Suicide note - Final Draft

I am a keen amateur of death -- more precisely, of methods of death. I have failed at several of them. It is rather difficult to force the life from a system that strives for survival. One must divorce one’s mind from the body, must thrust down the screams of lungs, the horrors of cutting one’s own flesh. One must put aside the memories of loved ones and the naïve pleas of hope. Even when one is fully committed, a rogue twitch of muscles, inspired by a less enlightened area of the brain, might negate one’s hard work.

When I first flirted with my own version of death, I approached it scientifically. It made more sense to rule out emotion from the beginning. Therefore, I researched death voraciously. Death, as one may imagine, is only contemplated extensively by people whose lives are comfortable. When one is really up against it, one is swept along by the need for survival. However, leisure brings uneasiness; it introduces a more brooding aspect to one’s personality, a more interrogative bent in one’s thinking. Thus, we invent afterlives: heaven, hell and purgatory.

The first time that I tried to die, I cut the wrong way. I sliced across. I was young then, if I were to do it over, with the knowledge that I now have, I would know to follow the direction of the veins. Exsanguination, blood-letting, sacrifice, deliverance. When I failed, doctors, psychologists and other qualified survivors informed me that I was asking for help. They didn’t understand that, if I had wanted their aid, I would have asked. My bandages were removed, but the scars remained as a goad. They mocked me, while I cried for a missed opportunity.

The publicity that my failure brought made me furtive. Suicide watch. I watched and waited. I followed their courses, attended their therapy, but I watched and waited for their complacency. They thought me healed, I thought them fools. Unfortunately, to dupe them, I had to construct an alter ego. The new personality was light-footed and positive. It found hope and was interested in others. It found itself a girlfriend and it constructed emotional bonds and it found a steady job. This is health. This is happiness. This is accomplishment. 

The new personality declared war on the old. It subverted the old beliefs, created confusion where certainty had reigned. “Look, how easy it is to be happy, if you would only choose it.” It crooned and cajoled. The old personality was eroded, but a core still remained and, as it was threatened, it coalesced into resolve unyielding. My new personality was proud, ignorant of the danger that lurked, believing itself rid of the heathen. Naturally, boredom was the key to deposition. Boredom, the integral cog in any regime, raised old questions. It brooked no denial. My two personalities were reunited by questioning. Inherent curiosity breached the schism. They merged into an uneasy coalition.

Uneasiness bred malaise and I’d come full circle. It was time to try again. Death was topical, once more. Ironically, my life-affirming personality had provided affluence. This had a twofold effect. Firstly, it provided leisure, which hastens the demise of survival. Secondly, wealth furnished me with the means to kill myself. I bought a gun. Where I lived, this requires considerable ingenuity. One must nurture unsavoury contact with criminal elements, not to mention experience rebuff after rebuff. Finally, I procured my weapon. I was disappointed. While this particular gun was reassuringly weighty, it was downright ugly. Snub-nosed, cold and utilitarian. 

I charged myself with alcohol, some artificial bravery to counteract the purpose in my hand. With inebriation came childishness, I grabbed a towel and fashioned a poncho. I failed to outdraw my reflection. In response, I curled my upper lip into a menacing grimace and stared down my fears. I had researched the best method of shooting oneself. Either the back or side of the head gave the most satisfactory results. I chose the side; it seemed less awkward. I held my breath and pulled the trigger. I awoke in hospital. Surrounded by downcast members of my social group, it appeared that my failure was depressing to them. The gun had served its need. However, the ammunition was old. It had fizzed and popped and merely dented my skull. Caveat emptor!

I lost a girlfriend and a job with that failed attempt. The same people pressed me to rediscover my former happiness. The coalition had dissolved and doubt prevented any one personality attaining power. My already subdued self-esteem had taken a real pounding. What ineptitude! I felt judgement, resentment even, in the words of support and the worried looks of my dwindling group of loved ones. Once again, it was time to wait and see. However, with no viable personality to invent, it was that much more difficult to gain the trust of the vigilant hospital staff. They were wary of re-releasing me. I could find no words to convince them otherwise.

Finally, the hospital became bored of me. It shuffled me to another ward, no longer willing to have me reside in such prime real estate. I observed the routines of the nurses and became familiar with their schedules. In the end, I simply walked out. It was very easy. I didn’t blame them. I mean, social conscience can only feel responsible up to a certain point. 

I had no income. I had a home which was close to foreclosure due to non-payment. My gun was gone. Indeed, I felt unwilling to revisit previous methods; I don’t believe I could have accepted the double-whammy of failing at another suicide attempt without having learned from my mistakes. Instead, I decided to follow a path more suited to my means.

This time, I was determined to make a proper ‘go’ of it. I felt that combining methods would increase my chances of success. Therefore, I ran a bath and perched the toaster on the side. Electrocution was my ace in the hole. If I didn’t have the will power or wherewithal to drown myself, I could always kick the toaster into the bath and fry my inadequacy. I drank a bottle of Jameson’s and climbed, fully-clothed, into the water. 

I crossed my arms over my chest, vampire-like, lay back and exhaled. When the final bubble escaped, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Before long, I could feel the pain begin to mount. That old desperation thrust upon me by the antique stem of my brain. My heart beat quicker and quicker and the urge to inhale was almost insurmountable. I realised that, pretty soon, I would concede to my weak flesh. Feeling slightly smug, I stretched out my left leg and kicked the toaster into the water. Things happened very quickly after that. The initial shock drove me out of the water, I shat myself, blew all the lights in the house and took a huge breath of life-giving air. I sat in darkness and foul water for some time, contemplating my fresh failure, only draining the bath when the cold set in. I spent a week in bed with the flu.

Needless to say, the fiasco wasn’t communicated to anybody. In three attempts, the only thing that I had managed to kill was a toaster. Even the lights lit up happily when the circuit breaker was flicked back on. 

I was forced to sell the house to keep the bank happy and I moved into a dingy bedsit which suited my new-found self-contempt. It is a damp, paint-peeling, cement coffin with very little natural light. My few possessions remained stacked in the corner. It seemed pointless to unpack and there is nowhere to unpack to. I am enclosed on all sides by angry, shouting social dysfunction. My neighbours’ survival is fuelled by strife and delinquency. I am grateful to them: they have given me renewed focus.

Three weeks ago, I decided that it was time to try again. With fresh purpose, I began to scout for suitable locations to die. I had a nebulous concept of method. Jumping was the broad outline, I began to hone it to a more viable plan. Near where I now live, a chaotic network of train tracks slither towards their destination, criss-crossing one another haphazardly in the effort of termination. I have been drawn there frequently. There is a pedestrian bridge which spans a particularly busy nexus. At night, I stand and stare down at the tracks, watching trains careen by, in either direction. The steady click-clack as they pass underneath me is strangely hypnotic and I remain there for hours unable to drag myself away, as I constantly jot down times and speeds. 

This had been my routine for over a week before I was disturbed for the first time by a shuffling figure emerging suddenly out of the dark night. I swung my head towards it at the same time as it became aware of me and paused. We maintained an uneasy silence before it spun on its heel and returned the way that it had come. I watched the retreat and returned to my sombre train spotting. The next train rattled underneath me and I made up my mind to call it a night. When I reached home, I obsessively worked through the notes that I had taken until I found a freight train that always seemed to run on time and passed at enough of a speed to snuff out my stubborn existence.

The next evening, I dressed warmly. With roiling stomach, I retraced a familiar route to the apex of the bridge’s span. Determination coursed through me, I gripped the rusty railings until my knuckles turned white. Finally, the alarm on my cheap watch beeped its digital death knell. With infinite care, I clambered over and perched with my heels on the slippery rim, arms locked behind me over the top of the balustrade. The rhythmic clatter of the approaching train grew steadily. I took a deep breath, released my grip and pitched forward. Nothing happened. I remained exactly where I was. Around my chest, I felt a constrictive embrace, the train passed beneath my dangling feet. 

“This is no way to fuckin’ go.” 

Regaining my balance and with the aid of this misguided saviour, I hauled myself to undesired safety.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I asked in fury at yet another failure.

The hood was thrown back and a hard glare, administered with unnerving ferocity met mine. She was tall for a woman and seemed to be made up of wiry rage. Her face was angular, skin stretched tightly over cheek and jaw, eyes sunken and ringed with dark bags. She straightened her coat, an act of disgruntlement at my idiocy. 

“Why would ya inflict yer death on somebody else? That poor fucker driving the train would have been fucked up. Ya selfish cunt. If ya want to die, ya do it quietly and, first and fuckin’ foremost, ya don’t fuck with other people.”

