Ghosts and Lightning Read online

  —Yeah, cool.

  —Ah o course yill have a drop with yer oul uncle yid never refuse me.

  I’m standin in wha I suppose yid call Victor’s front room, if this was a house and his whole caravan wasn’t his front room. This end, though, is a small rectangle, lined with built-in sofas and with two long windows on either side and a smaller, round one at the end. Loads o little ornaments and ancient-lookin knickknacks on the windowledges and books in huge leanin piles everywhere. Hundreds o books. I pick up a battered copy of Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter, a book I loaned Victor a year or two ago, before I went to Wales, and set it on the windowledge beside a brass workhorse and plonk meself down. I have to hunch over to warm me hands at the little glowin gas heater beside the coffee table. Dunno how a stringbean like Victor manages in a place this small.

  Victor shuffles back into the light and hands me the glass o whiskey. The thing’s near full, glintin and syrup-coloured. Victor takes a sip and sighs and slumps down onto the sofa opposite me, his long legs stretched out.

  —Ah that’s the very stuff.

  I take a little sip meself and it rushes to me head and back down to me belly. I take off me beanie and ruffle me hair and Victor has another sip and then leans forward, his face suddenly serious.

  —There’s no trouble at all Denny is there? Is there anyone after yeh yid tell me now wouldn’t yeh cos they’d rue the day, Denny. Oh Jaysis they’d rue the fuggin day.

  I can’t help laughin. Victor’s wired to the moon. All the stories and the manic mood swings and bouts o bluster. Chap wouldn’t harm a fly, though.

  —Nah, I’m grand Victor, I say. —Not a bother. I got meself a car, like. I drove up.

  —Ah I see, I see. A motor. Very good. Gets yeh where yeh want to go.

  —Just about, anyway.

  —Beats the bollix out o walkin in this weather all the same, Denny. A fuggin yeti would shun an evenin like this.

  I grab me bag and rummage through it. —I got yeh Lyons teabags, I say.

  —Ah. A saint.

  —And a few books.

  —And a scholar as well Denny yeh always were. Did yeh know the library turned me away last week? The bleedin cheek o them I was tha near deckin yer man behind the desk, glasses or no.

  —Why?

  —Robbin books, he says to me. I says to him are yeh callin me a robber yid better have bleedin proof, buddy. Every book I ever got out o here was stamped officially one hundred per cent.

  —Wha did he say?

  —He showed me the computer thing and said here, lookit Mr Cullen, some o them books are out near four year, they might as well be robbed as far as we’re concerned.

  —So yeh decked him, then?

  —I did consider it. But violence Denny, it should always be a last resort. I suppose he has a point, anyway. Could be other people wanted them books as well.

  I laugh again and take a sip o me whiskey. The wind’s howlin outside and the leafless trees are bent and tossin madly. Yeh can hear a hundred tiny creaks at once in the caravan, and feel a hundred tiny tremors. Like bein at sea, almost.

  —Yeh gettin on OK yerself, Victor?

  —Ah God yeah, Denny. Yeh know me. Not a bother. Love me peace and quietude. Although I must say now it’s very good to see yeh Denny, sure it must be five or six year since I saw yeh last.

  —I saw yeh at the funeral, Victor.

  Victor sinks back slowly and places his whiskey on the coffee table.

  —Ah that’s right, Denny. Sure didn’t I see yeh at yer mother’s funeral.

  I look out the window and then back at Victor and gulp back the last o the whiskey. Victor’s lookin at his glass, runnin his long forefinger round the rim.

  —That was a terrible pity, Denny, he says, his head downcast slightly but his eyes still on me. —That was a terrible thing altogether there’s no fairness in the world. Sure yer mother was a young woman only when yeh lookit the ages people live today. God that was a terrible shock, I do still think about her. Let me tell yeh son, fambly is very important. Yeh might not know it now but it is, sure yiv not much else in the world if yiv no fambly. Yid think it was only last week yer granny and granda brung yer ma home from St James’s. I was eleven year old, I never seen a thing so small.

  Victor looks up at me. —Are yeh copin OK yerself, Denny? Loss is a fearful thing.

  —Not too bad. I go down the grave sometimes and that.

  —D’yeh know I haven’t been to the grave since the funeral? Isn’t that a mortal sin? I can’t bring meself to go, isn’t that just a mortal sin against me soul?

