Kevin McGimpsey (Ireland) Contact the author
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POETRYSHORT STORIESABOUT THE AUTHOR |
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Ares is coming
(Kassandra's address to the Rambouillet negotiators
on the outbreak of war in Europe)
Awake! Awake! Ares is coming!
He rises tall through toxic clouds
A rumbling avalanche of steel-
You have bidden him. He is come!
His shadow falls across a feast
Of hollow spin and rhetoric.
Too proud, O Trojans, too proud
You drank to the death of Ares
But left him astir in a shallow grave.
This cold dawn a metal monster wakes-
His bulk blots out the dwindling sun
Against a new millennium.
Awake! Awake! Ares is coming!
Kassandra rails from the Ilian wall
His every tread will blast a wasteland
A deadly dust that blows unseen-
His helmet is a gleaming bat
Frozen slits of silver, fixed on hell.
From the hunchback's forge - a spear that cannot miss
You have bidden him. He is come!
Too long, Achaeans, too long
Your hearts have choked on greed and hate.
Bondage is your army, slavery your fleet-
But Ares cares not on whose flesh he feeds.
Awake! Awake! Ares is coming!
The prophetess' frail words are drowned
By a world sedate in celluloid dreams-
Transfixed through the eye of its flashing,
box-shaped,
horse.
A day in the life of Ivan Diazepam
Here in Safe Haven
we lie in bed
watched by the raven
with a UV eye
Queue for slops
like Oliver Twist
it's 'Back to Basics'
so catch a grip
Do the 'Largactil Shuffle'
Twist the 'Thioridazine Grimace'
rehearse for the stage
of Community Care
We tried so hard
our steps they slipped and stuck
learned to do the dance
but now we cannot stop
Sweet Nurse Ratched
and Doctor Benway
waltz the corridors
of Castle Klamm
'Take your medicine
and cost-effective care'
back to basics...
and back to Bedlam
Clockwork Mandarins
They kicked him in good hard and solid
kicked him in till bones did break
TV eyes all a watching
blue flash blue flash blue flash red
They were heroes disaffected
they wore the latest gear in town
under stars cold and staring
crushed his fingers in the dirt
They had seen the cartoon films
they had heard the fiction news
TV eyes all a watching
blue flash blue flash blue flash red
His fractured jaw, torn lips swollen
mouth awash with ivory shards
while in a flat above the street
naked bodies grinding in-out-in
They had girls and they had pills
cars, computers, cable link
they had a five pound frozen chicken
thawing out in the kitchen sink
in city blocks void and silent
carve a slice of human flesh
under stars cold and staring
smash a body into pulp
They had seen designer adverts
they had read the magazines
TV eyes all a watching
blue flash blue flash blue flash
red
Brigstocke Road
The street sign hung by a single nail
outside your door.
You pushed the junkies off the stoop
and laid your claim.
Your gaze froze hard, pupils tight -
to mask the fray of
scissor skirts that cut and sliced
over fishnet thighs,
headlights jammed in panting queues
through the brazen night.
'Got a light?' she said,
crossing the road.
When you gave her the joint
she pulled a toke.
Her hair was black, six inches
in a centre parting,
her snub nose freckled
like sprinkled pepper.
'I've never done this before,' you laughed
as she took your hand.
You wanted her to stay
but she had to go.
She said not to mind - it made a change
from her usual work.
'They never hurt me behind my veil,'
she smiled out through heroin eyes.
The morning rain on mortared stone
speckled black like sprinkled pepper.
You kicked a junkie off the stoop
and fixed your mask for Brigstocke Road.
Wasps
On his third day in Room 5A he noticed a cluster of small bodies on the curtain. They were hanging together, barely moving, merged into the coloured swirls of the fabric. Outside, the sky framed an apple tree through its debris of russet leaves. The window glass was frosted up with beads of condensation gathering on the inside corners. A fire door at the end of the corridor swished open and footsteps strode past his room.
'Medication time! Breakfast's ready!'
The voice moved on. Derek picked up the edge of the curtain and bent closer. The creatures were wasps for sure but long and thin, browner than the common yellowjackets. As his face drew closer, a mass of empty unseeing eyes stared back. He dropped the curtain and shivered. Up in the canopy he spotted another colony, dark shapes bunched and watching. He put on his clothes slowly, expecting to brush against furtive bodies inside socks and sleeves. When he got out into the corridor he pulled himself together and made his way downstairs to the dayroom.
They were queuing by the medicine trolley, wrapped in their dressing gowns, swaying from side to side, scratching and muttering. He walked on into the kitchen. The krispies popped as he poured on the milk.