She continued to grunt choice epithets under her breath. I hung my head. Her words confused me - distracted me from my conviction. I began to stammer. As I struggled to say sorry, her entire mien changed. Her expression softened and her mouth twitched slightly in the unfamiliar act of smiling.

“Fuck it!” She said. “No harm done. I got here in time, at least. When I saw ya last night, I had an inkling that this might be yer plan. I’ve been perched over there, waiting for ya to make your move.”

She jerked her head to the left, greasy hair slapping across her face. The indicated spot was dark. All light seemed to fall around it, even the headlights of cars passing adjacent seemed to falter before reaching the corner. 

“How long?”

“Bout an hour, I s’pose. You took yer sweet time, dickhead!”

It took me a while to realise that the barking that followed was her version of a laugh. It went on for an uncomfortable amount of time. It stopped as quickly as it had begun and she leaned in close.

“Ya serious ‘bout killing yerself, fucker?”

“Yes, this is my fourth failure.”

The barking began again, halted only by a wheezing attack of coughing, which doubled her up and left her gasping for air.

“Jesus, boyo! If ya want to die, I can fucking help ya. Sounds like ya fuckin’ need it, anyway!”

“Oh yeah? And how might you help me? What would you have me do? Huh?”

“Dunno, but I can get ya killed, if ya want. So, don’t be a cunt about it!”

I regarded her, chastened but hopeful, that she may actually possess some means of delivering me from my own ineptitude. She beckoned me to follow and marched across the bridge. I watched her go, dithering indecisively, before succumbing and trotting to catch up with the strange stomping figure. As I approached, I studied her appearance. She was dressed in a full length waterproof coat which flapped about her skinny legs and cherry red Doc Marten boots. Her hair was dank and hung down her back in a heavy clump. It was greasy and thick like a sodden beaver’s tail. She had an androgynous walk, broad-shouldered, striding and aggressive.

She kept looking over her shoulder to see whether I was following. Each time, I avoided her gaze. There was something in the eyes of this woman that scared me. She really may be able to help me, I thought. It was that hope that frightened me. I had to remind myself to tamp it down. She stopped so suddenly that I collided with her and tasted a mouthful of her beaver’s tail before I managed to pull back. I scraped my tongue against my teeth in disgust.

“Donchu fuckin’ touch me, motherfucker! Gimme 20 euro and wait here. Back in a second.”

I fumbled in my pocket and gave her the cash. She dipped into a doorway and disappeared. I looked at the building which she had just entered. All the windows were closed and boarded. Here and there, chinks of light escaped but, otherwise, it was dark. I looked up and an old-fashioned sign creaked in the wintry breeze. It depicted a man dangling a cloth bag, tied with rope, over the bank of a canal. It appeared to be a pub called “The Sack of Cats”. I shivered in the cold and stamped my feet. A few minutes later, the door opened and she appeared again. 

“C’mon so, ya useless cunt! Let’s go back to your gaff.”

She led the way again. I walked quickly to be by her side. 

“Shouldn’t I be leading the way?”

“Nah, I know where ya live. Followed ya, last night. Didn’t even realise, did ya? Dopey bollix.”

I shook my head dumbly. She snickered to herself and I dropped back into her wake in response. We retraced our steps, back over the bridge and wended our way back to my dreary bolthole. She stopped at my front door and held out her hands. Slavishly I handed over my keys. We walked up the stairs in silence and entered my grim dwelling. She looked about, shook her head with contempt and divested herself of her jacket. From an inner pocket, she withdrew a little bubble of plastic and a syringe. Moving to the greasy kitchenette, she rifled through the drawers until she found a spoon and a lighter.

And here we sit now, she cooks and I write my note. She has promised to sit with me until it is over and then steal whatever she can find of any value. I am glad of her strange company. This time, I think that, between us, we can complete the job and I can quit this ridiculous existence. Already, she is tying a scarf around my upper arm. My vein stands proud. She shakes her head as I gasp at the prick of the injection.

“Fuckin’ pussy.”

I smile at her and she grins back. I don’t know whether the drugs are working yet, but I feel immense affection towards her.

Wives

The sergeant flicked his cigarette away, ran a hand over his stubbled face and sighed. It was a long, sad sigh that tailed off in an asthmatic wheeze. Striaghtening his garda uniform, he stepped over the smoking porch and surveyed the scene. Everything was charred. He was stood in what used to be the hallway. The stairs had collapsed and the roof had burned half away, leaving the rain to extinguish the flames. 

“Lucky that we live in such a pissy fucking place,” he mumbled, only half-audibly.

His colleague had followed him and was whistling with surprise as he looked at the destruction before him.

“Holy fuck! This place is fucking ruined. Shame really - lovely old place like this used to be.”

“Seán?”

“Yes, Liam?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, Liam.”

Seán walked past him and gingerly made a tour of the downstairs of the house. Liam waited for him to return. He didn’t imagine that anybody was in here, not after what those crazy bitches outside had told him, but one had to do one’s due diligence. Seán appeared at his shoulder.

“Well, there’s nobody downstairs anyway. You want me to have a sconce upstairs?”

Liam nodded, then changed his mind.

“Let the fire brigade do it. They’re the fucking heroes.”

“Right you are.”

*********

Jim woke with a start, launching himself upright from the couch. It was an action that he instantly regretted as his hangover urgently informed him that he should sit back down as soon as possible. He did so, head in hands. 

“Fuck me! I feel fucking awful. I need a drink.”

He stood up, with greater care this time, and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass. Finally, he lurched into motion and made for the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he enjoyed the cool on his face for a second, before scanning the shelves for a beer. He needed a nice cold one just to ease him into sobriety. Tucked at the back of the top shelf, he found a lonely can of ‘Red Stripe’ and reached for it gratefully. The hissing click heralded a stream of delicious beer down his parched throat. He drained the can in two long swallows. Once again, he went dizzy and breathed deeply until his wayward senses were back under some semblance of control. Then he erupted - a long gaseous expulsion from his mouth - full of timbre and alcoholic staleness. 

“That’s fucking better.”

He turned and returned to the sitting room. He tripped over a side table and plummeted face first onto the carpet. In his hungover state, he didn’t have the wherewithal to put his hands up to take the impact of the fall. He bled on the carpet while his anger grew. This promised to be a tantrum of record proportions. He screwed his eyes tight and thought about all the useless shit that she had brought into this house. That fucking dresser with all those pointless cups that you couldn’t even drink from. That fucking occasional table, ridiculous name, what fucking occasion would it be used for? All her knick-knacks and little bits of crap that she’d inherited from dead people. He fucking hated it all. 

He sniffed mightily, inhaling a salty, slick gob of blood. He spat it all over the couch and watched for a while as it soaked into the cream upholstery, spreading like a chromatography experiment that he’d done at school. This wasn’t helping though, the rage was still building. Finally, he succumbed. He let it wash over him; he pushed himself upright and jerkily exited the room. Some time later, he returned dragging a sledgehammer behind him. Three minutes of ferocious destruction followed, during which he managed to smash a dining table and six matching chairs, the loathsome occasional table, the dresser full of redundant dead people’s china and the innocuous sofa. As he stood resting on the hammer,  panting from the effort, he decided that he regretted the decision to have destroyed his erstwhile resting place. This was quickly banished from his mind. The nausea he had been feeling since he awoke made its appearance with gusto and he bent over double, retching until nothing more came up. Straightening, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and reached for his cigarettes. He shook one out of the packet and lit it, inhaling appreciatively.

“That’s fucking better.”

*********

Millie pushed the door open and struggled with the shopping bags. She paused for a rest and to steal herself to deal with whatever met her when she went through the door. She paused in the middle of peeling off her wet coat and sniffed the air cautiously. The unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke wafted from the living room. 

“That little cunt. How many fucking times have I asked him to not smoke indoors? But no, that little fucking cunt never pays me any heed. I’ve fucking had it.”

She found herself at the door reaching for the handle. She breathed deeply in an effort to compose herself and stem the guiltily pleasing stream of profanity. Eventually, she allowed herself to proceed, she pushed the door open and swept into the room. Her imperious entrance was ruined by the groan of horror that escaped her when she was confronted by the remnants of her living room. Each piece of destroyed furniture brought a fresh utterance of pain. She looked from her late aunt’s bone china cups and searched for the culprit. He was stood in the bay windows, leaning on his sledgehammer and smoking a cigarette. At her expressions of anguish, he had half-turned to look at her. He was serenely examining her reaction when her eyes met his. They were ablaze with fury and the shock of the raging power of that gaze caused him to shift his weight uncomfortably.

