Torn Water. John Lynch
of a thing and have a bit of a time with her.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Yuk? What sort of a word is that? Your schooling needs to be shaped up, my boy. Yuk … Come on, son, lighten up those chops of yours.’ She leans down to him, her eyes full of mischief.
‘Teezy …’
‘You've a face on you would freeze milk and hell besides. Come on, let me fix you something and we'll have a chuckle together.’
‘I'm fine, Teezy.’
‘You're going to waste away, son, with that serious mug of yours, disappear before our very eyes.’
‘I think he's back to stay for good this time, Teezy.’
‘I know, son, I know … How about a nice boiled egg?’
Death from an Acute and Unrelenting Hunger
The fields are blackened from the blight. I can see some of my neighbours crawling across the soil scrabbling for one healthy potato. I feel sorry for them. I cannot remember the last time I ate, for in my dreams I have always been hungry. My mother died a few days ago, followed quickly by my aunt Teezy. They died in each other's arms. I didn't have the strength to bury them, and had to leave them where they fell.
Once I believed that God had given me the power to save everyone by teaching them how to eat stones and the fine dust that fell from the cracks of buildings, but no one would listen. Another time I believed that the clouds were edible and spent days building a flying machine from twigs and the trunk of a fallen tree, but I must have misheard God's instructions for it refused to fly.
Most of the time, though, I just sit on the headland that fronts my small village, watching the sea. Sometimes I think I can see my mother dancing in the waves.
It is late now and God is talking to me again. I like it when God speaks to me, I like the way it soothes my heart, and the way the world expands like a mouth being kissed.
I stand. My slender body sways like a leaf on a branch. I smile to myself as I realise suddenly that God has given me wings and that I am climbing to the roof of the world to join my mother, and that my hands are full of clouds and the icy sparks of stars. My flight doesn't last and before long the cold night sea is travelling towards me at speed. By then, though, it is too late to change my mind.
When he was younger he was obsessed with the pictures of the Apollo astronauts. He remembers the lonely slope of their shadows on the moon's lifeless surface and the blackness surrounding them, as if on every hand there was mystery. He remembers wondering if that was where his father had gone when he died – is that where everyone went? Did they melt into the darkness that held the earth and the other planets captive?
Sometimes he thought he could hear his father's cries for help, and he pictured him spiralling like a satellite in the outreaches of space, his body slowly blackening. He would wake and rush to his bedroom window, his eyes scouring the night sky, his heart yearning to join his father in the depths of the universe.
He had tried to tell his mother that he believed his father was lost far, far out in the cosmos. He had tried to tell her one morning, years before, as she had faced him across the breakfast table. He remembers the frustration of not being able to say the words, to push them from his lips. He remembers his mother scowling with impatience, sharply telling him to eat his breakfast and to stop the nonsense. Eventually he had stood, limbs quivering with frustration. Then he had yelled it, as if his life depended on it: ‘Daddy is with the astronauts! I heard him! I heard him crying …’
His mother had slowly placed her fork on the plate and stood, carefully pulling the creases free in her skirt. Then she had walked to where he was standing. She had clamped her hands beneath his armpits and lifted him up, then slammed him back into his seat. He had landed with a jolting shudder that banged his jaw shut. She had leaned very close into his face, and had wordlessly cautioned him, her eyes unblinkingly facing his.
It is the end of the second week of Sully's return. They are on Sully time: everything his mother says and does revolves around him. She is standing by the kitchen door. Her hair is mussed; a piece of toast hangs from her lips. Sully has just left, having stayed the night. He's only back and already they're playing Happy Families.
‘Sully wants to take you see Northern Ireland play.’
‘I don't like Northern Ireland,’ James says.
‘What's that supposed to mean? You're Irish, aren't you?’
‘That's what I mean.’
‘Oh, don't start that. Football's just football.’
‘No, it's not.’
‘he's making a real effort this time, Jimmy. Come on, meet him half-way.’
‘Why are you back with him?’
‘That's between him and me.’
‘No, it's not. I live here too … or had you forgotten?’
‘Don't be cheeky or – ’
‘Or what, Mum? Or what? You'll get Sully for me?’
‘Jesus.’
He slams the door on his way out and glares at Mrs McCracken as she stands in her doorway opposite theirs, her eyes lifting disapprovingly from the untouched pile of logs to meet his. ‘Is someone going to do something about those logs?’
But he ignores her and begins to walk towards the town.
‘Here, son, this is for you …’
He can remember looking up into Teezy's eyes as he took the photograph from her. He can remember the look on her face as if it was about to break.
‘That's your daddy.’
It was a small, dog-eared photograph of a man standing against a hill, squinting into the sunlight, right hand raised playfully to his face.
‘He died for Ireland … Sssh,’ she had said, as if the world was listening.
‘Sssh,’ he had replied, cooing it up into her face. ‘Sssh.’
‘Now, no more astronauts, no more stories. They only upset your mammy.’
‘Sssh.’
For days afterwards he had wandered around, whispering it within earshot of the grown-ups. ‘Sssh,’ he remembers saying, putting his small face close to his mother's. ‘Sssh.’
‘It's our secret. It's our private story,’ Teezy had said, as she had given him the photo. ‘Wasn't he a fine-looking man? As fine as Ireland herself.’
‘Sssh,’ he had said.
‘This is your father … He died for Ireland.’
He remembers how he had looked at the worn photograph, at the slender figure that grinned at him through the fallen years. Sometimes now he would bring it out from its hiding-place and quietly gaze at it, his eyes hunting its held landscape. He would hold the photo delicately as if it was made of silk. At other times he would quietly curse the man, damn him for leaving, hate him for his absence, his fingernails digging into the photo's edge so that they left crescent-shaped marks.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘Watch where you're going, sunshine.’
‘Sorry.’ He looks up into the fuck-you face of Malachy O'Hare, the estate hard man.
‘IRA or Prod?’
‘What?’
‘IRA or Prod?’
James