  I shake me head. —Paula’s only been up the once.

  —Has she?

  —Yeah. It’s after hittin her worse than she lets on, I think. She won’t talk about it or anythin.

  —It’s a terrible thing to lose yer mother, Denny. Specially so young.

  —I know. She was sayin there’s someone in the house and all this.

  —Who?

  —Paula.

  —No, who’s in the house?

  —I dunno. A ghost or somethin. Not me ma’s ghost. She was sayin there was somethin under the beds.

  —Well, the best thing to do now Denny is get a bit o holy water and sprinkle it and say to it begone from the house in the name o –

  —She’s neurotic, Victor. There’s nothin in the house. She’s out of her head half the time with drink. We had a séance, anyway. Pajo did. D’yeh know Pajo?

  —Which one’s he?

  —The little skinny fella. Green hair. Yeh saw him at the funeral.

  —I remember, yeah. Mad fella?

  —Yeah.

  —And he did a séance?

  —Yeah. Don’t really believe in that kind o thing.

  Victor purses his lips and knits his eyebrows. —Well who’s to say, Denny?

  —I’m not the one forcin wha I believe on people, Victor.

  —Well. Wha happened at the séance, then?

  —Well … nothin at first, like, then Pajo was sayin this stuff, like he was possessed. The lights were out.

  —And yeh don’t believe it?

  —I dunno. No, I don’t think so.

  —Wha did he say?

  —Pajo?

  —Yeah, or the ghost.

  —Well, the way I remember it … it’s a bit sketchy, like. It wasn’t the ghost from under Paula’s bed that was talkin, it was some other ghost that said it moved the first one on. It was a bit weird, like. A bit freaky. Even though I didn’t, like …

  —Did it say anything in particular?

  —Yeah. Well, it said loads o stuff. It said — or Pajo said -that Paula reminded him of a woman from years before.

  —Who?

  —He said, like, Emer or somethin. I think it was Emer.

  —Emer.

  —Yeah. I betcha I know wha yer gonna say.

  —G’wan.

  —Yer gonna say about Emer, Cúchulainn’s wife.

  —Well Denny to be honest with yeh now it did occur to me.

  —So yeh reckon we were in touch with Cüchulainn? D’yeh not think that’s a bit mad?

  —Well clearly Denny now it occurred to you. I’m sayin nothin o the sort one way or the other.

  I finish off me whiskey and pour another. That whole Cüchulainn thing did occur to me. Cüchulainn was a hero in ancient Ireland. A mythological hero, like. He got the name Cüchulainn cos he killed the guard dog o this chieftain with his hurley and sliotar when he was only a kid, and to make it up he took the dog’s place, patrollin this chieftain’s land. Cüchulainn means hound o Cullen in English. Cüchulainn went on to do all sorts o mad stuff, takin on gods and monsters and the enemies of Ulster. I learned all that from the book Victor got me, years ago. Paula does look like Emer in it, and me ma did as well, when she was younger — that was why Victor bought it — but that means fuck all, it’s just a coincidence. And Pajo might o just picked up on somethin, subconsciously even. I might o said somethin about Paula lookin like Emer year
s ago, when we were kids, and it just happened to surface that night.

  —That’s all just … it doesn’t help anythin, Victor, yeh know? This is real life, these are real fuckin problems. I don’t know wha –

  —Did yer ma ever tell yeh about the time she saw a banshee?

  —Yeah, I think so, ages ago.

  —I’ll tell yeh Denny there’s more to this world than yeh think. This oulwan keening and brushin her hair, she said it was. An ancient hag, her face all withered. And didn’t our own father die not three days later? A heart attack in his bed, sure none of us even knew he was gone till the next day when yer nanny Cullen shook him and found the life all fled from him.

  —I just don’t believe in ghosts, Victor.

  Victor shrugs. —Who knows is all I’m sayin.

  I reach across the coffee table and grab the whiskey bottle. Another top up.

  —Yeh tryin to give me nerve trouble, Victor?

  —Ah no, Denny. Sure it’s a sin to be afraid in yer own home.

  —Me ma used to say that.

  —Never a truer word spoken.

