Authors: Joe Murphy
My stomach is knotting and I’m feeling physically sick and I’m going, ‘No. He’s my friend.’ That last word sticks a bit because I’m not sure if this guard with his sneering expression and his
rasping
pen could even imagine Seán as a friend in any sense of the word he’d recognise.
The guard goes, ‘I see.’ And then he’s going, ‘I had a friend when I was about your age. A Golden Retriever called Ben. Had him for years, since he was a pup.’
I’m looking at the guard and I can see where this is going. I can feel a ball of cold clench in my stomach.
The guard is going, ‘Took care of that dog like he was my own brother. I used to mind him when he was sick and take him with me down the fields and all sorts. Shocking nice dog, so he was.’
I’m nodding mechanically, not wanting to think about what he’s saying.
The guard just keeps going. He says, ‘Lovely animal. Used to follow me everywhere.’
And then the guard lifts the mug to his face and sucks down the last of his coffee and spits out words like he’s coughing up phlegm. He goes, ‘When he bit the neighbour’s youngest, sure we had no option but to put him down.’
His right hand makes a gun with his fingers curled in and his
thumb cocked back. His barrel index finger points at me and he says, ‘Shot him myself.’
This guard, this big midland farmer’s son with his huge hands and thick accent, he goes, ‘The next time you see him, tell your friend Seán to mind himself. Tell him that if he were a dog he’d be put down by now.’
And just like that he’s getting up and just like that he’s putting on his hat and just like that he’s leaving by the back door. On the way out he says, ‘Thank your Da for the coffee.’ On the way out he says, ‘We’ll be in touch.’
There’s a promise in those words. There’s a weight of
something
almost threatening in his voice. It’s like when you’re little and you know there’s something looking at you from the swamp of dark underneath the wardrobe. You can’t see it but you know it’s there. You can’t see it but it can see you.
My Da must hear the back door closing because five seconds after the guard leaves he’s back in the kitchen. One side of his hair is messed and one side of his face is rubbed red. I just know that if you get close enough to him you’d see the little dimples made by the woodchip where he’s had his ear pressed to the wall. He is a frenzy of every emotion and he’s going, ‘What was that about? Are you in trouble? Thank God he’s gone. Your Ma would be spinning in her grave if she thought you were in trouble. I hope nobody saw him come in.’
I’m not listening to him and I’m not answering him. All I know is that we, that me and Seán, that my life, is all changed. Something’s going to have to be done about Seán before he drags
us both into the shit. And ignoring my Da, I’m standing up and ignoring him I’m going upstairs and ignoring him I’m sitting on my bed watching the stars get brighter and brighter and I’m
listening
to Seán’s number ring and ring and ring out. Over and over I listen to this pre-programmed voice telling me that I have reached the message minder of 087 blah blah blah. The next time Seán looks at his phone he will have twenty-three missed calls.
This same guard is watching
me and Seán and my Da come to a stop in front of Dr Thorpe’s porch. In spite of the soft mat of lard that covers his skull, his face looks like it’s been quarried out of something like flint and he’s not smiling. He’s not smiling but there’s this glimmer in his eyes like he’s giggling away to himself on the inside. I’m looking at him and I bet that inside his skull there’s nothing but a gale of laughter.
He goes, ‘The gruesome twosome.’
And then he turns and then he and Dr Thorpe are chuckling together like they’re old college buddies or something. The only things missing are the cigars and brandy.
And just like that I know no one’s going to believe us.
Dr Thorpe is standing there dressed in this red dressing gown. His hair’s still as pristine as ever but he’s obviously just had a shower or hosed himself down or something because his skin is still wet and it’s soaking through the material of the gown. The
material is probably supposed to be an arterial scarlet sort of colour but now it’s drenched into a matt, scabrous madder.
Da pushes between the guard and Dr Thorpe and he shakes hands with the two of them. He’s gurning like he’s been
lobotomised
and the only thing he isn’t doing is tugging his forelock or fucking genuflecting.
He’s going, ‘Jaysus, I’m sorry, Guard. I’m sorry Doctor.’
He knifes a look over his shoulder at me and Seán. We’re standing there like shop mannequins with our skin cold and slick as plastic. I can hear the drone of Seán’s moaning. The faraway beehive sound of his unease. Right now, right at this minute, I hate my Da.
He’s going, ‘Young fellahs. Always messing. Sure, we may lock them up or something, hagh.’
He grins first at the guard then at Dr Thorpe and then back at the guard again.
They both smile back at him but their smiles have a different quality to the one that’s creasing my Da’s face. I’ve seen those smiles before when a child does something stupid or awkward, their motor skills only developed enough to drop things or smear themselves with jam. Their parents look down and they smile. It’s all so cute. This is what Dr Thorpe and the guard look like. Like parents indulging a squaling child.
I’ve had enough of this and I go, ‘Guard, I was the one who rang the barracks. I believe I’ve witnessed a murder.’
The three adults, the doctor, the guard and my Da, all three, exchange this half-amused, half-exasperated look. Dr Thorpe
makes this disgusting little sound that’s halfway between a snort and a laugh and looking at him I can see his fist come cracking down over his right shoulder like the fall of a sledge.