He sat at a white plastic table all alone. The others shuffled into the room, spreading round. It was always a different crew who showed for breakfast, and some stayed in bed all day. If he took an early breakfast he could get out of the way before the pacers began. One of them had already started, jerking his head to a walkman, slippers flapping on the lino floor. Derek's spoon swirled through the cereal, checking for striped abdomens. A nurse weaved her way through the tables holding a cup and clipboard.
'Here's your medicine, Derek. Drink up like a good boy.' She smiled and placed a cup of bright blue liquid on the table.
'I want to speak to Doctor Peebles,' he said.
'The doctor won't be here till midday. And there's a ward meeting as well, so we'll have to see if he has time.'
He tried to ignore the blue liquid, but the nurse fidgeted with her pen.
'Come along now. One, two, three...'
Lifting the cup, he tipped it into his mouth. He could feel her eyes burying into his neck, watching for the swallow. Holding the liquid in his cheek, he wobbled his adam's apple and made a glugging noise.
'That's the spirit, Derek.' She put an entry on her clipboard, and moved on.
He sat for ten minutes, sloshing the medicine from one cheek to the other. When it looked safe, he walked to the toilet and spat in the bowl. On his way back he glanced into the staff room. Through the glass, he saw the dark curls and freckles of Cathy. His heart beat a little faster as he watched. Her hands were folded on her lap as she listened to another nurse who was coming off shift. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and he knew Cathy would be suffering in silence. In an hour he could try and speak with her, after the changeover. Perhaps he could even trust her enough to mention the wasps.
Rather than go back to his room he went for a walk. Big Jessie came up the path as he reached the door, praying aloud and swinging her handbag.
'Jesus bless you!' she said and blocked him with the sign of the cross.
He stared at the tight-buttoned coat that clung to her barrel body.
Her hands pawed his shoulder and neck. 'Any cigarettes, precious? Your hair's so lovely this morning-'
He backed off, shrugging her pudgy fingers from his skin. 'Get lost, Jess!' he shouted. 'You know I don't smoke!'
'O precious, you're angry with me. What have I done?'
He pushed her out of the way and hurried down the path. In his mind he saw the inner lining of her coat packed with clinging wasps. That was how they got into the ward. Of course! Warm and snug, Jessie would be the perfect host.
It was colder than he thought. The temperature dropped when he entered the shade, frosted grass cracking under his feet. His breath blew back into his face as the villas passed by - Hermitage, Blythe, Sevenoak, the one with the bars on the windows. He walked a circuit of the grounds then turned to retrace his steps.
If only he was outside again, Cathy would have been his girl. He could have asked her to the cafe, given her free coffee and cooked her the meal of her choice. Here it was impossible. There were strict rules for everything. People didn't understand, that was all. It was so humiliating. I'm not mad, he thought, I'm a talented chef with a flair for ice creams and sorbets - that's what Jerry Malone had said. It was only a small slip - just one. How could they do it to him? Now he'd lost his job, everything.
When he walked into the hall, most of the staff were still shut in the office. Then he noticed Cathy was missing.
Footsteps behind him clicked on the tiles. 'Hello Derek. How are you today?'
His heart swelled when he saw her in the corridor. 'Ah, could I speak to you about something, Cathy?' he asked.
She gave him a wink and smiled. 'I'm in the medical room checking supplies. Come in if you want.'
In the room with the drugs posters and white lockers, she sat on the counter swinging her legs back and forth. 'I came in here to get away from all those smokers,' she whispered. 'You know I can't stand it.'
He nodded his head rapidly in agreement.
'I'm to be your key nurse from now on,' she said. 'You don't mind?'
Of course he didn't mind. But for a second his glance fell to the floor. 'Cathy, there's strange things going on in my room. I don't want you to get the wrong idea...'
She waited, looking into his eyes, head to one side. He wanted to say - I think you're the prettiest woman I've ever seen.
The tap dripped in the sink.
'It's an infestation,' he spluttered at last.
Her eyerows arched.
'Wasps,' he said. 'I'd like you to take a look.'
In the corridor Cathy had a short conversation with Sue, the new nurse. As Sue rushed off, they went upstairs into Room 5A. 'You see, they emerge from nooks and crannies like here and here,' he said, pointing to a gap under the heating pipes and another one behind the wardrobe.
Cathy peered in and wrinkled her nose.
'I found two groups today,' he said, 'close together like they're trying to keep warm. They don't move about much. I think they use camouflage too, like chameleons.'
She was looking directly at him. 'Where are they?' she asked.
