It was coming.
—And correct me if I’m wrong, Victor, said Myles.—But I remember thinking that school might not have been a good time for you. Am I right?
—It wasn’t too bad, I told him.
—Is that right?
—Except —
—Yes?
—I went to a Christian Brothers school, I said.
A hand put a plastic cup of water in front of me. I held the cup – I didn’t drink the water. But holding it seemed to be enough. The water was cold.
—Like so many of us, said Myles.
He shook his head, once, and mouthed two words: Don’t name.
—It was okay, I said.—But.
I didn’t say goodbye or thanks when I was finished. I had to get out. I had to vomit and shit. I was still in the building – under the building – an hour after I’d stopped talking. In the toilet under the stairs. I don’t know how many times I washed my hands and face. The corridor was empty when I came out.
I was walking along Morehampton Road, back into town, when I realised I didn’t live in town. I remember smiling. I remember feeling good. And hungry now – starving. And I was terrified. He’d have heard it. The Head Brother would have heard it, or been told about it. All of this happened more than a quarter of a century ago but when it happened – when I spoke – I’d been out of school only twelve years or so. He was still out there, still teaching. And I was frightening him – and all of them. I stopped at a payphone but it was broken. The house was empty when I got home. Rachel was at work. Our son was at the crèche.
I stood at the fridge and ate everything in it that didn’t need cooking, including three little pots of raspberry yoghurt and a bag of carrot sticks. I shut the fridge door. I stood in the kitchen. I was exhausted and restless – panicking. I stood at the stairs. I didn’t go up. I thought I’d fall if I did. I’d smash my head on the corner of the dark-wood table I was standing beside now. I knew I’d fall. I felt elated too. Or, I wanted to feel elated. Then I thought of my mother. At home, listening to me on the radio.
The phone rang right beside me. I remember holding it – it was white and strangely warm. I mustn’t have recited the number and said hello. I usually did that.
—Victor?
It was Rachel.
—Hi.
—You’re home.
—Yeah.
—Why didn’t you tell me? she said.
—What?
—I’d have stayed home, she said.—I’d have gone with you. Will I come home?
—Yes, I said.
—Will I?
—Yes.
I heard her talking to someone as she replaced the phone. I was sitting in the kitchen reading the paper when she came in. I heard the car, I heard the key in the door, heard her shoes on the cedarwood in the hall, onto the rug, back onto the wood. I looked up when I knew she was in the kitchen. She had bags in each hand. She was smiling. She was worried. And angry.
—Did you hear it? I asked.
—Most of it, she said.—I turned it on when I remembered you were on.
—They all heard?
I meant the women who worked with Rachel. She was still based in Temple Bar, although she’d been touring the industrial estates, looking for somewhere bigger.
—Yes, she said.
—And?
She came towards me and put the bags down. I saw vegetables, apples, a bag of basmati rice.
—They – , she said.—They were fine. I don’t know – sympathetic? Moved. Why didn’t you tell me?
—I didn’t know.
—What?
—I didn’t know I’d bring it up, I said.—This morning – when I left. I didn’t know. I just decided.
—Victor.
—What?
—I’m proud of you.
I was sitting on one of the stools at the counter. She stood behind me and put her hands on my chest and stomach. She leaned against me.
—It won’t be good for business, I suppose.
—Stop being stupid, she said.
I hoped she wouldn’t notice my erection. And I hoped she would. I hoped she’d look for it.
—But why did you mention the other stuff? she asked.
—What do you mean?
She was still holding me, caressing me.
—The things you always do, she said.—The choir and the priest listening to his funeral.
—The Brother.
—The fucking Brother then. Listening to his own funeral music. Why did you?
—Why did I what?
—Well. Mention it. After –
—I wanted to be fair, I told her.
My account of the Brother molesting me had taken only three minutes. Some other presenter might have kept me on a straight line, but this was shocking stuff and Myles Bradley had had enough. And then, so had I. And I listened to myself, making small of it. Myles even had his own story to add: the day he mitched and went into a shop to buy sweets, only to discover his mother behind the counter; he’d forgotten she’d started work in the shop that morning. Eight minutes after I’d told Myles and the rest of Ireland that a Christian Brother had placed his hand on my penis, I was laughing.
But I’d told him, and I’d told them.
—Just to be clear, said Myles towards the end; I watched him looking through the studio glass.—This was just one Christian Brother we’ve been talking about.
—Yes.
—And it happened – ?
—Once.
—Dreadful – but thank you. As ever, Victor, it’s been a pleasure. We’ll be right back.
Friends called – Rachel’s friends called. I listened to her.
—He’s fine.
Her sisters rang.
—Yes. No – I’m proud of him.
I took the phone from her each time.
—I’m fine. It’s no big deal.
My mother rang.
—Why didn’t you tell me?
—I should’ve – I’m sorry. And this morning – I should have warned you. But I – it wasn’t planned. And it was no big deal, Mam. Honestly.