“Hello, dear!” He called merrily.

“What in all mother of holy fuck possibly possessed you to do this, you fucking gaping thundercunt?”

He waved his hands about him, searching for a means of explaining what had led to this destruction.

“All this shit..” he paused for a moment, before continuing. “All your shit made me feel claustrophobic.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, you lesion. Get the fuck out before I cut your dick off and feed it to the pigs! I swear to fuck if you don’t get out of my sight this very instant...”

“I think you are aware that I own this house? You have no right to throw me out of my own home.”

“This was never your home. I made this place a home after you inherited it from your mother, you spineless little shit. GET THE FUCK OUT!” 

So saying, she grabbed a letter opener from amidst the debris and stalked towards him purposefully. Seeing that intent startled him and, by studiously keeping bits of destroyed furniture between him and her, he managed to edge his way around the room and out the door.

*********

Eimear made an effort to steady her nerves, before pushing the door and entering the pub. It was the first time in six years that she had ventured out alone as a single person. The very prospect of launching herself into the social ordeal left her mouth dry and her palms moist. Projecting an outer calm which belied her inner turmoil, she aimed for a vacant bar stool. The barman nodded at her, registering her presence while he served somebody else.

“What can I do you for?” The barman asked with a lazy grin. 

She found herself stuttering over her order. Eventually, she managed to make herself understood. He returned with her large white wine and she took a sour slug of it to placate her roiling stomach. Finally, she dared to scan the bar and view the other occupants. It was a Tuesday, so there were few people out. It was early too - barely six o’clock. In another few minutes, the swell of the after work crowd would enter and the relative peace would be disturbed. 

Two old men argued back and forth about the merits of some sports player or other. The discussion seemed to follow a circuitous route, never quite reaching resolution. The only other drinker was a sad looking fellow, wearing a greatcoat, who was sat at a table almost directly behind her. Her surreptitious scrutiny finished, she found herself at a loss as to what to do to occupy her time. She spied a discarded paper at the sad guy’s table, and, after dithering for a second, went over to the table.

“Would you mind, if I stole your paper? That is, if you’ve finished with it.”

“Yep, if you must - go for it!”

She smiled her thanks and repaired to the bar. As she gained her stool again, the door swung open and a crowd of boisterous suits entered, slamming the door back on its hinges. They were laughing over-emphatically at something, as if by sheer force, they could maintain the pretence of camaraderie. The ten or so members fanned out against the bar, shouting at one another and the barman. One of their number approached a space near her stool. Over the top of the paper, she watched him come and registered with some disgust the supercilious once over that he gave her. Obviously, she hadn’t measured up, for he switched his attention back to the bar.

Within fifteen minutes of this initial intrusion, the bar was packed with one pint wonders. They jostled and pushed their way past her. She looked about her desperately as she realised that her position was becoming untenable. All the tables were occupied by now. The only remaining space surrounded the man, who had given her the paper. Seemingly, his pervasive sadness repelled any high spirits and he sat in an oasis of misery.

Before she had properly thought it through, she had crossed the pub and was standing over him. He looked up, eyebrows raised. She did a little dance of uncertainty and began to stumble over her words.

“Would you mind, if I joined you? I... It’s a bit busy at the bar.”

To her surprise, he smiled welcomingly and waved her to a seat beside him. 

*********

Eoghan shuffled his papers. He felt good today - important in a way that he hadn’t for some time. He smiled at the thought. It crumpled quickly as he looked across his cluttered desk towards his client. She waited expectantly, twisting a soggy handkerchief in her hands. 

He couldn’t believe that the institution of marriage still held so much sway in this country. Take this case as an example! He shook his head incredulously. He couldn’t even understand how it had come about in the first place. For so many officials to have made so many clerical errors - it smacked of gross incompetence and laziness. Bigamy! He chuckled with delight. Once again, he caught himself and the inappropriateness of his behaviour. The widow was looking decidedly angry now. He smiled in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner.

“Mrs. O’Callaghan..” He paused, cleared his throat and searched for the right words. “Erm. The fact is, aagh, well, the problem here lies in the fact that, well, I don’t have a better way of saying it..”

“Just spit it out.” She snapped, her hands tightening around the handkerchief, which looked on the point of tearing.

“Very well. Your husband was a bigamist.”

He watched nervously as her face slowly registered his words. The slow crumble of pursed anger into slack-jawed shock was disturbing. Eoghan, of course, was completely on her side with this one, she had cared for that layabout for 10 years uncomplainingly, even after he had had a stroke. Absentmindedly, he made a sign of the cross. He shuffled the already neat pile of papers. 

“I cannot tell you how awful I feel for you. If you had come to me for your legal requirements, I’m sure you would never have been put in this situation. Alas..!”

He spread his hands regretfully. Inside, he felt like wriggling with glee. The juiciness of it. He could taste the scandal and couldn’t wait to tell his cronies down the pub. All attention would be turned on him, for once. He let his mind fantasize for a moment. He’d make them drag it out of him thread by thread, until they could put it together for themselves. He couldn’t tell them directly - that would breach the terms of confidentiality. But, if they guessed themselves from the crumbs that he let fall, well, he could hardly be blamed, could he? He looked apprehensively across at his victim and waited for some reaction. Her face remained unchanged, she was still stupid with shock. He decided to press on.

“He did, however, make a will. It turns out he had quite a substantial estate, including an old house in Clare and you are the sole beneficiary of this will. So, that’s good news. Must soften the blow a bit, eh?”

To his surprize, she launched at him, scratching his face wildly, messing all his documents. When she discovered that the desk was in the way, she remedied that with a feat of herculean proportions. She gripped it’s heavy, ornate leg and overturned it completely. For a brief moment, Eoghan was too stunned to speak, clutching his cheek and mouth hanging loosely. She stepped in close and smacked him, closed fist, square on the nose. He bled on his pristine shirt, as she stalked out of the room.

*********

Millie answered the door and glared suspiciously at the transgressor. The echo of the antique bell still rattled around the hallway. On the front steps, a mousey woman stood brandishing a document, held at arm’s length. She looked nervous, but resolute. Millie looked from the document to the woman’s face.

“What?”

“Read it! It pertains to you.” Eimear attempted to maintain her dignity, despite her voice having cracked during the delivery.

“What the fuck is that? Just tell me why you are here, at my house, of a Saturday, fucking me off?”

Eimear looked at this caustic woman with her wild mop of grey hair and murderously steely eyes and wondered how to proceed. It had taken her all her courage, aided by the shameful sting of the gossip of her parish, to make the journey here. But here she was and she was damned, if she was going to be turned back by this virago. 

“Were you married to a man named Jim O’Callaghan?”

The woman stared at her and said nothing. Eimear took a deep breath and continued.

“Come on now! I know you were. He was also married to me.”

To her surprise, the woman’s face cracked into an evil grin. She began to laugh. It lasted an uncomfortably long amount of time. Eimear felt the control swinging away from her. 

“So now he’s a bigamist, as well as being a drunk and a cunt. Ha! I hope he treated you well, my dear.” 

Still laughing, she went to close the door. Eimear hurriedly slammed her palm against it and shoved her foot in the narrowing gap. The wild woman looked at her foot; her gaze slid threateningly up the full length of her body, coming to rest on her face. Eimear smiled apologetically.

“Please! You need to read this. It’s his will.” 

Eimear proffered her the paper and took a step back to a respectful distance, contemplating her toes which were wriggling through the fabric of her shoes. The woman removed the paper from it’s plastic sheath. It was a photocopy of one page of his grubby, untidy scrawl. The two of them looked at it and shivered with remembered disgust. Eimear watched her eyes flicker back and forth as she read each line. When finished, she looked up and stared at Eimear appraisingly, then started to re-read it more carefully.

Eimear waited until she had read it a second time. The grey haired woman seemed to grow old before her eyes. Her hands shook as she stuffed the will back into the plastic. She held it out with distaste and Eimear took it off her. Once done, she retracted her hand and slammed the door. Eimear stood and waited, uncertain as to what was coming next.

*********

Millie leaned against the door. Slowly, the strength left her small frame and she crumpled at the knees and, back still straight, slid down the length of the door until her buttocks hit the floor. Then the sobs came. Her shoulders shivered with the strength of her useless anger. Panic overwhelmed her and she cried silently into the sleeve of her house dress. A headache appeared at her temples and spread to her forehead. Suddenly her skull felt too large for the constraints of its skin prison. Outside, she could still sense the woman’s presence. And, as if to reinforce the feeling, a gentle knock came at her front door. The timidity of that rap acted to galvanise her into action. She clenched her jaw, hushed her snivelling. The headache faded as quickly as it had come.