He sat on the bed and held her eyes in his. 'I couldn't have told anyone else - only you and Dr. Peebles. Promise you won't think I'm crazy? You know I shouldn't be here. It was just a little fall anyone could take. I'll be back on my feet soon, won't I?'
'I would think so, Derek,' she said. 'You don't give us any trouble. But it's these wasps I'm worried about. I'd like to see them.'
He sighed and let his body relax. 'Okay. You promise?'
She held up her hand and smiled, raising three fingers. 'Guides honour,' she said.
With a couple of steps, he moved to the window and pulled the curtain back from the glass. They were clustered in a bunch as before, only this time further up. The other group had withdrawn into the darker recesses of the canopy.
'There,' he said, standing back.
Cathy stretched up to open the folds of material. A tiny hole appeared in the stocking just below her skirt.
'Be careful, Cathy, for God's sake. They might be dangerous.'
After a minute or two she let the curtain drop and glanced at the wastebin. 'I think they're safe,' she said at last. 'They don't seem to have stings.'
He could sense a waver in her voice. 'You did see them, didn't you?'
She looked up again at the curtain.
'Please tell Doctor Peebles I have to speak to him,' he said. 'He's the only doctor I trust. Do that for me, Cathy.'
'Alright, I'll tell him. It's bad that this room hasn't been cleaned properly. I'll get the domestic staff to do it.' She turned to leave. 'Keep away from those things, Derek. It's no good sitting here all day. You should mix with the others.'
'Would you go for a walk with me if I did?' he asked.
'I can't. I'm too busy. Jessie won't have her bath and Sue needs my help. If you come downstairs I'll try and chat with you when I have time.'
The door closed. From the passage, Jessie's high-pitched voice rose in protest.
When he came downstairs, Cathy was nowhere to be found and Doctor Peebles had been called to another ward. The afternoons were always the worst. He tried watching TV but Johnny and Benj argued all the way through the sport.
At last Johnny got up and walked out. 'And I wouldn't give you one if I had any!' he shouted.
Benj turned to Derek and thumbed after Johnny. 'He got some, de tight bastard. I bet he going for smoke now. I remember dat when I get me money.'
Derek couldn't settle. Perspiration dripped over his eyes as he tightened his muscles to control the spasms.
'I'm going to bed,' he said at last.
On his way he passed the staff room. A male nurse was locking the door as he came up.
'Where's Cathy and Doctor Peebles?' he asked.
The nurse shrugged and tried to smile. 'Nurse O'Reilly's finished her shift and I'm afraid the doctor can't make it today. Doctor Fairfax'll be on ward tomorrow. Can I help?'
'No,' he said, and bowed his head as he went up the stairs to his room.
He didn't feel like going down for supper. The food was bad - dull and synthetic. When they brought him down for evening medication he asked for two tamazepam with his dose. He figured tonight he'd need some help to get to sleep.
Why had there been no visitors? he thought as he made his way upstairs. They had all abandoned him - Jerry, Nina, Steve... It was so hard to take. Frustrated by a lack of answers, his mind looped back to the wasps. He recalled that there seemed to be something wrong with the TV - a sporadic buzzing frequency he'd never noticed before. Something told him the infestation was spreading.
As he lay in the dark, pale lamplight filtered through the curtains. A small shape crawled from the window canopy along the join of wall and ceiling. Why didn't it fly? Wasps had wings and these were no exception. It moved sluggishly, dragging itself along. Then he noticed another colony above the door. There were only three of them, but soon there would be four.
Nightime again and doors banged in the corridor. There was no sign of Cathy or Doctor Peebles. They hadn't cleaned his room. The drugs made him dull and sleepy. The wasps had multiplied - now he could hear them humming.
Tiny points of light appeared in his room. On the floor, luminous grubs crawled around with eyes on stalks. He leaned over the bed and picked up a shoe, covered one of them and ground it into the floor. The grub was still moving when he lifted it. He tried again, pushing the sole back and forward, cursing the grip tread. This time there was only an oily smear. He got to his feet and repeated the exercise.
A stronger light shone from the wastebin. He couldn't see the source, only the paper towels and sweet wrappers piled high. Three wasp heads emerged at once, poking through the rubbish. Their legs clung tight to slimy bodies like they'd been squeezed out from a tube of toothpaste. The bin must be their breeding ground, he thought.
In the morning he searched through the bin and found an egg. Attached to an empty cigarette packet was a small globule of liquid. When he drew it close, something wriggled and he caught a glimpse of two eyes and a tail. The humming in the room grew louder.