—Why didn’t you tell me then? Victor, love. Then. Why didn’t you?
—It happened to all of us, Mam.
—Rita Kelly told me it never happened to any of her lads. In the post office.
—It did, Mam. Believe me. But – look – don’t be upset. It happened to everyone. Like an initiation. I forgot all about it until this morning. I’ll be out to see you – yes – on Sunday.
All day, all night, I pushed myself back from what I’d said that morning. I heard it and tried to stop myself but it was too late.
There was uproar too. There was always uproar. I was undermining the Church and the education system; I was assaulting the country itself. I was a blackguard and a self-serving fuckin’ little queer. Then, as it all calmed down, as I began to sleep again and venture from the house, there were those who nodded at me, one or two who shook my hand. Then I seemed to become the man who needed to hear the mitching stories and the Brothers were mad bastards stories. I have one for you. Listen to this, you’ll laugh. I told Myles Bradley quite clearly that I’d been molested. But I’d kept talking. I should have stopped after I’d told him about the man’s weight holding me down. I didn’t exactly bury the story – my story – but I made it, somehow, an expected part of every Irishman’s education. A bit of gas. Not so bad. Part of what we are.
I waited for a writ from the Brothers and I wondered why there hadn’t been one. Then I got a call from a publisher. He was thinking of putting together a collection of people’s memories of the Gaeltacht, for the Christmas market; would I be up to editing it? And I knew I’d lost something, again. A chance, my integrity – I don’t know. Rachel was delighted when I told her a
bout the job. I can remember her face. I hadn’t seen that expression in a long time, and I only understood that now – now as I was looking at her. She agreed to give me a story of her own time in the Gaeltacht.
—What about you? she asked.
—What?
—Will you write something too?
—I never went to the Gaeltacht, I told her.
—Did you not?
—No.
—How come?
I shrugged.
—Just didn’t, I told her.—Anyway, the editor should never include anything he’s written himself. It’s not the thing.
I didn’t tell her that the boys in my school always went to the Brothers’ own college in Spiddal, and that the Head Brother would have been on the bus west with them. I could have written about the boy I’d been then. Why I Didn’t Go to the Gaeltacht.
13
—You woke me.
—Did I? How?
—Victor.
—What?
—You texted me. Last night.
—Did I?
—Yes.
—But what –
—Don’t ask me what you bloody said, Victor. Look it up, yourself.
I was worried now. Had I flung a bunch of texts at her? I couldn’t check them while I was still talking to her.
—Sorry, I said.—I had a few last night.
—That’s not like you, she said.
There was no edge to the words, no concern. She could have been reading them out.
—I was with some friends, I told her.—We made a night of it.
—Sounds good, she said.
—What did I say?
—I’m writing, exclamation marks – two of them. And two ‘x’s. To be exact.
—Well, it’s true, I said.—I am writing.
I tasted the words in my mouth.
—Should I be worried? she asked.
—Very.
I was flirting, or trying to – and trying not to.
—How are you? she asked.
—Fine – yeah. You?
—Okay, she said.—The usual.
Tell me about the usual. I’ll listen this time.
—So, she said.—I’m glad you’re writing, Victor. But there’s no need to text me every time you pick up a pen or whatever.
—I was just – sorry. Excited, I suppose.
—And drunk.
—Yeah. But I was using that notebook you gave me.
—What notebook?
—You gave me a notebook.
—I gave you dozens of them, Victor.
—Well, I can only use one at a time. In fairness.
She was smiling – I knew. It was one of our phrases. ‘In fairness’. A ‘do’. We’d collected them, together. I could have added another – ‘by the way’. I love you, by the way.
I could see her as she said goodbye. Nothing stopped when Rachel was on the phone. Before mobiles, I’d seen her standing beside a desk, using her free hand and her eyes, an orchestra conductor; her people flowed around her. The thing – the performance – was flawless, graceful, always clear. And gorgeous. I could see her now, although I hadn’t a clue where she was when we were talking. I’d asked her, but she hadn’t told me. But I could see her, giving me her attention, and sending an assistant out of the room, inviting a scriptwriter in, demanding that flowers be moved to a place beside an open window, drawing circles around ingredients and sending the list on its way, nodding and shaking her head as her tall minions passed her – always the smile, the slightly lopsided smile, the proof that she was and she wasn’t perfect; always the sense that this was a dance, a well-rehearsed performance, that she’d anticipated the spilt coffee – Rachel drank black coffee, and she called it ‘black coffee’ – and the late arrival of the cameraman and the fainting intern; nothing was unexpected, nothing was truly unwelcome. She was checking on me, making sure I was alright, going through the duties of an ex-wife with an unhinged, disappointing ex-husband, letting me know that I was loved, that I was needed, while she approved the studio make-up that had been applied while she spoke, or made sure her studio chair was at exactly the right angle, or a designer held a tablet in front of her and flicked through logo options, or she lay back on the bed in what had been our bedroom and smiled up at her lover as she told me she was glad I was writing, or. Or. Or. Or.