“If I can’t have it, then I’m fucked if anybody else will either.”

Steeled by this resolve, she stood and walked to the kitchen, passed through it and out into the back yard. The old stables were decrepit and threatened to crumble at any stage, yet she had never found the time to clear out all the shit that Jim had left in there. She was looking for something that she had glimpsed in a memory and it had taken hold there. As she scouted about for it, she took care to make as little sound as possible, lest that woman come around the back and discover her. Finally, she found it: an old jerry can, rusty with age, but still sealed tight. She raised it and sloshed it. There must have been about a quarter of a gallon still in there. With all her might, she carried it, banging painfully against her thigh. 

She set it down in the hallway and returned to the kitchen. Beside the stove, the box of matches sat in their normal place. She snatched them and dropped them in the pocket of her dress. She sat on the first step of the stairs and looked about this house that she loved so much. For a while, she thought about rescuing some of her more cherished items. In the end, she decided that she had neither the energy nor the time to think about making the choice between what should stay and what should go. Wearily, Millie raised herself and went to the can, bent and picked it up with a grunt. Her fingers gripped the lid and she twisted as hard as she could. For a moment, she panicked that she wouldn’t have the strength, but it came loose with a pop and tapped merrily against the side, tethered by a small chain. 

Methodically, she moved from room to room, leaving a trail of petrol behind her. She crisscrossed the house until she returned to the front door. The can was now empty. She laid it gently on the floor and went back to the stove. Flicking the switch on the gas canister, she turned on each hob as far as it would go. The pungent stench washed over her and she stared at the shimmering rush. Shaking herself to stiffen her resolve, she trudged back to the front door, donned her coat and slipped the front door keys into the pocket. 

She took one more look at the hallway, smiling in remembrance at the home that it had been. Her face darkened slightly, as she recalled his miserable face. Taking the matches out, she skipped a match along the box and inhaled the pleasant smell, as it ignited. The flame steadied and she dropped it. Trails of fire scorched away from her hungrily. Turning to leave, she mouthed one word:

“Fucker.”

*********

Eimear straightened when she heard the latch go. She turned to face it and waited for the woman to appear. The door swung open and Millie exited, closing and locking it quickly behind her and marched straight past her without looking. Eimear stared after, somewhat confused as to what to do or say. She trotted to catch her up. As she drew abreast, she searched the woman’s face. It was strangely serene, if tinged with a little sadness. Millie drew out a box of cigarettes and lit one with a match, inhaling deeply before letting it stream in twin trails from her nose. When they reached the edge of the lawn, she abruptly stopped and the other woman carried on a few steps before doing the same. The two of them turned back to look at the old house. 

“I’ll miss my home.” Millie said simply.

“I’m sorry. This must have been a shock for you. I didn’t want to take it from you, I just had to get away from that place. God! When they found out that I had married a man who was already married. It was like wildfire, it spread so quickly. I needed another place to stay. I hoped to maybe rest here a while before I went back.”

Eimear stopped looking at her feet and raised her gaze to the other woman’s face, which was now wide-eyed with shock.

“Well, I wish you’d fucking told me that earlier.”

A distant “whoomp” was heard and the front windows blew out with a crash of exhaled air. Glass rained down onto the gravel of the driveway. Eimear flinched and saw the flames for the first time. Beside her, the woman had sat down and her shoulders jerked rhythmically. The cigarette was raised shakily and another ragged stream of smoke appeared. She sat down too and threw an arm around her. Millie swayed towards her. Eimear saw that she was laughing through her tears. A sympathetic giggle escaped her lips. It was infectious. The two of them collapsed, laughing until their sides hurt, swaying and bouncing against each other as the hysteria overtook them.

Later, as they watched the flames really take hold of their home, after the fire engines had arrived, they shared the pack of fags. All around them, men in uniforms bustled with importance but the women just sat and smoked and smiled serenely, if a little uncomprehendingly, whenever anybody talked to them.

*********

Shrinking

 The sun was bright in a brittle, blue sky. It felt brittle in that one solitary cloud might appear and upset the balance, causing a deluge or storm to break. Paul sipped his coffee and cursed as he burnt the roof of his mouth. Sighing at the injustice of it all, he rolled a fag and took his first drag of the day. The hideous taste vied with the soothing nicotine. Always the same, his body was a slave to routine, he now needed to shit. He waddled back inside, grabbed the newspaper and settled onto the toilet. 

 The headlines revealed little which was newsworthy. Instead, it appeared that stories had just been rehashed from the day before, week before maybe. He skipped to the sports section. The rugby results were in. He grimaced at the performance of his team, they were now languishing mid-table. With disgust, he folded the paper and chucked it petulantly into the corner. There was precious little in his life in which he found pleasure and even this was being snatched from him. He fumbled for toilet paper. The spool was almost empty. She had used just enough to feel that there was no need to change it. For fuck’s sake! Now Paul would have to shuffle, pants about ankles, across the corridor and into the cupboard where they were kept. Stupid that it should be there and not in the bathroom, but she had insisted because of the damp. Having retrieved a fresh roll, he wiped carefully, regarded each smear with distaste before consigning it to its watery tomb. 

 His diary lay open on the desk where he had left it. He collapsed into the comfortable leather chair and checked his appointments for the day. Only the one today, thank God! However, this particular patient was causing him extreme anxiety. David would march in as if he owned the place. Pugnacious and self-confident, he would demand to be fixed as if he were having problems with a car engine. Paul sighed and swung around in the chair, closing his eyes as it spun. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to clear his head and leave a vacuum so that David might pour his grievances into it. There must be adverse effects. Maybe he was slowly nurturing a tumour somewhere in his brain - a gristly, bile-filled ball of woe, making its presence felt, aggressively pressing against something vital.

 The clock dinged and he straightened, aware that he only had a few minutes before his appointment arrived. It was time to divorce himself from emotion. Paul found it increasingly difficult to maintain the necessary objectivity. If his patients knew his real thoughts, they would never return. I’d render each of them suicidal. He laughed out loud. It echoed eerily in the high-ceilinged room, bouncing around up there near the lampshade, against the bookshelves and back again. He read the spines of a few of the books. It was comforting, reliable - they were old companions on his tedious journey to becoming a psychiatrist. 

The sound of a door slamming in the adjoining room heralded the entrance of his patient. He swivelled once more in the chair before raising himself. He paused, fingers resting on the door handle. He was insufficiently prepared but he entered the room as confidently as he could. He could feel his features rearranging into “professional face”. He had practised in the mirror, at first. He knew that the expression projected interested tranquility. It was a masquerade of attentiveness, one that he knew encouraged the patient to speak without fear of reproach. 

 David was seated, his arms splayed across the back of the couch. It was a studied pose to indicate the confidence of his control of the situation, the discussion, the entire room and it irked Paul incredibly. All the others entered sheepishly, as if intruding on someone’s inner sanctum. From the very first meeting, he had been less diffident. He was arrogant to the point of setting one’s teeth on edge. Paul felt his mask crumble under the pressure of his contempt for the man. Well, let’s hear your shite then, my friend.

“David. Good morning. How are you?” 

“Just fine, doc. Had a fantastic weekend. Was out of town. Felt great to be free for a while.”

“That’s great, very positive.” He adopted an avuncular tone. “You say “free” - does that mean you feel trapped? By what?”

“Don’t miss a trick, do you?” David grinned, uncrossed his legs and then crossed them the other way. 

“Yeah, I guess I do. Feel trapped, I mean. I mean, I’m stuck in this goddamn marriage for no better reason than I’m a slave to her money. It’s difficult to get over that fact. She controls the purse strings. It’s emasculating.”

“We’ve been through this, David. You are a man in your own right. You have a well paid job, it leaves you independent. There is no need to feel this slavery of which you speak.”

“But, doc...” 

 Insufferable, the way he calls me that, Paul thought. At the beginning, he had tried to dissuade him to no avail. He struggled to concentrate on the perceived slight on his manhood. This philanderer, this calculating lecher, devoid of any morality, had married her for the size of her dowry. Now, he was unwilling to live with his decision. Fucking twat!

 David had finished talking so Paul nodded a few times to show his interest. Silence was his greatest weapon, so few people can resist the need to fill it. Often it revealed much about the character of the person and sometimes, as in this case, it camouflaged the fact that he hadn’t been listening at all. David was no exception. Paul had found that when he was quiet, David would reiterate what he had just said, albeit with some change in the wording. 