He stood over the toilet and scraped at the packet with a knife from the kitchen. The egg resisted, but eventually it broke free and fell in the water. He looked at the rim of the bowl. An upside down insect face stared at him, forelegs gripping the white porcelain. The door behind him opened and the wasp vanished under the rim. He swung round.
'O precious! You look frightened. Let Jessie kiss you better.'
'What are you doing here? This is the mens'...' his voice was dry and inaudible.
'I can see your halo,' she babbled. 'The power of Jesus will flow between us!'
He watched her fingers undo the top button of her coat. As it sprung out her hand moved on to the next. Naked skin appeared then huge breasts, her arms enfolding him, lips against his own, tongue seeking entry.
Perhaps the wasps were all over the building. They could hide in hair and clothes, camouflage with the furniture, or even lay eggs in wastepaper bins. Certain people were selected as hosts, then carried them from place to place. In a magazine in the dayroom, he discovered another article about dangerous energy fields from mobile phones.
Watching through the glass of the office door, he could see a patient explaining himself to Doctor Fairfax. The doctor tapped his fingers on the desk, looking out of the window. The apple tree was almost a skeleton now, just bare branches clawing the sky.
As Derek turned back along the corridor he saw the door of the medical room was ajar. He pushed it open and there was Cathy, her hair tied back, a clipboard in her arms and containers of tablets on the counter. She jumped when she saw him and her eyes were moist and red.
'Derek! Sorry, I should've locked the door. Did they fix the room and your wasps?' she asked.
He couldn't bring himself to talk about the wasps. To see her unhappy was a knife in his heart. 'What's wrong, Cathy?'
'Oh, nothing.' She looked down and bent a piece of paper back on the clipboard. A tear spilled onto her cheek. 'I-I'll speak to you later, Derek.'
He moved closer. 'What's wrong?'
More tears flowed. 'I can't do this job anymore,' she said.
'Nonsense. You're the best, Cathy.' He paused and touched her arm.
She looked up.
'There's something else. I can tell,' he said.
'Please don't worry yourself, Derek. I'll talk to you later.'
An overwhelming rush of emotion welled up from his heart and poured out into the room. 'Nobody loves you like I do, Cathy,' he said. 'You're the most beautiful woman in the world and I mean that.'
She blinked but stayed where she was. His hands rested carefully on her shoulders and cradled the back of her head. Then he rubbed his lips on hers and felt them part-
Cathy broke away and ran out of the room. For a few moments he stood there rigid, then sank into the corner pulling his arms over his head. Outside in the corridor, the tread of hurried feet came clattering down the hall.
In the new ward there was no way out of taking the medicine. They tested his blood and administered the drugs by injection. Bars crossed the windows and all the doors had security locks. Nobody was interested in his story here - they just laughed and glanced away. In this building the wasps were hidden in plaster cracks and wall spaces, and came out at night. Sometimes they nibbled his flesh and made him scream.
Real Identities
Kenny watched the silhouettes flicker against a backdrop of flames. The bonfire threw up a shower of sparks, each cinder fading to darkness as it fell. A burst of laughter merged with the bubbling hiss of a ring-pull. In the distance he could see the end of the council estate, under a line of bunting and out into the trees.
A small boy stood on the road, tossing his baton higher and higher with each throw. When the stick slipped from his grip and clattered on the ground, Kenny stepped over it and walked on.
'Hey! Can ye not pass the boy back his baton?' yelled a voice behind him. 'Where's your fuckin manners?'
He looked round. Two youths approached from the fire, orange light dancing on their faces.
'The lad can pick it up himself,' said Kenny.
'Not from round here, are ye?' the other one challenged, standing his ground.
'Sounds Belfast to me,' said the first. 'The cheeky bastard.'
'I'm going to Meg Greer's,' Kenny hissed. ' Any problem in that?'
He climbed the steps to the back door. Aunt Bess threw her arms round him as he stepped into the kitchen. 'Oh Kenny, so glad you're here. I got a bed made ready in case you came.'
'Couldn't have got very far if I'd left it till tomorrow, now could I?' he said and kissed her on the cheek. 'Who's all here?'
'Just your uncle George and me. Oh, and Viv's come over to organise the funeral.'
How like Vivian, he thought. If the family was an orchestra, she saw herself as the conductor. Not content with her church and political activities, and her obsession with 'protestant family values', she had to spoil it here too. He smiled - at least there'd be one horn blowing out of tune tomorrow.