The guard turns to me and Seán and he goes, ‘That’s quite a claim to be making. Who witnessed this “murder” exactly?’
Before I can say anything Dr Thorpe goes, ‘Can we have this conversation inside the house, please, Ted? It’s bad enough
having
your car parked in my drive without words like that being bandied about the place.’
The guard grins at me and Seán without any kind of humour. Great White Sharks are way heavier than you think and when you see them on wildlife programmes you can see how massive their heads are. They’ve got these big, fat, wide heads, all muscle and snaggle-teeth. The guard’s grinning head reminds me of this.
He looks at my Da and goes, ‘I have no objection to that. Do you?’
Da’s shaking his head and he’s saying, ‘God, no. Work away.’
Seán’s groaning goes up a notch and he starts spilling words from his worm-red lips. He’s saying, ‘I don’t want to. I don’t want to.’
Over and over again he says this until the guard goes, ‘We could get your Da down here too, Seán? Would you like that? Do you think he’d be happy?’
Seán’s voice stops working like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. His lips wriggle for a second and then they press together and go pale. He shakes his head, once, deliberately.
Dr Thorpe steps aside and all the light and all the heat of his big house comes pouring down the throat of his hallway and empties out into dank of the night. Me and Seán go in past him with our heads bowed. Like slaves bent under iron chains,
beaten
and spiritless, the two of us step into the hall. We, me and Seán, are careful not to touch Dr Thorpe as we go by him. You can smell the scent of freshly-scrubbed skin coming off him, that and the permanent chemical reek of hairspray.
He smiles down at us and he says, ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
Behind us the guard comes in and then my Da comes in and then Dr Thorpe is shutting the front door.
Dr Thorpe’s hallway extends off in front of us and everything is all mellow wood and beeswax and cream paint. Everything is from page fourteen of the Dulux colour scheme brochure. Everything is
Barley Mist
and
Summer Oat
and
Buttermilk Sheen
. Everything is off-white. It is the colour of baby vomit.
My Da is looking around and he’s going, ‘Very nice, Doctor. Very tasteful.’
Down the hall, where it opens up into the kitchen I can see the spot where I saw Dr Thorpe and that woman. Him lying on top of her. Her face bleeding. It all comes back and it’s like I’m going to throw up.
The dead meat smack of it.
Now there’s no sign of what happened. No blood. No sweat streaks on the floorboards. Nothing to suggest anything
happened
. It’s as though I imagined the whole thing.
Seán’s looking at me and his face is pale and lax.
Dr Thorpe shows us all into a side room. The room is a kind of study with shelves all around the walls and a desk and six or seven chairs set about the place. The shelves are crammed with books and on the desk there’s one of those brass lamps with the green glass hoods. The lamp is on and the glass glows the colour of cat eyes. There are golf trophies on nearly every flat surface and there’s a special plaque sitting on the desk next to the lamp. In the light the engraved lettering is all swilled with sepia. It reads
Strawberry Fair Golf Classic Winner 2009 2010 2011
. In the middle of the floor sits my gear bag, covered in dried muck and grass stains with my name inked in black on the red panelling.
I’m looking at the bag and then Dr Thorpe goes, ‘Gentlemen, if you could all take a seat we can clear this matter right up.’
Seán looks at me and I go, ‘I’d prefer to stand.’
Seán’s nodding and he folds his arms the way mine are folded.
Da sighs then and he says, ‘Don’t be stupid. Would you sit down for fuck’s sake.’
Then he seems to remember where he is and he goes, ‘Pardon my French.’
The guard slaps him on the shoulder like they’re suddenly best friends and he goes, ‘Don’t worry about it. This is very
stressful
for everyone.’
Then everyone else, except me and Seán, sits down.
Still standing, I go, ‘Should we not be doing this down at the barracks or something?’
Then everyone else, except me and Seán, shake their heads like I’ve started speaking in tongues.
The guard, with a sort of mockery gusting through his voice, goes, ‘Who exactly saw what here, lads?’
Seán’s not stupid and he knows we’re getting the piss taken out of us and I can feel him tensing up. He’s afraid and he’s angry and I can feel the potential in him.
Before Seán can say, or worse, do, anything, I’m saying, ‘I saw it. I saw him over there hitting and choking a girl.’
The doctor looks uncomfortable at this and under his breath I hear the word
preposterous
slink out from between his lips. He reaches up and adjusts the fall of his bathrobe and he crosses his bare, white ankles. He is wearing slippers. In his chair with his wet red robe he looks like a massive haematoma or a huge tick, swollen and bloated with blood.
The guard is rubbing his forehead and he’s going, ‘How did you manage to see this alleged incident?’
Talking quickly now, I’m going, ‘We came up along the
driveway
and we heard a noise. I looked in the letterbox—’
My Da explodes at this and his face is all wrinkled and red like a fresh scar. He says, ‘You did what? You were spying through a letterbox like some sort of pervert? Wait till I get you home.’