  We sit there in silence for a while with the sound o the wind in the trees and sip our whiskey. Was there a banshee for me ma, I wonder? An oul crone wailin by the skip outside the Cunninghams? Bollix. Just put that shite out o yer head, Denny; yill end up like mad Denise, yill be fuckin shittin when yeh get back home, sin or no fuckin sin. Somethin under the bed, Cúchulainn and banshees. For fuck sake.

  —D’yeh wanna go down the grave? I say.

  —Em …

  —I can run us up in the car.

  Victor bites at his thumbnail, then looks up at me. —Em. I … yeah. I mean … yeah. I should go up. Then he smiles. —Ah sure we’ll ramble up the two of us. Will we?

  —Yeah, cool. It’s not far in the car. Stick on that tea before we go.

  Victor pushes himself up off the chair and onto his feet, a big lankylimbed spider unfolded from its web.

  —I’ll bring the whiskey with us as well, says Victor, smilin. —I know yer mother wouldn’t begrudge us a drop or two, Jack fuggin Frost be damned.

  *

  We pick our way through the darkenin graveyard and I feel like an old-fashioned graverobber apprenticed to his gangly stalkin uncle, the two of us weavin slowly between stones and statues, Victor stoppin now and then to look at the names and dates o the dead and sayin them back to himself softly and makin the sign o the cross. The place is already shut so there’s no one else about; we had to squeeze through a gap in the railings to get in.

  —It’s over here, Victor. Beside that tree. See it there?

  Victor nods and follows me, a bunch o white flowers he picked from his field clutched to his chest. A maze o graves of every kind. A small rusty cross at the head of a bed o half-sunk flagstones. A headstone shaped like a teddy bear. And then a gypsy grave, two marble horses risin from solid spray and between them eight small oval-shaped stones engraved with children’s words for a dead father.

  We crunch our way down a little path and I stop and nod me head at a new plain white marble gravestone. Me ma’s stone. Shane bought it. He wouldn’t take any money off me or Paula; he wanted to own me ma’s death. Not that he had any time for her while she was alive. We stand, Victor and me, and watch the dyin light obscure the letters on the stone and fuck it anyway but I don’t know wha to think. It’s stupid to say that me ma died on me but that’s how I feel sometimes. There was somethin wrong with her heart, the specialist said; it was always goin to happen. The specialist was a Pakistani fella and he was small with huge glasses and a turnip-shaped head. Actually, it seemed like they all were; it was like a clinical and immeasurably fuckin sad version o Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, with Pakistani doctors instead of Oompa-Loompas. There was somethin terrifyin about wha he said — it was always gonna happen. An unhappy fate, predestination. Fuck. She was fifty-five when she died and she was still a gorgeous woman. Up until then it had been me and me ma and Paula in the house. It was a home, things made sense. Then everythin was fuckin obliterated.

  I know I was away when it happened but that didn’t mean I’d abandoned her. I didn’t. I was tryin to do somethin good, tryin to get on. I would’ve come back. It does me fuckin head in that I wasn’t there. And it does me head in that Paula was.

  I was in a pub when Paula rang me, The Otley. There was some rugby game on, might o been the Heineken cup or somethin. I’d never usually bother with rugby but the Welsh are mad into it.

  —I can’t hear yeh, I said to her. —I’m in a pub.

  I stood up and headed for the toilets. They smelled o lemon and disinfectant. Yeh could barely notice the piss for once.

  —Hello? I said.

  —Jesus Denny are yeh there for fuck sake?

  —Yeah, I’m here. I’m in a pub, sorry. It’s jammers –

  —In a fuckin pub? In a fuckin pub when there’s –

  —What’s up?

  —Ma’s gone. Jesus Denny, yeh have to come home.

  Paula made a show of herself at the wake, fallin across the coffin slaughtered drunk. She’d been whackin back the vodka all day. Shane and Gino had to grab the coffin to stop it fallin over. I love Paula but Jesus, her and drink, she’s a fuckin lunatic. And at ma’s wake and all, that’s wrong man. That’s seriously un-fuckin-cool.

  The wake was awful, that was probably the worst of it. I’m tellin yeh, interminable isn’t the fuckin word. Tick fuckin tock. We had to keep the windows open in the front room, the fella at Massey’s funeral parlour said so. It was freezin. I remember Maggit in the kitchen, a pile o sandwiches in misted cellophane on the table and the cigarette hangin from his lip, bobbin as he spoke. He had a can o Guinness clutched to his chest and his newly shaved head made his jug ears look more prominent than ever. He was sayin member the time we were kids and we threw eggs at the Flaherty’s house and then Mr Flaherty stormed round foamin and rantin, sayin to yer ma yer fuckin son’s after peltin me gaff with eggs and yer ma goes back into the kitchen, grabs a handful o raw sausages and rashers and throws them at him, sayin there yeh go, yiv a fuckin breakfast now.

