The Gamal (4 page)

Detective Crowley was a disaster. A thick-looking fucker if ever you seen one. Big fat cabbage and bacon head up on him. He was on the missing list one time twenty odd years ago. He’d told his wife he was at a detectives’ conference for a couple of nights up the country. She contacted his colleagues after she’d been called to the hospital because she couldn’t contact him. She found out then that there was no conference. When Detective Crowley rang home later that evening from the so-called conference, his sister-in-law told him the news. That the whole country was looking for him. That his wife needed him. That their four-year-old son had been knocked down. That they couldn’t save him in Cork University Hospital.

That was years ago now. First funeral I remember. He was in school with us in Ballyronan. In junior infants class. His hair was dark brown. His coffin was white. He was five I suppose. Shane, his name was. They didn’t have any other kids. Detective Crowley’s wife was never the same. They say he never fooled around on her again. Not that it mattered much to her now I suppose. My mother says she died with her son and her marriage. Still Detective Crowley and herself stayed together. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to kick him out. Maybe she still loved him. Anyhow they were still together twenty odd years later.

Mother said Detective Crowley was fierce handsome back in the day. And how he used to be smartly turned out before his son got killed. Nowadays he looks like shit. There’s a lot of him to dress though, size of a mountain he is. A fat wobbly mountain. They say they made him detective because they couldn’t find a uniform to fit him any more. But of course he was a detective before he got fat. ’Course then someone would say that when Old Master Higgins got drunk below in the pub he said Crowley was the cleverest child he’d ever seen in forty years of teaching. That he’d begged his parents not to send him into the guards, that he’d be wasted in the guards. But the boy had an uncle a guard and that’s all he ever wanted to be. He wasn’t wasted in the guards anyhow.

Just wasn’t clever enough to dress himself I suppose. He always wore a tie though. I’d say he had to. It looked like his mammy put it on him and he was after spending the last half hour trying to pull it off. They were the only house around that didn’t have a television, himself and the wife.

—She do be reading books, my auntie said to my mother, with a face on her like she was after getting a smell of shit.

—She’s deep, my mother said.

—God help us, my auntie said.

No wonder she’s a bit fucking mental if all she does is be reading books. I’d go mental if I read four pages of one. One thing Detective Crowley didn’t find in my room was books. He was in there one time looking around.

Benign

Adj. 1. kindly; having a kind and gentle disposition or appearance 2. favourable; mild or favourable in effect 3. harmless; neutral or harmless in its effect or influence 4.
med
. not life-threatening; not a threat to life or long-term health, especially by being non-cancerous [14thC. Via French
bènigne
from Latin
benignus
of uncertain origin: probably from, ultimately,
bene gunus
, literally ‘well born’, from
bene
‘well’ +
-genus
‘born’.]

Detective Crowley was a benign sort of a fella. But he could’ve killed with the size of him. People didn’t have much good to say about his wife though.

—Worst thing he ever done was marry that one anyhow. Fucking weirdo she is.

—Yera that one is away with the fairies.

—She had an uncle out in Macroom killed hisself you know. Pure sign of weak in a family. Pure sign of weak.

Detective Crowley saw something nice in her anyhow.

He spent a fair while trying to figure me out back along. He didn’t know if I was to be protected by him or if he needed to protect people from me. I could see him wondering in his eyes and he talking to me. What to make of me. He got it right anyhow, as it all turned out. After my wash I could hear himself and the father talking below.

—Ah things have settled down a lot. He’s good really. Considering. Gets upset now and again. Goes walking like you know. Down to the river and stuff. We worry a lot.

—’Course you do.

—What he might do you know.

—I’d say if he was going to, he’d have . . . you know by now.

—Hopefully anyway isn’t it?

—That said, you can’t ever be sure.

—He seems to be getting on well with this Dr Quinn anyhow.

—Isn’t that great.

—He’d a rocky start with him now like. He’s after opening up a small bit now though like you know. You see he wouldn’t talk about all that happened like. Not even to Dr Quinn.

—Really?

—Ah but sure, that’s the kind he is. He was like that ever. Even as a child like, you know. Preferred to be away in his own world. Sinéad and James were the only people he’d ever talk to sure really like you know. And that doesn’t look like changing much.

—But he’s still meeting Dr Quinn is he?

—He is. Dr Quinn came up with a way to get him to ah . . . to get him to like . . . to . . . process things like you know . . . without having to let anyone in close to him like you know?

—How so?

—He has him like . . . so it seems anyway like, even though I don’t think even Dr Quinn has seen much of it like, but he’s writing his story like you know.

—Dr Quinn is?

—No no, Charlie. He’s after learning how to type and everything sure. Dr Quinn does it above in the hospital like. Runs kind of writing classes for like, the mental . . . like people with mental problems like you know. As a kind of therapy you see.

—By God.

—Seems to be after doing the trick for Charlie anyhow. ’Tis definitely bringing himself out of himself a bit.

—Jesus, that’s great altogether.

—Now don’t get me wrong now like. There’s still times when he takes to the cot and he mightn’t get out of bed for the bones of a week. Sometimes you can hear him typing in the middle of the night. A lot of the time, nothing though. Might go for a walk before dawn and then he’d disappear back to bed when the rest of us are up and about. But Christ he’s a million times better than he was a year ago like you know. Million times better.

—Is he working any bit?