'It was quick and painless, thank God,' whispered Aunt Bess as they drew apart. The teapot rattled on the stove, steam rising from the metal spout. Aunt Bess pressed something into his hand. He felt the crisp paper and glanced down. 'Aw, Bessie, you shouldn't,' he said.
'Sure I've only got my nieces and nephews to spend it on,' she replied. 'There, that's for making the journey. Now, will you take a cup of tea?'
He moved through into the next room. The parlour brought back memories of Meg, from the china ducks above the fireplace to the loose seat covers with their musty smells. Uncle George sat in Meg's favourite chair, a living scarecrow with his dry, weatherbeaten face and grey hair sticking up from his head. He gave Kenny a nod as he sat down.
Vivian pretended not to notice. She was on the phone, one hand on hip, a deep frown on her brow. 'I've managed to get the minister over tomorrow morning,' she was saying. 'That way the men can go to the parades in the afternoon...'
Bess set the teacups and saucers on the dining table. An array of cakes and biscuits followed, laid out on silver plates. George sat with his bottom lip pulled over his teeth, eyes clouded, staring at a ripple on the wallpaper. A faded picture hung on the wall - of Meg in her youth, leading a bull into a field. Her head was held high and a lock of hair fell loose over her face.
Bess poured dark tea into the cups and passed them round. As she picked up the plates and waddled over, Kenny's neck muscles tensed.
'A wee bite to eat, son? A sandwich maybe?'
'Nah. I'm quite alright. The tea'll do.'
'Some cake then?'
Vivian cupped her hand over the receiver. 'Bessie, you're not bringing out the cake, are you? That's for tomorrow!'
Bess gave Kenny a wink. 'The lad's hungry, Vivian. Needs some colour in his cheeks.'
He smiled back at her. 'It's okay. I'll do without,' he said.
'A boiled egg, perhaps? Some ham...'
'He doesn't want anything, Bess!' hissed Vivian from the corner of the room.
Bess raised an eyebrow at Vivian then leaned close into Kenny's ear. 'If you change your mind about the cake, just let me know,' she whispered.
'Too bad our Meg died so close to The Twelfth,' said George suddenly. 'She always had to be different. There's some might say she was being awkward on purpose.'
'We knew it was coming, George,' said Vivian, spreading a linen tablecloth on the ironing board. 'Eighty-six is a good age for anyone.'
'There's lots who never reach sixty,' added Bess, hands folded on lap. 'You came and saw her regular, didn't you, son?'
Kenny felt his stubble and swept the hair off his cheek. It seemed a long time ago. He hadn't called very often in the past year, and his memory was blocked. All he could remember was playing in Meg's garden as a child, with the smell of fuschia by the kitchen steps, and bantam chickens running wild in the lane.
They talked over and round him. No-one asked him what he was doing or who he was seeing. George spoke about the farm and his herd of prize cattle. 'The new generation don't know how to farm properly, Vivian. Young Sam couldn't stick the pace when I agreed to take him on. You know Meg was up at five o'clock every morning at his age.'
When George and Bess left the room, Kenny sat by the window and smoked a cigarette. Everything felt so normal, as though the four of them were housesitting while Meg was on holiday in Portrush. He pulled hard on his cigarette and tried to remember his last visit. The sound of a TV cop drama drifted in from the front room.
The hall door opened as he tossed the butt into the fireplace. Vivian stepped inside and closed the door. 'Do you have to smoke in here?' she asked.
Kenny indicated the open window.
'It'll do you no good,' she said.
In her eyes he could see the image of him she cultivated in her mind. The insolent scruff who couldn't be bothered to wear a suit for the funeral, a collaborating traitor that brought the family name to shame. He avoided her gaze and looked at the wall.
Vivian picked up the coal brush and swept away the trail of ash that had missed the grate. 'There'll be a lot of people here tomorrow. Funeral's booked for midday.' Her voice was clipped and crisp. 'You're the only one from your side of the family. Now, I know you and Meg were close, but you don't have to come to the church if you don't want to.'
Kenny rubbed his fingers on his chin and screwed up his face.
'You could just carry the coffin for a bit. That'd be enough.'
If he agreed, it let both of them off the hook. 'Okay. I'll do that then,' he said.
Vivian rose to her feet and brushed down her skirt. 'There's something else. I'd like to have a wee chat with you in the front room.'
'What's wrong with here?' he protested.
She drew close and lowered her voice. 'It's not private enough. Bess is sitting up in Meg's room.'
He sighed and followed her out into the hall. It was dark and lit only by a shaft of light from under Meg's bedroom door. The quarter-hour chime rang from a tall mahogany clock as he passed by.
