—But really.
—Yes!
She sat up. She turned to me. She tucked her legs in under herself, grabbed a foot and pulled it into place. Her eyes were lit – young, sober, full of a kid’s fun.
—I would love to send the food back in a restaurant and not feel like a tit. Did Rachel do that?
—Once.
—Only once?
—That I saw.
—Or I’d love to be able to say, Do you know who I am? I would so love that. That bitch in the chemist’s. When she asks me if the Nurofen is for myself. I’d look her up and down and – Do you know who I am? And she wouldn’t dare say No. I’d shove the sugar barleys and the Fisherman’s Friends off the counter.
—Off you go.
—I’ve thought about this, she said.—I have; it’s mad. And I know. I wouldn’t let myself enjoy it. I’d apologise and help her pick the stuff up off the floor. And tell her her blouse is lovely. Was Rachel not a bitch even sometimes?
—No.
—Really?
—Not that I can remember.
—You’re just being loyal.
—No.
—You still love her, don’t you?
I wasn’t walking along any kind of a precipice.
—Yeah, I told her.—I do.
She put her hand on my leg. She took it away and patted my cheek.
—What’s your husband like? I asked.
—Why do you want to know?
—I don’t know, I said.—Balance. You ask about my wife.
—Yeah, but I actually do want to know about Rachel. You couldn’t give a toss about Dave.
—Go on, I said.—He’s called Dave.
—Yeah, and he’s grand, she said.—A bit of a prick, but grand.
—He’s never in the pub, is he?
—Weekends, just. Sometimes. He works in England, did I never tell you?
—I think – maybe. Yeah, I think you did.
—Yeah, she said.—Six years now. He could move back. There’s work again now. If he really wanted to. But – Next year. Next year. Next year. The prick.
—Sorry.
—That’s why I don’t feel too bad about this.
—Revenge.
—I wish.
She fought her unhappiness. She sometimes won, and it was lovely to watch. She leaned in and kissed me. She kept her mouth closed. She put a hand on each of my thighs. We were fully dressed. She was looking straight at me. The lights were off, just the candle I’d lit on the table behind us. She’d brought the candle the last time she’d come up to the flat. I could see her clearly. Her eyes were brown. I’d remember that. It seemed important. It seemed good.
—What did she see in you? she asked.
She wasn’t slagging me or being sardonic, or working herself up to escape. She was asking herself a question.
—I think I know, she said.—You’re nice.
I didn’t expect it. I didn’t believe it. But I liked hearing it and I didn’t deny it.
—Thanks, I said.
—Am I? she said.— Nice as well.
—Yes, I said.—You are.
I went back out with her ten minutes later, when she was going home. I hadn’t done that before. I’d sometimes wondered how she felt going down the stairs, across the car park, up the street – past windows, taxis, tired men putting out the wheelies. I’d watched her from my window; I’d pushed back the curtain to see her. She didn’t rush, she didn’t hesitate before she stepped from the car park onto the street. But a woman alone, a middle-aged woman walking alone at half one in the morning – it looked interesting, strange, a story. Maybe she wanted that. Maybe she liked the story. Maybe she just wanted me to put my hands on her three times a week, she wanted me to laugh at her jokes, to laugh at mine. To feel a man her age getting hard when she held him. Maybe she just wanted to know what Rachel was like. Or to sit close to the man who’d once sat close to Rachel.
She went down the stairs slightly sideways, and slowly. She got to the ground floor and stopped.
—Why are you following me?
It wasn’t really a question. She enjoyed the whispering.
—Just seeing you to the door, I said.
—Suddenly you’re a gentleman.
—Something like that.
I got to the front door before her and pulled it open, tried not to let it screech, and failed.
—Drop of oil needed there, she said.
—There’s something wrong with the frame, I said.
She went out. I followed, caught up with her.
—Not all the way home, please, she said.
—No.
—Don’t get weird on me.
—To the path, just.
—Okay.
She grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and let go. We stopped at the gate. She lifted herself the bit she needed to and kissed me, pushed me back and nearly tripped. We held one another to steady ourselves, and laughed lightly.
—See you when I see you, she said.
I watched her go, one tree, two trees, then turned back in. The cats were watching.
—Fuck off, I whispered.—Go on.
I took the steps up two at a time. Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because it captured something in me that night. I’d left the door on the snib. I was in and taking my trousers off before I sensed – I knew – there was someone in the room.
—The trousers come off after the bird leaves. Doesn’t make fuckin’ sense.
He was behind the curtain. That was what I thought at first. I’d left the light off but the candle was still burning. I couldn’t see him. I hadn’t seen him. I’d imagined it. But there’d been too many words. I’d heard them and now I saw him. He was right in front of me and his fist – a fist, a huge fist – went straight into me, into my face. It didn’t stop, it went right in, impaled me to the air.
I wasn’t there any more, I wasn’t there.
I was sitting – I’d fallen back. I was trying to push myself over the back of the couch. To get away, to wake up. I tasted blood. Fitzpatrick was standing over me and he’d never looked bigger.
—Right, he said.
Just that.
—Right.
I could see him breathing, filling the room.
—Right.
His breath was mine. I could feel the breath being pulled from me. Through the blood. With the blood. He was taking in my breath, pulling it into himself. He creaked. He moved. He moved away from over me. He moved back. The back of his leg shoved the coffee table aside. Brenda’s mug fell over. Brenda, Brenda. This was about Brenda. But he wasn’t Dave, the husband. He was Fitzpatrick. In the shorts and pink shirt, and my hoodie. He was sitting on the coffee table and he was staring at me.