—No. Dr Quinn doesn’t think he’s ready yet but I think ’twould be the best thing for him to be honest. Even a day picking spuds or something.

—I suppose the doctors know best.

—I suppose they do. He’s probably washed up now I’d say. Will I give him a shout?

—Ah sure do, ’twould be nice to say bye to him.

The father shouted up for me. He didn’t really need to. I was sitting at the top of the stairs listening to them. I went back into my room to answer.

—Yeah?

—Come down.

—Ha?

—Come down.

—Ha? For what?

—Come down and thank Detective Crowley for sorting you out today and giving you the lift home.

—Ha?

—Come down.

I went down.

—All cleaned up Charlie?

—Yeah.

—Good man, good man. Your father tells me you’re doing great anyway.

—Yeah.

—And you’re doing a bit of writing are you?

—Yeah.

—That’s great. And you’re up and about a bit now and stuff.

—Yeah.

The father goes then,

—Listen, I’m going to make a cup of tea. You’ll have a cup?

—I will.

—Charlie you’ll have some too will you?

—Yeah.

Out went the father.

—Your father tells me you’re getting on great with Dr Quinn.

—Yeah.

—You’re writing about all the stuff you’ve been through are you?

—Yeah . . . small bits only.

—Still . . . I think it’s a great idea . . . You still have hard days your father tells me. Is it an dubh?

—Yeah . . . I suppose.

—Are you on tablets?

—Yeah. Father keeps them. Leaves a dose out for me like.

—I met Frank Deasy in court the other day.

Frank Deasy is my lawyer. He helped me during the trial.

—He was asking about you.

—Yeah.

—He’s very busy since the case. Says he’s a lot busier . . . after being on the telly and all. You know the way fellas are.

—Yeah.

—Like to feel important. Having a lawyer that was on the telly and all. You know . . .

—Yeah.

—It’s good to see you again Charlie. I think about how you’re doing a lot. You went through a lot.

—Yeah.

—Yeah.

We sat there and listened to the sound of my father fighting with the kitchen over a few cups of tea.

Then Detective Crowley said,

—My wife you know . . . Veronica . . . she’s not well. Gone back again she is.

—Yeah.

—She’s not reading or anything these days.

—Yeah.

—I think maybe for her sake we should have left Ballyronan long ago. Away from the house. Away from where he was knocked down. Just away. It’s like she can’t let go. Or forget.

—Yeah. Dr Quinn maybe could help.

—Won’t see him.

—Yeah.

—I try to cheer her up. Put on the radio like. Bit of pop music. Open the curtains. Say all the nice things we could be doing. She just lies there and stares into space. Ignores me. Sometimes all right she’ll tell me to, ‘Fuck off’, but most of the time it’s like she doesn’t even hear me.

—Yeah.

—What could I do Charlie? Have you anything you could suggest to help her get out of it?

—No.

—OK.

—Sad music maybe. Slow, sad music might speak to her more.

—Jesus Christ . . . are you sure?

—No. But maybe . . . Yeah . . . make her feel not so alone maybe.

—Christ. She does love the music. Think I might try it. Do you think it will work?

—No. Not for a long time nothing’ll work.

The father came in then with a tray of tea and biscuits. They talked about the football team and the budget and saying how they’ll always take care of the big noises with all the money anyhow, whatever about the ordinary man on the street.

Words

That’s eight hundred and sixty-two words. That’s me done for today.

Piss

I’m just in from a piss. Listened to the mother and father from the top of the stairs for a bit. They were below in the kitchen. Heard him saying to the mother that he’s not too sure about Dr Quinn and if all his old writing therapy is only a load of old mickey mouse codswallop. The mother says,

—I dunno.

And I could see her shrugging her shoulders even though I couldn’t see her.

The father always just looks at me sometimes for a few seconds then goes back reading the paper or watching television. Seen him do that a million times out the corner of my eye. The mother understands me better cos she doesn’t be trying to understand me. The mother takes me as I am. And as I’m not isn’t it?

’Course the mother’s big secret is that she can’t read. She even fooled my father who was married to her before he realised that she used only be pretending to be reading her women’s magazines or that she was reading the subtitles of the foreign films he took her to. I seen pictures of my mother when she was young. She was very pretty and she looks like she could definitely read and didn’t look like a thick. She doesn’t even know that I know she can’t read. I used to watch her face all expressions and shock when she was reading my letters home long ago for being bold in school.

—Charlie. I’m surprised at you Charlie.

Even though the last thing she was was surprised.

—Wait ’til your father sees this. Won’t be one bit happy Charlie.

She calls in to me sometimes when I’m writing. She knocks on the door and says can she come in and then when she’s in it’s clear as air that she has nothing to say and forgot to even think of something all the way up the stairs. Then she’ll just say a blandness like,

—Have you washing?

—No.

—How are you feeling?

—Grand.

—Anyway come down if you want a snack or something. How’s the writing going?

—Grand.

I’m not being mean. I’m fond of her but she calls in to me about ten times a day and her loneliness makes me feel sad about her and about the world isn’t it? Remember one time on a school tour to Dublin I bought her a cheap Aretha Franklin tape. She made such a fuss over it I never got her anything ever again. It meant too much to her and that made me realise what an awful useless cunt I am.

I could say more about my family but it’s not really part of the story. I’ve an older sister too and she’s normal. She’s married. When she heard I was writing the story for a book she said,