The front room was permeated by a smell of damp. A table lamp was lit and the TV sound was turned down. Actors leaped around the set as the cop show reached a soundless climax. Vivian closed the door and they both sat down in separate armchairs.
'Bess may be up all night. She accepted her sister-in-law as one of her own when she married George,' said Vivian and stretched out her feet.
Kenny scratched at the armrest with a nail. 'What do you want to talk about?' he asked, knowing full well what was on her mind.
'It's you,' she said, 'and where your life's leading. There's a rumour you've been seen up the Falls Road in the company of known republicans.'
He felt like laughing out loud. Where'd she got this information?
'They'll never accept you,' she said. 'Because you're not one of them. You might think you're smarter than us with all your education, but if anything happens to you, then I for one will have to wash my hands.'
His face dropped in disbelief.
'There's still time to turn back,' said Vivian in a softer voice. 'Kenny-'
'I'm only trying to learn Irish!' he exclaimed. 'There's no classes anywhere else in Belfast, for Christ's sake!'
'I see,' she said. 'Your mind's made up. What do you want to learn Irish for? You know it's a dead language.'
The conversation stalled. On the flickering screen, a cop gave the villain a silent piece of his mind. 'Are you thinking of turning, then?' she managed at last.
'What! You mean becoming a catholic?'
'Aye. Their practices are very different from ours. But I'm sure there are catholics who take their religion as serious as us, so-'
'Look here!' He fought to control the anger in his voice. 'God means nothing to me.'
A dog barked from a nearby farm. The last remark had been too much for Vivian to take. He began to feel suffocated by the room, and a gnawing sensation spread in his stomach.
Vivian turned round from the TV, her face pale in the half light. 'I also wanted things to be different when I was young,' she began.
Aye, and look at the state of you now, thought Kenny.
'But I learned to accept the way life is. Family and faith saved me where the world failed. You shouldn't-'
'Good night, Vivian,' he said firmly and rose from his seat.
The night was warm and still. Even with the blankets thrown back it was hard to sleep. As Kenny's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the old oak dresser with its heavy swing mirror, and the porcelain dogs on top. The last time he'd walked past Meg's room on his way to the toilet, the light was still on. Lying in bed, he tried to imagine Bessie's large body hunched on a chair, Meg's coffin in the middle of the floor.
A moth batted the ceiling with its wings. You're not one of them. Vivian's words repeated in his brain. Everything in this country boiled down to the same equation, people demanding you conform to one camp or the other. Like the fools who'd be marching tomorrow, pathetic in their bowler hats and orange sashes.
In his imagination he saw himself in the middle of a parade, pushing and shoving the marchers out of line. They looked back at him with dull, humourless faces. His voice screamed in rage against the rising crescendo of fifes and drums. KING BILLY WAS A FAIRY PAID BY THE POPE! PEOPLE IN BRITAIN HATE YOU! POOR PRODS LIVE IN THE SAME SHIT AS POOR TAIGS! The words were swallowed by pounding drums, the brightly uniformed mass closing ranks and marching past.
They'll never accept you. Of course it was true. He'd seen that familiar suspicion on the faces of catholics he knew, endured the same ignorant prejudice he despised among his own. But he never wanted to be one of them. He just wanted to reach out to a heritage that was as much his as anyone else's, and trample the barriers of division into the grave of every faith in Ireland.
Nuala was different, he remembered. They'd been in love for a while, and though that had passed, sometimes they still slept together. He'd wanted her to come to the funeral, help make it more bearable. 'You've got to be joking. I'm getting out to Donegal for The Twelfth,' she'd said. With a spasm of guilt he dissected his motives. Wasn't it so he could flaunt her as a trophy in front of Vivian? Just so he could show them that not only was he intimate with a girl he wasn't married to, but also that she had such a catholic name as Nuala O'Hanlon?
The clock in the hall chimed twice. From the window, a distant fire glowed from the council estate. Here he was at Meg's funeral yet unable to spare her a fraction of his thoughts. 'You're a worthless selfish bastard, Kenny Greer,' he said out loud as he lit a cigarette out of the window.
He puffed out a column of smoke into the bright blue sky and watched it blow away. From Meg's garden he could see out over the fields and bungalows with whitewashed walls and trim flower beds, union jacks fluttering from flagpoles. He looked back over the garden - no flags were visible here. Something he'd always admired about Meg was her contempt for it all.
The shrill whistle of flutes and a rolling thunder of drums rose briefly from the estate then faded away. He glanced at the people gathered round the kitchen steps. Inside, the house was nearly full of mourners and guests, the back lane choked with cars. How many of them had visited Meg when she was alive? Putting his hands in his pockets, he made his way across the lawn and back to the house.