“So, what do you think about that, doc?”

“I’d like you to repeat what you just said and really concentrate on what you are saying. Try to discover where these feelings come from.”

“Surely, that’s what I pay you for?” David said snidely.

“Indulge me.” Paul managed to utter through clenched teeth.

“Fine, whatever. I find myself unable to perform in the bedroom because she has that dominance over me. It’s a vicious circle too. If I can’t perform, then the dread of having sex adds to the problem. Then, doubly, I can’t get it up.”

“Are you having problems with erectile dysfunction, David?”

“Yes.” At last, he showed some humanity, some shame.

Paul steepled his fingers and regarded him with eyebrows raised. He shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms across his chest. He matched my gaze, defiant.

“Well? What should I do?” Belligerent at first, but rising to a whine.

“David, erectile dysfunction can be caused by any number of things. Stress, fatigue, depression, guilt.”

 He latched onto the last word.

“Guilt? What do I have to be guilty of?”

 Paul struggled to maintain “professional face”. My God! This man is unbearable, completely without remorse.

“Well, we’ve discussed the other women that you have in your life. Do you think, perhaps, that the ramifications of your infidelities might cause some pangs in your conscience?”

 Not to mention the ruthless way in which you wooed her financial assets or the fact that you abuse her constantly. She should be here, in your place. If only he could say that to him, instead of tiptoeing around what seemed self-evident. David had stopped squirming and was looking at Paul intently.

“No, I don’t think that’s it, doc. I mean, I have no problems getting it up with Melissa - or Sarah, for that matter. I mean, I’m a fucking stallion with them. So, I don’t think that’s it.”

“Hmmm, yes, but maybe the idea of having sex with your wife causes you remorse because you cheat on her.”

“Nah. I’m alright with that. A man has needs that can’t be met by just one woman. I think it’s more likely that it’s because she controls me. Or maybe because she’s ugly!” He guffawed loudly.

 Paul cringed, time to take this fucker down a notch or two. He carefully re-arranged his thoughts, mapping the path of the discourse to its terminus. He sat up straight in his chair, aware suddenly that he was relishing the prospect of a battle of wills. He cleared his throat, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and brought the tips of the fingers of each hand together.

“How would you feel if you discovered that Claire was cheating on you?” 

 David’s eyes flashed with anger and jealousy. A typical, primeval reaction that he had expected. Then, his features developed a cunning bent and he leaned back and grinned.

“Are you trying to trap me, doc?” His grin broadened. After a moment, he continued. “I would be angry. But, in the end, she has the right to, I guess. If I ever found the bastard, I’d kill him though. She needs to know that.” 

 The violence in his tone was surprising. So primitive, so possessive, the male hypocrisy at work. He waited, he was sure David had more to say, sure that the tide of emotion would carry words to his lips before he was conscious that he had formulated them. He nodded and remained silent, waiting.

“Listen, doc, it comes down to genetics, doesn’t it? To what’s his name - Darwin - that’s the fella. It’s only natural that I want to spread my seed as much as possible. The more successful I am, the greater the chance of my genes surviving.”

Involuntarily, Paul clenched his fists. This neanderthal was preaching darwinism to him as some sort of defence? Preposterous! I couldn’t help it, yer Honour! It were me genes, you see, me nature. They made me do it. Too late, he saw that David had noticed his reaction and was studying him carefully.

“What’s up? You don’t agree with my argument, doc?”

“To be honest, David, no, I don’t. I find your argument facile. If genes had such a huge amount to play in your decision making, then it would cause you to square up to every alpha male which you came across, you would be hugely territorial, and you wouldn’t have consented to confess to me as that would constitute a sign of weakness. Genes don’t govern every decision, not since the development of the capacity of reasoning and social mores.”

“Explain where my urges come from, then! Why do I chase skirt?”

 Because of your unwillingness to keep your dick in your pants.

“Well, David, surely that is why we are here? To discover the reasons.” He beamed condescendingly, unable to avoid the temptation to goad him.

“So, tell me. What do you think the reasons are?” 

 He spread his hands disingenuously. A deliberate challenge had been laid down. Paul was being asked to prove himself.

“We are here to discover that. It’s all very well my telling you what I think but the purpose of this therapy is for you to explore your reasons. That way the self-realisation will help you confront them.”

 David stood quickly and began to pace. He walked back and forth across the room, his eyes fixed on Paul the whole time. Paul had had to control the urge to flinch; he had thought David was making a lunge for him. He watched him walk back and forth for a full five minutes, finally he was calm enough to sit again.

“Well, Doc, I’d still like to know your thoughts on it. Maybe you can guide me to an answer.” 

 He wasn’t letting go, his jaw was set resolutely and he leaned forward in the couch eagerly.

“David, you’re putting me on the spot here.” 

 He sneered at the response and Paul felt anger lapping at his veneer of calmness. With a deep breath, he decided to take up the gauntlet. 

“But, as it seems so important to you, I’ll tell you what I think. You are a successful and proud man, who feels trapped by a decision to marry into money. The fact that your spouse holds the purse strings, as you put it, is too much for you to take. Like you said before, you feel emasculated. This isn’t, in fact, the case, you have independent wealth. However, it hurts your pride that you don’t have more money to bring to the relationship. This is, after all, in your darwinian allusion, the only role the male traditionally has the right to claim, in this society - to be the provider. Therefore, you rebel against that perceived slight on your pride and strike back at Claire by cheating on her. Unfortunately, as you have already discovered, this is a double-edged sword. The guilt which you feel at cheating on her, to whom you, ultimately, feel grateful, manifests itself physically. In addition, you are at that age, where you begin to question society and your place in it. It is a natural, if unfair, reaction to attempt to flee from this. Your professed assumption of the role of primitive male is a masquerade which protects you from facing the issues that you have.”

 Paul stopped, he felt relieved. He was conscious, however, that he had behaved unprofessionally, but he would deal with that later. For now, he wanted to guage the reaction that his speech had had on David. He was sitting on the couch, defiant in his denial, shaking his head violently and his eyes flicking around as he searched for a rebuttal. It became clear that he hadn’t the wherewithal to produce a refutation, so Paul decided to bring the session to a close. He glanced at his watch and then at the clock.

“And our time’s up for this week. Shall I see you at the same time, next week?”

 He said nothing, grabbed his coat and stormed out, doors slamming behind him. Paul leaned back and smiled. At least, that’ll decide it one way or another. He stayed in his chair for a few minutes longer, savouring the silence that reigned since David’s departure. Finally, he yawned, stretched and then roused himself wearily. He went through to his office and attended to a few bills and matters of varying urgency. All the while he worked, he kept one  ear cocked, listening to the muffled movements of his wife. She was in the kitchen, eating  breakfast, spoon clanging against the bowl, her teacup thudding intermittently as it came to rest on the table. He needed to go to the toilet again, but held onto it until she had finished and he heard her tread on the stairs. 

 At once, he emerged from his office, relieved himself and went into the kitchen. He couldn’t stifle the anger at the sight of her washing up in the sink, flecks of cereal already drying and adhering to the sides of the bowl. With a grimace, he cleaned up after her. When that was done, he retrieved his book and made himself some coffee. The day stretched out before him and he settled down to fill the hours as best he could.He was so immersed in the story that he didn’t notice her approach until it was too late. She entered the kitchen still in her dressing gown, her hair tousled and unwashed. He tried desperately to hide the sudden distaste. She beamed at him and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

“Make us a cuppa, would you, love?” Valerie asked.

 He bridled. For fuck’s sake! All he did was follow around after her, cleaning her shit, waiting on her, hand and foot. 

“Make your own damn tea, woman. I’ve got work to do.” 

 She raised her eyebrow in surprise and then chuckled.

“Oh really? And what work would that be, sweetheart?” She asked patronisingly, she reached out raised the cover of the book and read the title aloud. “The leopard hunts in darkness. Too highbrow for me, thank God that you’re here to read it and explain it all to me. Make some fucking tea, please. I have to get ready for work.”

 Muttering under his breath, he did her bidding begrudgingly. He carried the mug carefully upstairs and put it on the bedside table. She was sat at her dresser, brushing her hair, it crackled with static, individual strands catching the sunlight. Valerie was still beautiful, but not in the same way as when they had first met. Back then, she had had a bright and open smile, her eyes constantly filled with mirth. Now, her mouth had a cruel, pinched look. Her expression calculated to convey as much disdain as possible.

“You are a pet, aren’t you?” 

