing that, as of last week, things had changed between him and us.

He came to a halt with ten yards and the high iron gate still separating him from our group. We laughed and waved.

‘You haven't got any power over us any more, Landerton,' said Rez calmly. No one had ever called Landerton anything but ‘sir' to his face before; it sounded weird.

‘Get out of here, yee cretins,' he barked. ‘I'll call the police if yis don't.'

‘
Ye faggot,' said Kearney with a sneer.

‘Come out and have a drink with us, Landerton,' I called.

‘You, Matthew, I'd have expected more from you. And from you as well, Richard.'

‘And not from me?' called Cocker. ‘Ah sir, me feelins are hurt.'

‘I'm goin to call all your parents!'

Cocker shook his head and said, ‘Landerton, we really couldn't give a fuck.'

Landerton was about to say something else but then his eyes widened and his body visibly tensed up. During the exchange, Kearney had slunk in behind us and now he reappeared holding a rock. He gripped a bar on the gate with one hand and then hurled the rock through two other bars. All of us flinched; only Landerton didn't move a muscle as the rock flew from Kearney's hand. We watched in amazement as it shot right for his head. But it missed him by inches, whizzing overhead with momentum enough to carry it right through the stained-glass window above the church door. The entire pane shattered, and shards of purple and indigo rained down into the doorway.

‘Leg it, lads!'

We scurried away into the night, exhilarated. Laughing as I ran with the pack, I looked back once at Landerton before we ducked into a side road, out of sight of the school. He wasn't shouting after us; he didn't even look angry any more, or disgusted – only sad. Mystified and sad. I snuffed out the flicker of pity I felt for him, and I whooped as we vaulted a wall into the darkness of the neighbouring industrial estate, and kept on running.

13
|
Kearney

Snapshot Number 5: Kearney contemplates his Leaving Cert prospects

You have been FUCKED!

Subjects passed: 2 of 7

Honours achieved: 0 of 7

Likelihood of getting into college: 1.5%

Life prospects in the Big, Bad World: 9%

Appraisal: Slacker/ Fuck-up/Degenerate

Fallen Henry the Titan says:
Don't sweat it kid. You still mah nigga. You and me both know that there ain't nuthin to be gained through all that shit, the real meat be elsewhere, baby. Shit. Soul on ice, mother-fucker, soul on ice. I still got your back, lil nigga, remember that. Fallen Henry ain't gonna desert your ass just cos you didn't get no grades to please these pussy-whipped motherfuckers. Hell no. You be cool, Kearney, hear? You be REAL cool. Shit
.

14
|
Rez

The evening after the graduation, Rez avoided eye contact with his ma as he fixed himself a mountain of toasted sandwiches in the kitchen and a giant mug of sugary tea to wash it down. He went into the sitting room and sat on the armchair. His da was on the couch, arms sprawled out like he was being crucified, legs parted obscenely. His mouth hung open and his unquestioning eyes rested on the glow of telly. They exchanged grunts.

Everything was coming at Rez too intensely. He wished he wasn't stoned, though he knew he'd do it again if he had the chance. He peered into the flux of telly, first at ads and then the war. It seemed to him he couldn't tell the difference between telly and non-telly, as if the TV-reality was leaking out of the screen, submerging the sitting room. Or perhaps the telly was a black hole, slowly sucking in all of
real
reality, annihilating any difference between itself and the world it glowed out at.

Rez's da shifted on the couch and bellowed to the house in general, ‘C'mon, it'll be startin any second now.'

His
ma hurried in from the kitchen, then Michael came bounding in and fell on the couch beside their da. Rez's ma opened a huge packet of crisps and they all dug their hands in and began to munch.

On-screen, various young people were sitting in a house, doing nothing. Now and then, two or three of them would fall into conversation: about the people outside looking in; about how it felt to be watched all the time; about having conversations about being watched all the time
while
you were being watched. Occasionally someone would scratch themselves, or cook some pasta, or politely leave a room. There were scenes from inside the bedrooms: people were sleeping, serene under night-vision green – it reminded Rez of the Iraq invasion. There were indicators of the passing of time, then more meandering conversations that petered out into the background hum of steady, amiable senselessness.