'Ah, Kenny!' exclaimed a man with greased back hair and ray ban shades. He smiled wide so Kenny could see the gaps between his teeth.
'Hello Uncle Chris,' he replied.
Sam and Frank, the two younger men and Kenny's cousins, nodded and stepped back. Kenny thought he could detect a smirk in the corner of Sam's lips. A vague memory shuddered down his spine.
'Well, well,' said his uncle. 'Haven't seen you in a long time. What you up to nowadays?'
'Still living in Belfast,' said Kenny. 'No work yet.'
Uncle Chris scratched his chin. 'Mm. Ever hear from your father?'
'Now and again,' said Kenny, keeping an eye on his cousins. 'He likes Canada a lot nowadays.'
'And your sister's getting married in Australia?'
'I believe so,' said Kenny. 'I haven't heard very much about it.'
Chris Robinson smiled and the sun glinted off the frames of his shades.
'Excuse me, Uncle Chris. I have to go inside.' He squeezed past and made his way up the steps.
Vivian bustled from the parlour to the kitchen and back again, serving the mourners with tea, food and coffee. Her lips were drawn tight and she wouldn't look him in the eye. 'There's coffee in the pot, Kenny,' she said as she carried the cream cake into the next room.
He poured himself a cup and followed her. The parlour was full of men in grey suits, talking in hushed voices. The uniform colour merged from one body to the next, as though every man at the funeral had employed the same tailor. 'The cake's grand, Vivian. You and Bess've worked a miracle,' said a man in the corner.
Vivian smiled. 'Thank you, Jim. I'd better take some through to the front room.'
Kenny's feet itched inside his shoes and he found himself pulling fluff from his jumper. Snippets of conversation drifted past his ears.
'Might be trouble in Portadown, if they try to stop the march.'
'That's right, Rob. I don't know why the police have to protect a few fanatics. Most catholics accept our celebrations without any fuss.'
'It's all Dublin's fault, Terry. Young Sam's in the reserves now, and he says the rank and file aren't happy about protecting terrorists.'
'So Chris's youngest joined up? Well, that's a good career. I knew that boy would make out alright. My own lad - he's got a job in car sales...'
Kenny was trying to think about Meg, but he was conscious only of his distance from the others, and the way they ignored him. A white hot flame of resentment burned in his chest. He might as well be a fly on the wallpaper. Why did the women have to be in one room, men in the other? What'd be wrong with a few drinks at the wake instead of this dour, sober, dreary affair? What an insult to the memory of Meg!
He moved out into the hall. The front room was full of women, some of them crying. Aunt Bess could hardly stand, dabbing her face with a hanky, and supported on both sides by two others. Kenny stared. He felt like an intruder here too, and backed off into the passage. His body seemed to walk by itself in another land, where only the old clock ticked an endless rhythm-
'Watch where you're going, young fella!'
He was nearly back where he'd started. Uncle George had bumped into him returning from the bathroom.
'You should be in here with us,' muttered George, holding the parlour door open. 'Not down there with the ladies!'
The minister had arrived and Vivian was escorting him through the house. He made his way round the men in the parlour, shaking hands and offering condolences. 'And how's the wife keeping, Mr. McCrae?'
Kenny began to sweat. He listened to the platitudes, watched the pumping hand draw closer, the bushy eyebrows on the clergyman's face.
'Too bad we have to meet on a day like this, Mr. Robinson...'
Kenny grabbed Vivian's shoulder. 'I'm feeling dreadful sick. Is there somewhere I can lie down?'
The minister was only a handshake away.
'Please, Vivian. I'm ready to faint.'
People were beginning to stare, and Vivian took him by the arm into the hall. 'We had to use the bedrooms to store excess furniture,' she said. 'There's nowhere to lie down-'
He leaned one hand against the wall and rubbed his face with the other.
'Unless...' she bit her lip, 'unless you lie down in Meg's room. The bed's empty.'
He nodded and opened the door. As it closed behind him, the clamour subsided. He breathed out and sat down on the edge of Meg's bed.
The coffin stood on tressels in the middle of the floor. Sunshine streamed in from the window, and across the wooden box, dust swirled in a beam of light. Feet tramped up and down the hall, but in here he felt safe. He wondered whether he should take the cover off the coffin for a last look. Meg wouldn't mind. But wasn't it so he could stare at death close up, face to face?