 She winked at him and he retreated quickly. He paused in the corridor and turned back in a gesture of defiance. However, his rebelliousness deflated at the sight of her nakedness. She was poised on tiptoes in front of the mirror, watching her reflection. She was a beautiful, poisonous creature and he felt his cock twitch eagerly at the sight of her. He backed away, drinking in her form guiltily. He walked downstairs uncomfortably, his hard-on pushing against the seam of his trousers. He went into the bathroom and jerked off perfunctorily. He hadn’t had sex in so long - this daily, breathless fumble was his only relief. As the lust departed, the shame flowered and kindled his feelings of inadequacy. Disgustedly, he wiped himself down, buttoned his trousers and quit the bathroom. He started as she spoke.

“Enjoy that, did you?”

“Just go to work, would you?” He said wearily, too tired for this little dance.

He went into his office and heard the front door clack to. 

       

"This is criminality pure and simple and it has to be confronted and defeated."

These are wise words from a prime minister who had left his capital burn for 3 days. It is indicative of the blunt instrument approach that politicians, both Labour and Tory, have towards any form of dissension in recent years.

The violence and pillaging, that has spread through the city, isn’t, as many such incidents aren’t, based simply on one reason but rather on a whole host of sociopolitical and economic factors that culminated in a seething anger which has finally spilled over. I don’t look at this looting and ask why but, instead, why it has taken so long?

The problem with the rapacious nature of the violence is its misdirected force. The feelings which fueled it are based, I believe, on valid grievances. However, that said, one could also argue that this is the only method by which people would sit up and take notice of the opinions of this sector of society. Many of us were involved in demonstrations against the Gulf war and, more recently, the stringent cuts to public sector and the reintroduction of university tuition fees. Despite the large numbers of the electorate who came out to voice its opinion, we were largely ignored. When so many voice concern about an issue, surely the elected representatives are beholden to listen? Unfortunately, this is appears not to be the case.

Instead, we have been presented with a steady stream of cases of abject immorality within public institutions and among politicians, not to mention the cynical behaviour of high earners in the banking sector. In the last few years, people who hold power within the UK have continually been exposed. WMD’s, expenses scandal, phone tapping, corruption at Scotland Yard, racism among the rank and file of the police force (though one could argue that this has never changed) and exorbitant bank bonuses. In each case, these have grabbed the headlines. What was the result? General odium but little change.

We are the ones who bear the brunt. The middle class, of course, march onward, stoically, quietly seething, but, as is the nature of the beast, too scared to really upset the status quo, lest they lose their status. So it falls to others to agitate. Others who have no reason to care about society because it has failed to show them due care in return.

Youths, variously labelled as an underclass, hoodies, layabouts, scum, must now be asking themselves what is in it for them. The government cuts have targeted no section quite as much as those who are already marginalised. Constantly, one is called to become an active member of society, but the very wherewithal to do so has been snatched away. The EMA is cut, you can’t go to college. Get a job! You’re a drain on society. Job cuts across the board, huge unemployment. The lucky few who made it through college before the cuts come into effect are unable to go to university because of the annual tuition fees. Where do you go from here? To whom do you address your issues?

The problem is not the violence, per se. The problem arises from the direction society has chosen to go. I have heard much talk of respect and morality. These are not innate to the human psyche, these are learned. We lack the teachers to instil the lessons.

"Decades of individualism, competition and state-encouraged selfishness – combined with a systematic crushing of unions and the ever-increasing criminalisation of dissent – have made Britain one of the most unequal countries in the developed world." Nina Power, writing for the Guardian.

We are bombarded with images of what we should possess, however, are denied the means by which to own them, maybe that explains in some way the wholesale damage. Why the fuck shouldn’t I help myself to a TV, if that’s the only way I can lay my hands on one?

We all share the blame on this one: apathy on the one hand and neglect on the other.

I have no answer as to how to fix these problems. I can only imagine that it rests on the main issue of inequality which reigns in this society. However, a resolution won’t be pursued anytime soon. In fact, an already marginalised group will more than likely be the target of heavy-handed retaliation, inflamed by pseudo-pious media sensationalism. The longer the violence goes on, the harder the backlash will be. No doubt, today’s youths will be forced to submit. That only means that they’ll carry that grudge into early adulthood, ready to erupt at a later stage.

Lightness and wellbeing

Yesterday, rather sweetly, my mother contacted me to enquire as to my psychological wellbeing. She was concerned to see a dark undercurrent in my work which could point to either instability or murderous intent. In an effort to ease her fears, I searched through my work and found nothing which could dissuade her that her son would soon be convicted for heinous crimes involving chainsaws. Becoming more frantic, I looked to uncompleted projects - those stabs in the dark which tend to lurk discontentedly in the far regions of my hard drive, desperately seeking light and recognition. I stumbled upon something that I had written a few years ago. It appears horribly dated to me and I can't even remember where I wanted to go with it. I re-read it and some parts of it are salvageable. Anyway, read it yourselves and please leave any comments as to whether I should try and pursue it or not. Here you go, Mum, I wasn't a miserable bastard, for a very short period, 3 years ago!

July 18th 2008

Being forcefully ejected from any premises is generally considered a bad experience at the best of times. When this ejection happens to be during a rather heavy downpour outside a pub in the west of Ireland, the experience is greatly reduced in stature.

“Why to fuck?” sputtered the ejectee, evidently in some distress, as he desperately tried to retrieve his hat from the puddle in which it had landed, all the while fighting his arm into the wrong sleeve of his tweed overcoat.

“Generally, it is considered necessary for the survival of the species. But do you not find it a little wet for a lesson in biology?” replied the ejector, in this case the barman of the “Puddle of water”, more affectionately known to the locals as the “puddle of piss” due to the olfactory assault upon entering the lavvies around the back.

“Each time I expound upon a theory which doesn’t tie in closely with your bigoted views you throw me out in the street; can’t we for once have a heated debate without you resorting to violence when I stun you out of your dim-witted misapprehension of the real state of affairs? Goddammit! I’m like the sunlight in your medieval existence!”

“You are no such thing! You purposefully ridicule my religious beliefs and act all stunned when I get riled! If you didn’t have such an extensive bar tab, I’d bar you!”

Emmitt visibly paled at these words, momentarily forgetting his struggle with things sartorial.

“Surely not..” he gasped, “that would mean..!”

That would mean going an extra five miles down the road to a pub which could only be termed a den of iniquity, a haven of drugs, thugs and wenches of dubious intent. Drugs and wenches, of course, were no bad thing in themselves, on occasion, Emmitt had been known to procure both at a reasonable price. An ounce of grass for a hundred euros and the company of a buxom, bawdy young lady for the price of a few pints often led to a pleasurable if somewhat hazy evening of debauchery. But the thugs, these track-suit wearing, shaven-headed, leering lobotomies who were perched so precariously on the knife edge of violent potentiality, scared the bejeesus out of him. I mean he never intended to treat them with anything but abject humility but each time he seemed to get himself into situations where he would confusedly find himself defending the honour of some trollop he had just met against the troglodytic advances of one of their number. And being pack animals, you, invariably, ended with having inadvertently declared war on his entire clan of reprobate buddies. So, needless to say, this was not Emmitt’s idea of the utopian ideal, and forays into this wilderness were kept to a minimum, usually, until his biological urges got the better of him.

“Right, the Pig in Knickers!” finished the barman, nodding emphatically.

“Well, if you won’t behave like an adult, I can see that this conversation is over!”

Having, finally, brought his rebellious attire under some semblance of control, he pirouetted neatly and set off a few paces in the direction of home, head held high and aloof, even if the effect was slightly spoiled by the streams of water running down his face from the drenched hat. He paused reflectively for a few moments, span round again, shuffled back towards his assailant and doffed his cap.

“We’re still on for tomorrow, right? The pub quiz, I mean. It would be a shame to set asunder such a wondrous celebration of the intellect over such a petty difference of opinion.”

“See you tomorrow, now bugger off!” the barman exclaimed with some weariness.

As the warm light emitting from the porch was extinguished by the energetic thumping to of the door, Emmitt resumed his journey homeward contentedly. He turned his collar up against the driving rain and donned his hat anew, settling into a hunch-shouldered march in order to gain the dry sanctuary of his home as quickly as he could.

People are odd, he considered, with many a rueful head shake. In this little village of 200, he was still looked upon as an outsider, although he had lived here for nigh on 20 years. A west-brit, a jackeen, that’s what they called him, just because he had had the misfortune to study and live temporarily in halls at Trinity. This fact did not go down well among the locals who saw his way of talking, nay, his whole way of life as an unnecessary affectation. Emmitt had only one desire in this life and that was to live, where possible, as much like a gentleman of leisure of yesteryear as he could.