He had seen
Big Brother
before – it had been going for two and a half years now. But it was tonight, stoned out of his head and alive to every glimmer of meaning, that he first recognized the sinister brilliance of the programme. With a dark thrill, he saw that the
Big Brother
house was really the world, and the people inside it were none other than Rez himself and his family who sat with him in awed fascination before the screen. And not only them: everyone else on the planet was in the
Big Brother
house too, watching themselves being watched, admiring themselves admiring. In the house, nothing of significance was spoken about; there was no purpose whatsoever to anything that went on. Unlike the on-screen version, however, in the
real Big Brother
house there was no outside, nowhere normal you could get back to.

Rez stayed rooted to the armchair, mesmerized by the shuffling, sighing, prattling humans on-screen, by the purity of their self-consciousness: how the slightest move they made, everything they said or did was performed, simultaneously sculpted and scrutinized by a hundred million pairs of eyes. He wondered if some rebel instinct in one of the contestants ever drove them to attempt
an
unself-conscious act. If so, it would have been futile. In this, Rez knew he was no different from the on-screen humans – his condition was to be forever outside himself, looking on, appraising and comparing. The innocent gesture had been annihilated. Even when there was no one around, it was impossible not to act as if you were being watched. This was the infernal genius of
Big Brother
: it was a decoy, an alibi, a playfully sustained illusion that
it
was the show, but which in the end pointed you back to yourself – the
real
show. Even now, sitting in the armchair, Rez watched himself from outside: a bright but troubled youth, an alienated outsider, drowning in suburban banality and hi-tech senselessness, adrift from family, law, meaning and morality. He saw himself sitting there, eyes closed, his insane family guffawing all around him. Despite everything, part of him relished the image.

He needed to get away. He left them there, his da happily rubbing his beer belly, and hurried upstairs to his room.

Usually Rez's bedroom was a refuge, a place he could go to block out the weird signals that came to him through telly. But tonight he felt oppressed even in here. Harsh, frightening thoughts swarmed in on him. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt genuinely happy, but this only made him feel worse, because all the happy memories that occurred to him seemed false, like there'd been no substance to how he'd felt, only a grinning desperation. He fumbled to put on some music, trying to distract himself. Menacing, tribalistic drums throbbed and then Ian Curtis started singing, his voice deranged.

After lying in the dark for some time, listening to the music, Rez gasped for breath, grabbed the phone and called Julie.

‘Julie …' he said when she came on the other end.

‘Rez? What is it? It's late. I was just goin to bed.' She sounded annoyed.

‘Sorry, it's nothing, I'm just relieved to hear ye. I just wanted to hear yer voice.'

She
groaned. ‘Are ye alright, Rez? Ye sound like something's wrong. What's happened?'

‘No, I'm alright, I think. It's just … fuck, I don't know, it's just what ye were sayin out at Howth. You're right. I should probably just cut down on the dope, ye know? Me head's gettin a bit weird. It's … I don't know.'

Julie was yawning. ‘Yeah Rez, I've been sayin that for ages. But all that stuff ye worry about, it isn't real, ye shouldn't think about it. You'll drive yerself round the bend.'

‘I know, Julie, I know. Don't worry, I just wanted to hear your voice. I feel a lot better now. Listen, I'm really sorry for wakin ye up. Go on back to sleep, I'll see ye tomorrow. I love ye, Julie.'

Julie said she loved him and hung up. He did feel better; Julie was good for him, she kept him grounded. Saying ‘I love you', though – that was the worst. He meant it when he said it – at least he thought he did – but actually saying the words was excruciating. It was impossible to say the phrase without feeling embarrassed – not because you were expressing your feelings, but because you were saying something that you'd heard a million times, in the dodgiest of places, like romantic comedies and shit pop songs – everywhere that was wrong.