  And I do remember.

  Jesus, course I do.

  I take a deep breath and Victor kneels down slowly and his knees pop and crack. He places the wild white flowers on the grave and pats them but the wind catches them and they go flyin across the neighbourin graves and into the dark.

  —Ah Jaysis lookit me flowers. Ah God.

  Victor takes a few steps after them and stops.

  —Don’t worry about it, Victor.

  Victor takes another step and then turns back to me. —They were good flowers.

  —I know.

  —Snowdrops. Victor looks at the grave and blesses himself and clears his throat. He kneels back down and lays his palm on the little green pebbles.

  —I miss yeh very much Kate but sure yer in a better place now and we’ll be soon enough to follow yeh, he says, and he turns slightly and looks up at me. He’d be comical-lookin cept for the big sad eyes.

  —Sure it’s a lovely oul grave anyway, isn’t it? he says. —Very dignified.

  I nod me head. —C’mon and we’ll go.

  Victor stands up.

  —Yeh can stay with us tonight if yeh want, I say.

  —Ah no, Denny. It’s one thing comin to her grave, it’s another stayin in her house. Ah no. Sure I’ll make me own way back to the caravan.

  —Victor, Balbriggan’s twenty miles away. Yill be found dead. I’ll give yeh a lift.

  —Grand so. Yer a great oul skin Denny I’m tellin yeh true. As good a youngfella as there is.

  Victor pulls the whiskey bottle from his duffle coat and hands it to me and I unscrew the cap and drink and the first snow flies slantways through the dark.

  *

  We’re back in Victor’s. I stick As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner and a biography of Eamon De Valera into me bag.

  —I wasn’t lookin for swaps or anythin, I say. —Them books I brung a
re just presents, like.

  Victor waves his hand. —Ah not at all, Denny. A swap’s a swap and I’m happy to do it. Sure that’s wha they did in ancient times instead o money. Ten hens for a sheep.

  He seems to mull over wha he’s just said.

  —Or would yeh say a sheep’s worth ten hens? That might be a bit too many hens.

  I shrug and Victor points at me bag. —That Faulkner one’s a bit mad now but stick with it. It’s very good. Me mother is a fish and all this.

  —Wha?

  —Yill see.

  —Right. Are yeh sure yeh don’t wanna come up to the house for the night? Will yeh be alright here in this weather?

  —Ah I’ll be grand Denny. Not a bother.

  —Well. I’ll see yeh so, Victor. I’ll drop up again.

  —Safe journey home now Denny. Mind yerself on them roads they’re treacherous oul things altogether.

  I hoist the bag up onto me shoulders and step out into the night. When I turn back Victor’s still in the doorway, a tall black shadow in a neat rectangle o lemon yellow light, the sky above the caravan filled with fallin snow.

  *

  The wipers are shuckin the snow back and forth off the window and the car in front o me’s nothin cept two dull red eyes in the wild grey night. Cohen’s croakin about bein an ugly hunchback and yeh can picture him on a stool with his guitar, the smart haircut and the well-set face lined with sorrow and unwanted wisdom and –

  Jesus this is a depressin fuckin album.

  I hit stop on the tapedeck and collapse back into the seat. Cohen’s class, don’t get me wrong, but I suppose Paula’s right; time and fuckin place, man. Can’t be doin with downer stuff at the moment, sat here with the car bumblin and chuggin in stasis, eager to be home.

  God, I miss me ma. I miss her somethin fuckin terrible.

  A fella in a high-vis jacket jogs past, head ducked against the snow, and slips into the little toll bridge security hut thingy up ahead.

  I reach over into the back seat and rummage through the bag and pull out the De Valera biography. His face is pinched and worried-lookin on the front cover and he’s wearin his oul spidery fine-rimmed glasses. An older De Valera, way after he was bombed to fuck in the GPO. He looks dead like Alan Rickman, actually, the actor who played him in Neil Jordan’s film. Specially the nose.