Upon his thirtieth birthday, he had inherited a substantial sum of money from his father’s estate; his father had died when he was five and his mother during his teens so that he had largely fended for himself from the age of fifteen. The death of his mother had released him from a suffocatingly religious upbringing and he had been doing his best to reconcile his hatred of all things divine ever since. To this end, he had completed his schooling and moved to Dublin from his native village of Gubsheen in order to study philosophy. In his third year, he had been expelled for setting up a student political movement which had advocated militant criticism of the theology department of Trinner’s university. After a failed attempt to subvert the sermon of the archbishop of Dublin one Easter Sunday, he was informed that he could have an honorary degree if he would never set foot on campus again. Wisely, realising that he was on a hiding to nothing, he accepted the terms of his surrender and went on his merry way, all the while castigating the teachings of the catholic church in an effort to show the “true spirit of revolution” as he termed it.

After bumming around most parts of the country for a couple of years, stumbling from one form of depraved excess to the next began to pall, so Emmitt decided that it was time to expand his horizons and do a year abroad, in order to find himself. He fell in love with the first flaxen-haired lovely before he had even left the airport at Munich. Waltraud, for that was her name, showed him all around Bavaria and especially her home town of Passau. Several months of contented sexual satiation followed, in which he showered her with gifts and she repaid him in kind.

However, little warning signals prevented Emmitt from ever fully letting his guard down, and these signals became more pronounced the more the relationship evolved. Looks pregnant with emotional instability seemed to become more prevalent among the repertoire of the teutonic totty. When Emmitt was introduced to her father as the love of her life and potential suitor that definitely greased the wheels of his speedy departure. He ventured farther southwards and looped his way back up to France via Spain without arousing any such depth of emotion in any of the more passionate climes.

Travel was all well and good, he concluded, but you can’t beat living where you know every nook and cranny intimately. Nevertheless, he did feel a certain hankering every now and again to escape the occasionally stifling life within a small community. Knowing the place intimately did not amount to the same thing as having every inhabitant of that place know you to the same degree, he concluded with a sage nod of his head, precipitating a stream of precipitation down the back of his neck. He tucked his neck further into the recess of his shoulders, turtle-like, as he marched crabwise diagonally back and forth across the narrow boreen, in a determined but drunken effort to reach the warmth and refuge of his roaring fire. He prayed to a god in which he didn’t believe that his housekeeper Mrs. O’Neill had had the prescience to leave him a snack before bedtime.

In response to the thought of food, his stomach gave out an almighty growl, reminding him rather urgently that nothing solid had passed twixt his lips since lunchtime the previous day. For Emmitt was not a man of adventure, he knew little of the darwinian struggle for survival that other members of his species had to cope with every day. He rarely ate, unless food was presented to him; so much so that his body had had to learn to cope with a most irregular intake of nutrition.

He pondered further his life story thus far and concluded that the time had come for him to take stock of his lot and do something worthwhile; never having had anyone to push him much he had rarely started one project without envisaging all the work that lay ahead and immediately resorting to a more laid back, sometimes horizontal, approach to life. His mother had been more concerned with the state of his afterlife in a way which he had always found far too morbid to contemplate when he was sober, for this reason he had “lacked the mentor which he required to push him to the limit of his potential”, a phrase lifted directly from the report card of one of his more tolerant and benevolent teachers at secondary school.

With this firm resolution met, and with the nagging realisation that it would be under severe scrutiny come the light of day and the standpoint of relative sobriety, he clanked his way gracelessly over the cattle grid and marched purposefully up the avenue to his house. After an inordinate amount of pocket searching, he triumphantly held aloft his Yale key and squinted uncertainly at the unreasonably small lock. Five minutes of fruitless scrabbling brought him no closer to admittance into the warmth which awaited, tantalizingly close, on the far side of the old oak door. Shrugging, he took a few steps back and launched himself at the door with all the power he could muster. He scrunched his eyes closed at the thought of the impact upon his shoulder which, in fact, never came, instead he dashed across the threshold and came to a stumbling stop in the middle of the hallway.

“You fecking eejit, I’m telling you there should be a law against the like of you!” Mrs. O’Neill glared at him, the night cap restraining her mop of dyed hair and dragging the skin on her forehead and around her eyes tight in such a manner as to render her more terrifying than usual. Drawing on his last reserves of dignity, Emmitt drew himself to his full height and took a step towards her and promptly tripped over himself.

“Yeah, you’d want to watch that spot, it’s deceptively flat there.” She muttered sarcastically, folding her arms in an effort to retain some of the fury she had so lovingly stoked in preparation for his arrival.

“Dear, dear Mrs. O’Neill, what is your first name? Never mind! Irrelevant at this juncture. While you are up you wouldn’t be a dear and fix us something quick to eat and maybe a cup of tea.. perhaps with a small drop of whiskey to warm me up after my long, wet and weary walk home?”

Aghast, she looked at him. “Who the bloody hell do ya think y’are? Am I here to fetch and carry for you all the sodding hours of the day? Ha! All so that Lord bloody Muck can fall in here at 1 o’clock in the morning demanding food as if this was a bloody kebab shop! Bugger off with yourself.”

“I was merely requesting a favour, I would never be so high-handed as to demand anything of you. A little sustenance for a weary traveller would not go amiss. And believe me if this backwater ever had the open-mindedness to allow turkish cuisine, I would have partaken of it before returning. But, alas, this is not the case, hence my asking you as politely and humbly as I could if you would be so kind as to prepare something.”

“Well, you’re lucky, now that I’m up, I’m hungry and I’m not so churlish as to make just for myself. If I was of meaner character, I’d give you such a kick in your arse as to send you somersaulting the whole way up them stairs to bed.” She turned and, continuing to grumble to herself, waddled into the kitchen.

“Your character is beyond reproach and you have saved me with your kind actions which belie the heat of your words!” Emmitt replied with a laconic grin.

“Bugger off with your plum arsery!” was the terse reply.

After contemplating this fortunate turn of events, he shrugged off his sopping jacket and hat and left them in a steaming pile on the floor before turning and heading for the study. He plonked himself down in his leather armchair with a contented sigh and raised his feet onto the footstool to warm his feet before the raging hearth of the fire. The room was bereft of any other furniture save a small desk in the far corner. From floor to ceiling on three sides, the walls were obscured by books. Books of all kinds, from fiction to fantasy, from philosophy to philately were ranged in no particular order, in untidy piles. Emmit had not even begun to read the half of them but he had spent his entire life buying books and adding to his collection. So, now, he had a quite impressive array of titles from which he used to randomly select a tome and read it voraciously before moving onto the next until the time came for him to fulfil any duty, be it social or otherwise. He was working his way slowly through “Europe: A History” at the moment and reached for it with a small sigh of anticipation, as he squinted at the page the words seemed to jump erratically into nonsensical forms under his intense scrutiny, so much so that he had to discard this worthy tome and search around the room for another form of entertainment easier on the senses. He had a TV but he rarely watched it as he found the drivel that was broadcast from it more painful than he could bear. The thought of watching anything at this hour caused him a great deal of discomfort.

“Imagine watching a bunch of irrelevant, illiterate ignoramusses stuck in a house. God almighty! Entertainment - yeah right! I’d rather stick my own thumb up my arse!” he grumbled as he staggered towards his record player for inspiration. He placed the needle and very soon the soothing sounds of “Take 5” by the Dave Brubeck Quartet filled the room. He collapsed in a heap back into his armchair and slowly subsided into a snoring stupor.

Mrs. O’Neill nudged the door open with her foot and manoeuvred her way with some skill into the room, bearing a tray laden with scrambled eggs on toast and a pot of tea. As she kicked the door to behind her, her eyes fell upon the now supine figure of her employer, who had slid to the floor in a heap with his chin now resting on his chest, he was emitting tortured, stertorous eruptions of air from between his flaccid lips.

“Well, Christ on a bike! I’ll slice you up you cheeky little beggar! And me going to all this trouble, I’ll split your bloody useless crown.”

With that she dropped the tray on his crotch and marched out of the room in high dudgeon. Emmitt returned to consciousness with alacrity and stared in disbelief at the mess about his nether regions before his mind registered the burning sensation in his trousers which, being still wet, absorbed the flood of piping hot tea. He jumped with a yelp of surprise to his feet and began to frantically beat about himself in an effort to dispel the pain which was now coursing through his most tender of physical attributes. A few moments of this showed him the futility of his chosen course of action and he struggled to undo the buttons of his fly. His trousers and underwear he kicked with his last vestige of dignity into the corner before he cupped himself lovingly in an unmanly fashion and rocked back and forth, keening gently.