14
Fitzpatrick was standing beside the cigarette machine – the bulk of him, the shorts, the pink shirt. He looked different, a bit lost, none of the flat-faced boom he’d pushed at me before. I was still at the door. He hadn’t seen me. The cigarette machine was off in a corner. His pint of Heineken was on top of it.
I made my move. The men were near a window, at one of the high tables. Harry wasn’t there but there was another man I’d seen with them before. I headed to the bar, and One Direction standing behind the taps. I looked around, and Pat was looking at me.
—Ready for another? I asked.
He looked into his pint, then looked back at me and nodded. I showed One Direction four fingers. He nodded and got busy.
—Is Harry here? I called across, in case I needed to order another pint.
Pat shook his head. Fitzpatrick had probably seen me by now. I didn’t look his way. I took out my phone and stared at it. I looked at the progress of the pints. There were two settling, two being poured. I took out my twenty euro and left it on the bar, and went across to the window. I nodded at the new guy.
—How’s it going?
—Not too bad.
—Did you get caught in the fuckin’ rain earlier? Pat asked.
He was up on a stool, back to the window. He always seemed to get the stool.
—No, I said.—I was working.
It was true – it felt true. I’d done a bit before I’d come out. A page a pint, I’d decided.
—The young lad is waving at you, said Liam.
I turned, and the kid was standing behind a line of four pints. I took two of them and the change.
—Good man; thanks very much.
I carried the pints across to the window. How’s it going? Good man; thanks very much. The words felt great and a bit forbidden. I hadn’t earned the right to slip into the rhythm of the middle-aged Dub. My father had liked a pint, my mother told me. He’d liked the company of other men. Maybe that was me. A late arrival.
—Here we go.
—Good man.
I went back up for the other two pints. I glanced across; Fitzpatrick wasn’t at the cigarettes. He might have gone roaming. I suspected now that he had three or four locals; small doses of himself in each. I thanked the kid again and went back to the table. The woman, Brenda, was there. I had to lean across slightly to get a pint to Pat. I brushed against her. She was wearing something that looked like a polo-neck scarf; I felt it on the inside of my arm.
—Sorry.
She turned and saw me, and smiled.
—Ah, hiya.
—Hi.
—I was just telling the lads, she said.—I got drenched earlier.
—That must have been dramatic, I said.
I felt a bit brave, and stupid.
She examined me – she examined the words before she smiled.
—Go ’way, you messer, she said.
I took a step away from her and stood beside the new guy – the new guy who’d been coming here for decades before I’d walked in.
—No Harry tonight, I said.
—The wife’s birthday.
—Ah.
—Poor fucker, he said.—Nice meal, good bottle of wine, a good ride from one of the better-looking women in the locality. And he could be here with us.
—My heart goes out to him, I said.
—He’s in my fuckin’ prayers. I’m Martin, by the way.
; —Victor.
—Yeah.
We watched Brenda depart.
—D’you remember her when she was in school? said Liam.
—I fuckin’ do, said Pat.
I looked at Martin and he half looked back at me.
—I still would, said Pat.
—We all would, said Martin.
They’d been saying the same thing for years. I was in there too now. I’d never been happier. That isn’t true. But it felt true. I could see the building site across the road, over the pebbled lower pane of the window.
—A bit strange, I said.—Isn’t it? A building site. After all these years.
—It is, Liam agreed.—I’d forgotten things got built.
Pat nodded at Martin.
—His game.
—You’re a builder? I asked.
Martin nodded.
—Is that one of yours?
I meant the site across the way.
—No, he said.—Fuck, no. Unfortunately.
—Are things really picking up? I asked.
I wondered – for a second – if there was an article there, an interview with a small-time builder. How he’d managed for the last seven years. It crossed my mind, and left.
—Definitely, he said.
—What are they building over there?
—Apartments.
I’d look at them, I decided. I wouldn’t be able to afford one, but I’d look. I’d figure out how much I’d have to earn, what I’d have to do. Could a man of my age even get a mortgage? I’d find out. Football, Game of Thrones, holiday plans, retirement plans, Robin Wright, craft beer, college fees, Nick Cave. It could have been any of the nights I had ahead of me. I felt it again: I’d never been happier. Four pints – click – we stood up to go home.
It wasn’t that night, it was another night, the next night, when I knew there was someone behind me. There’d been four of the men, the full contingent, so I’d had five pints. I could feel the weight of the extra pint and all the pints. I was drunk. I think I was counting the steps from gate to gate, enjoying the rhythm and the slap of my feet. The trees had taken over the street – they seemed to do this at night-time. I had to duck to avoid some of the branches. I was nearly there. Five pints, five pints, five pints, five pints. It would have been new for the men too – that occurred to me. I was the extra pint, not Harry or Martin. I wondered if they were talking about that. If they were cursing the fact that they’d let me in.