He threw himself back on the bed. The bedclothes had a scent, not the dampness of the house, but something else. Had they changed the sheets? It was the smell of a bed recently slept in - not unpleasant, but soothing and soft. He closed his eyes and relaxed.
A door opened in his mind. On the back of his eyelids, a small child ran in and out of the fir trees in Meg's garden. His father dozed on a deckchair with a paper folded on his knee. Near the kitchen steps, his mother sat with a baby on her lap. From the door at the top, a woman with grey hair waved at the child and called his name. 'Kenny! Kenny!'
He remembered the dew on the cobwebs, the sting of branches on his cheeks, but not what games he had played or what words had been said. His parents lived in Holywood then, driving out at weekends to see Aunt Meg. Those were happy days, before the move to Belfast and his mother's death from cancer. Each time he called, he'd wondered how Meg looked the same as that day in the garden, all those years ago.
His last visit came back in a rush. It was November and Meg had been sitting in her parlour, open fire roaring in the grate. She usually never spoke much about herself, but this time she muttered something about losing her independence. George and Vivian were talking about home helps. When he asked her, she'd laughed and slapped her knee. 'Aw, your side of the family always was closest to my thinking. The rest of them get lost in silly ideas,' she'd said. He wished he'd asked her more about the past - her quarrel with George over who should run the farm, her refusal to get married, and her long struggle to remain separate from the community.
Vivian knocked the door and walked in. 'You'll have to get up now, Kenny. We're taking Meg to the church.'
A crowd assembled in the drive. Men and women stood on the grass, dressed in grey suits and wickerwork sunday hats. Wearing his jumper and jeans, Kenny leaned back against the house by the front door. Two women he didn't know looked him over, made faces and turned away. Then a voice whispered in his ear. 'Fenian lover...'
His cousin Sam moved out from the door and walked into the crowd. Kenny wanted to grab him by the lapel, demanding he say it out loud for everyone to hear. A memory flashed across his mind of Sam's heavy body pressing him face down on the floor, pulling at his trousers, panting in his ear. He clenched his fist - it was too late - the coffin bearers emerged from the house with their wooden burden.
The hearse began to edge out from the gate and down the road. Its wheels crunched on the gravel, a sliding mass of black and chrome. Vivian appeared beside him as he walked close to the coffin. 'Kenny...' she began.
The coffin bearers halted and others got ready to take their places.
'Can you manage this? Move in and take George's place. One of your cousins will take the other side.'
His fingers were already touching the smooth varnish of the box. George moved out and he felt the coffin descend like a lump of metal. It threatened to crush him and he buckled under the weight. He could hear Vivian calling to someone on the other side. 'Give him some support, Sam! Kenny, stretch your arm out and take Sam's shoulder.'
Take Sam's shoulder. His flesh crawled as he groped for support, every nerve in his arm tense with hatred. In his mind, he saw his hand round his cousin's neck, tightening the windpipe-
Their arms locked under the coffin, hands on each others' shoulders. With the coffin stabilised, the new bearers began to tread forward. The weight was heavy, almost unbearable. Kenny tried to drag his mind away from Sam's fingers buried into his shoulder, his own gripped tight on Sam's. He looked down at his feet, nearly in the heels of the bearers ahead, and the shiny black roof of the hearse in front. Just for Meg, for her and nobody else-
The procession stopped. More bearers moved in to take their places. Kenny's fingers drew back from Sam's shoulder like a hand might recoil from a snake. Tears were running down his cheeks. He staggered, still feeling the weight of the coffin on his arm. Vivian took him aside to the hedge. 'That's it over. You can go inside if you want,' she said.
The estate looked empty as he walked out from the trees. Red, white and blue bunting tugged in the breeze picking up from the west. Most of the inhabitants would be in a distant field, listening to speeches and drinking themselves into a stupor.
He'd departed before the discussions on who would inherit the bungalow. It was clear Vivian would place a forceful claim, with three growing children of her own. If that happened, he thought, it wouldn't be long before there was a flagpole in Meg's garden. His uncle Chris had offered to drive him back to the city, on his way to catch the afternoon parades. 'It's a nice afternoon. I'd rather walk,' said Kenny.
Now Meg had passed on, he could cut himself off. Most of the family wouldn't even notice. He thought about his father, cured of grief by a move to Canada. Maybe he could do that too. His friend Josh was in Holland, and kept writing to tell him of the opportunities there.
Last night's bonfire had burnt out, a smouldering pile of silver and black. He kicked the embers as he passed, and pulled out the piece of cake Bess had wrapped up for him. It tasted rich and sweet as he strolled through the estate and down the road to Belfast.