Confusion

Sunlight fell on his face and roused him from his slumber. He was thrust without warning into a sterile reality. This reality didn’t seem to fit with the one that he had in his mind. The harshness of the light refracting dizzyingly off the walls’ whiteness made it impossible to fix on any salient detail to which he might anchor his consciousness. His head lolled to the left and a lady, also in white, kept up a steady stream of irrelevance. She was pretty as far as he could tell but her eyes lacked something human.

She busied herself around him, touching him, plumping his pillows. He flapped at her weakly as he was bodily lifted into an upright position. His anger was directed at this intrusive woman and at his limbs which seemed to be responding as if the fabric which surrounded them were drenched in treacle. She leaned across his face, one breast mashed into his cheek; all intimacy robbed from the contact by her fierce bustling. She moved away from him and out into the corridor. The further away she went the more watery and indistinct her figure became. He could still hear her gabbling distantly.

The door swung to on silent, spring-cushioned hinges and a comparative quiet descended. This gave him the opportunity to ponder his predicament afresh. Confusion still reigned, this white prison seemed to have erected itself around him as he slept. Slowly, he searched his memory for a clue. Somewhere among the jumble, he saw a door ajar, through which he glimpsed something familiar. However, when he tried to grasp for it, it either slammed to and he had to go searching again or the clarity that was promised from without, proved to be warped and indecipherable once immersed. With increasing frustration, he marched the corridors of his brain, trying each handle. Some opened onto dimly remembered scenes, incomprehensible in their disconnectedness. Others were locked and, though he pushed, they remained stalwart in resistance.

He gave up the search and examined his environment; this white prison couldn’t be bereft of clues. Allowing his head to loll left and right, he was able to see most of the cell. It was painted stark white. There was a bed, a chair and a bedside cabinet. On the cabinet was a photo. He reached for it, pausing momentarily to marvel at his old man, mottled, trembly hand, veiled in parchment thin skin. He had some issues gripping the frame. Eventually, with immense focus, he managed to flip it from the cabinet onto the bed beside him. He smiled mightily with triumph. He raised it to eye level and saw an old man smiling proudly at a young woman who hugged him in return. The corners of his mouth twitched reflexively.

He surfaced again a few hours later, the sun had moved on and now cast a shadow straight to the door. Blissfully, he was in shade. He struggled to move up in the bed. Something seemed to be fixing him. His clumsy fingers, as biddable as sausages, sought out the impediment. A wide, grey, faux leather belt was cinched around his waist. His fear spiked. He was being restrained. He scrabbled at the buckle but he couldn’t force his digits to comply. He flopped back in frustration and stared at the ceiling, not blinking, until his eyes began to water.

The swish of the door alerted him of another’s presence. He raised his head and watched the progress of the nurse, a male one this time, as he padded across the room towards him.

“How are we doing today, Mr Gormley?”

His eyes widened at the use of his name. This bloody fairy was a complete stranger to him.

“And just who the fuck might you be, sunshine?”

The nurse sighed and then smiled in a “whatshallwedowithyouthen?” manner before replying.

“I’m Jack. It’s a bad day today then, is it?”

Gormley gave him a look of consternation before beginning to struggle violently. Jack leaned gently on his shoulders, forcing back onto the pillows. He was shocked by the ease with which this man subdued him. The rebellion in him died and he surrendered - for now. Jack busied himself with sorting the room out. He watched him carefully. He didn’t have to wait long, the nurse approached his bed and undid the belt, his heart jumped mightily with the thought of his impending liberation. Sheets rolled back to expose his pyjama’d age, he was scooped up and carried like a child to a chair in the corner. He slumped, humiliated by his impotence. The cold was stark after the warmth of his blanket cocoon. He shivered a little. Jack stripped the bed quickly, replacing his clean white sheets, with cleaner sheets, starched to stiffness. As he stuffed a pillow into its new case, another nurse, in blue padded quickly into the chamber.

“Jack, you’re needed.” As he plumped the pillow and laid it on the bed, an impatient “Now!” was added. He jerked into action and swished after her out the door. Now, he was alone and cold. He shook his head slowly, struggled upright and pushed his reluctant body towards the door with as much urgency as his will could muster. The progress was slow and unsteady but he made the door, leant against it and turned the handle; it held its ground. He straightened and looked at this hindrance to his escape for a moment, then he pulled. The door responded silently, swinging inwards as he shuffled his feet slowly out of the way. He stepped through and the door swung after him, insistently urging him into the corridor ahead.

Left led to a double doors and doubt beyond them. To the right, the corridor passed for some fifty yards before disappearing around the corner. He lurched away, resting every so often against cupboards and furniture which dotted the corridor. Before long, he reached the corner and peered around. He was greeted by another set of double doors. Stealing himself, he went to them and peered through a peephole. Beyond, a set of stairs was to be seen. Though there was a great deal of business at the far end of the hallway, he felt confident that he could sneak the five or so paces to the stairwell. Willing himself to hastiness, he tried the doors, they swung apart, allowing him to squeeze through. He gathered himself and dashed for the stairs. His shuffling momentum almost carried him over the first step and from there to a potentially fatal tumble. He threw an arm out and panic leant his fingers dexterity as they latched onto the bannister. Using his shoulder as fulcrum, he pirouetted his torso to the wall.

Each step was a ridiculing testament to the frailty of his physicality. The shaking, tentative downward plunge of faith, the free fall swoosh felt in his guts, brought to a jarring halt by the shock of landing - every stage a becoming more daunting by dint of repetition. He stopped halfway and half-turned, contemplating a retreat to the relative reliability of hallway. The idea of ascension had barely manifested itself but he was discounting it out of hand. He renewed his progress towards the landing. One last stumble and he was on a square oasis. He tried to marshal his disobedient limbs. They shook and buckled, candid in their opposition. Peering around the corner, he saw another set of stairs leading to a seemingly wide open space. He guessed that this would lead to his freedom. The seduction of imminent escape, lent him some strength and he completed the second flight more quickly than the first.

The floor was wide. A couple of offices with closed doors on the left hand wall and a security desk against the right and, just beyond that desk, a revolving door whump-whoomped as it spun. This, the final obstacle to his liberty. A young, uniformed man sat with his head down while he read the paper, ignorant for a time of his surroundings. Gormley pushed himself off and started towards the door, his bare feet suddenly very cold on the heat-sapping, tile-effect, laminate flooring. He was abreast of the desk, not five feet from the door, when the boy looked up and clocked him. They stared at one another for a moment, then his quick and agile movements, mocked his entire journey thus far. He simply stopped as the uniform placed himself between Gormley and the door.

“Sir, you’re not meant to be down here. I’ll have to take you back.” He waited for a response from the haggard figure. “What room are you in?” Nothing. The old man swayed slightly, head down. The boy stepped towards him gently. “Come and have a seat, while I call somebody down to help.”

The old man watched as a hand encircled his wrist and he allowed himself to be led away from his destination, timid in defeat. He was seated and a phone call was made. His feet were very cold now and he tried to recollect why he felt so resigned.

“Dad? What are you doing here? It’s freezing.”

That door of clarity reopened and he tumbled through it. The shift in focus left him dizzy for a moment and then the cogs of memory meshed once more and he found his place in this reality. His daughter draped a coat over him. It smelled wonderfully young and still had her rejuvenating warmth clinging to it. He grinned at her gratefully. She smiled pityingly back and hugged him. He melted into her familiarity ignoring an increasing hustle as he was scooped for the second time into somebody’s arms and into a wheelchair, wheeled into a lift, out of the lift into an intimate stretch of corridor and deposited whence he had started. Only his daughter held his attention. Her acquaintance temporarily anchoring his consciousness, allowing the flow of remembrance to continue as, with each minute, he became more sure of himself.

This feeling of unity was shattered somewhat as the belt restrained him. He struggled with rising panic and not even the soothings of his daughter could prevent its wildfire spread. He felt himself sucked away from the firm and into a space where facts flew at him but only skipped on the surface of comprehension, refusing to sink to a resting place where it could be studied and then shuffled into some semblance of order. He rallied desperately and reached for her.

“I’m here, Dad, please calm down. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

Her head appeared above him, eyes glistening with sympathy, sorrow, shame. Gormley needed to tell her something. It was urgent and, as his hand clasped and unclasped her hand weakly, he grasped it finally. He pulled himself towards her. She leant further towards him. His thin, bluish lips were close to her ear now.

“Get me the fuck out of here or let me die.”