I’m shocked and I’m blinking at my Da and Seán brings his hands up to his face. I can’t believe my Da. I can’t believe he’s
leaving
me twisting in the wind like this.
Before I can say anything, before I can defend myself, Dr Thorpe goes, ‘Ted, I’m going to say this right now that I’m not
going to press charges against these lads. I don’t think they meant any harm. I just want to know what they were doing on my doorstep.’
I’m looking from my Da to Dr Thorpe to the guard and then back. First one, then the other, then the other. It’s like my muscles are on a loop. I’m like some broken android, almost human but not quite.
I’m wondering, how the hell did this happen? How did it end up that me and Seán are the bad guys?
He’s
not going to press charges against
us
?
The guard is looking at me and Seán now and he goes, ‘Why were you here, lads? The doctor says his gates were locked. What would make you climb over the wall? That’s trespass. You do realise that?’
He looks at Seán, Seán with his face buried in the crooked
fingers
of both hands, and his eyes narrow and he goes, ‘What have you been up to Mr Galvin?’
Seán begins to groan and the whole room, padded and walled with books and arch intellectualism, now makes echo to his
inarticulate
pain.
The guard is grinning again and his lips are hooked at the
corners
like a pike’s and he goes, ‘Are you going to tell me, Seán? If you tell me maybe we can help you.’
And Seán’s voice, all sticky and soft like marl, Seán’s voice comes between his fingers and he goes, ‘I did a bad thing. A
really
really bad thing.’
And just like that Dr Thorpe sits back in his chair and the
guard smiles across at him. My Da is looking in disgust at Seán and in his head I know every atom of dislike he has towards him is bouncing off every other atom and making a supernova of bad feeling.
All of a sudden it’s like Dr Thorpe has won and we, me and Seán, have lost.
I’m really pissed off now and I snap at Dr Thorpe, ‘I know what I saw.’
And like someone out of
Scooby Doo
, I go, ‘You won’t get away with this.’
My Da is sitting forward in his chair and I can see he’s pissed off too but it’s the guard who says something. He says, ‘Let’s all calm down now for a minute. It’s obvious the boys are upset about whatever Seán here’s gotten up to.’
I’m turning from person to person and Seán’s no help buried behind the ramparts of his hands and I’m going, ‘You don’t understand. What I saw has nothing to do with Seán. I’m not making this up. I wouldn’t do that.’
Da goes, ‘Don’t, son.’
He says this at the exact same time as the guard goes, ‘Really? Mr Trustworthy all of a sudden, yeah?’
He leans forward in his chair and I can see Dr Thorpe start to smile as the guard goes, ‘Tell us what happened last summer.’
Remember when I said that I was grand and that Seán’s internal wiring was badly fused? Well that’s still true, definitely true, but I
did get in a bit of trouble last summer. Not out of badness or
anything
. It was more a practical joke that got out of hand.
I worked in an office for the summer. An insurance place right on the Market Square. My Da knows the broker. Two other lads worked there. Both were doing honours degrees in business and something money spinning. They photocopied. They made coffee. They were patronised. They could run the place. They didn’t.
I do pretty well in Business in school. I hate doing hard sums but marketing and stuff like that I’m really good at. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I leave school. Probably something Englishy. After that I can take my degree and go to a bank for a job. With my English degree I can stand at a photocopier while the green lightsabre blade traverses beneath its glass and produces ever more faded copies of the original. Everything in an office is a copy of a copy of a copy. Nothing is ever original. If you’re really lucky you can fiddle with the finishing buttons on the photocopier until you figure out how to actually staple the copies as they’re vomiting out. This is a big deal. It can save you hours of pointless stapling and leave you free to produce ever more copies of Declaration A.
See also Declaration B.
See also Direct Debit Mandates.
I am a tongueless bell.
I am a waste of potential.
I have a certain smug satisfaction in knowing that I found the photocopier’s stapler before the Commerce students did. I am
one rung higher up the corporate ladder than they are. One rung higher up and I’m still drowning in shit.
This happy little vista does naught for the nascent
professionalism
which a young buck like myself should nurture. Shortly before the end of the summer I’m let go. Nothing is said to Da except the work was drying up. Nothing was said but I’m pretty sure he knows.
The insurance place that I was let go from has a big plate glass window that looks out onto the Market Square. During the
summer
people move in a flux past it without ever looking in. An insurance place does not tend to attract window shoppers. I stand at the back of the office and I look out over the heads of six people sitting in cubicles and I watch other people walk in
sunshine
, oblivious to anyone in here. Outside the office, the people’s faces are angry, worried, smiling, blank. Human. Each couple that passes is a soap opera. Each individual a soliloquy.
There’s the young couple barely in their thirties. He’s carrying the shopping that has obviously been shopped for by her. His
sky-blue
T-shirt has darkened in a cobalt fan under the arms and he’s standing behind her as she stops to take something out of her purse. She can’t seem to stop talking and the look of hatred on his face is scary. Then she’s turning and then she’s kissing him on the cheek. His face is now a mask of bovine contentedness. But I remember the way he looked when her back was turned. He is an animal in a cage.