—You think I’m a joke, don’t you?
I understood nothing. I was afraid to touch my face. I was afraid to breathe too deep, afraid of the damage that would announce itself – loose teeth, exposed nerves, broken nose. I sipped air. He was staring at me. I don’t know how long it stayed that way. I didn’t move. He didn’t move. My teeth were okay. I thought I could speak. I thought I’d done well; I hadn’t rushed into words. I’d accepted what was here. Fitzpatrick. In my flat. He’d attacked me. He was sitting on the coffee table, in front of me. He had me trapped. I thought I knew why.
—We didn’t do anything, I said.
He shifted slightly, creaked again.
—I beg your pardon?
—We didn’t do —
—Who’s we?
—Brenda.
—Brenda?
There was a deep, terrible second. I thought he was growing in front of me. His feet, his knees, were moving closer. His knees were like plates, fists.
—What didn’t you do? he said.
Th
ere’d be no good answer, no escape. He was going to come at me again.
—Go on, he said.—Tell us.
—Nothing.
—Nothing? he said.—That’s about right.
He stayed still, there. He literally didn’t move.
—You didn’t ride her.
—No.
—Sorry? Say again.
—No.
—No. You didn’t.
—It was just —
—What?
—Friendship.
—Friendship? he said.—Fuckin’ friendship?
I expected him to laugh or to snort. But he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. I wondered again if it was happening. If he was really in front of me. If I was on the couch. Too frightened to move, to take back my room. Too deeply asleep to push him away.
—Okay, he said.—Here’s how it is. I was riding her, myself. Sorry – I’m being disrespectful. Brenda and myself were in a relationship and then you came along.
Now it made sense and now I could get angry. I didn’t mind being beaten; I had it coming. But I’d hit back. I’d hurt him.
—Nothing too formal, he said.—A bit like yourselves. Except a bit more than – for fuck sake now, Victor – friendship. But anyway, that’s why I’m here. To beat the living fuck out of you. Because you stole my bird off me.
He still didn’t move.
—My fat bird, he said.—My MILF. With a fanny as wide as O’Connell Street. The widest street in Europe, by the way.
He sounded like he was reading the words in bad light, alone. There was no energy in them.
—No, he said.—Sorry, Victor.
He creaked.
—It’s not as easy as that, he said.—I wish it was. Believe me.
—I don’t have any money, I said.
—Ah Jesus, Victor. Just fuckin’ stop.
—Why are you here?
—Guess.
—No.
—Go on – guess.
—Fuck off.
The idea of hitting him was ridiculous. I wanted him to charge at me.
—I am you.
I thought I’d heard the words. But I couldn’t grab them; there were other words I hadn’t heard.
—Was it school? I asked.
He didn’t move.
—Did I do anything to you?
I noticed it now. One of his legs was twitching. The noise followed, and I realised that it had been there for a while. A rasping sound – his shorts were rubbing against the edge of the coffee table. He was always restless. There was always something moving. A leg, a hand, his head. He was always looking around him, slapping himself, bouncing on his toes, rubbing a knee or his hands. This was definitely Fitzpatrick. He hadn’t answered my question.
—Was it school?
—Think, he said.
—I am.
—Think.
—About what?
—School.
—What about it?
He stood. He shook himself; that was what I seemed to be seeing. He sat again. The candle flickered. It was going to die. He was still again.
—What about school? I asked.
—Concentrate, he said.—Go on – fuckin’ concentrate.
—I’m trying.
I hated my voice.
—Well, you’re shite at it, he said.—Pure shite. I am you.
—What do you mean?
I was shaking now, like him. There was something – something else – creeping up on me. It wasn’t in the room. But it was there.
—School, Victor, he said.—Tell me one thing we did together in school.
—We weren’t really friends –
—More friends, he said.—What is it about you and friends, Victor? What is it you’re fuckin’ clinging to? Think now and tell me. One thing we did together, me and you.
I waited.
—Good man, he said.—You’re thinking.
I wasn’t. I already knew the answer.
—Nothing, I said.—We didn’t do anything.
—That’s right, he said.—We never sat beside each other, even.
—You weren’t in my school, I said.
—I was.
—You weren’t.
There wasn’t one memory, not a glimpse of him. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t with the lads, in among them or on the edge. He wasn’t in the classroom. He wasn’t laughing or crying, sitting at the back, standing at the front. He wasn’t in there. I’d never known him.
—What about telling the Head Brother to fuck off? I asked him.
—What about it?
—Was that you?
He shrugged. I saw his shoulders, two blunt mountains, move.
—Was it you? he said.
—No.
—You sure about that?
I leaned over the arm of the couch and vomited. The tea I’d drunk with Brenda, the pints, the lasagne, the lies, the gaps, the facts, the bits of my life fell out in a second.
I straightened up – I sat back up.
—What are you doing? I asked him.—What do you want?
—Come here, he said.
He was twitching again. The shake had passed up from his leg. He nodded across at the table and my laptop. Just as the candle went out.
—The stuff you’ve been writing in there, he said.—Fuckin’ hell.
—You read it?
—’Course I did. Calm down. It’s not bad either. But it’s all about sex, isn’t it? Mad stuff. Reminded me of when I was fifteen or something. When everything gave you the horn, d’you remember? ’Course you do. You’re the writer. The fuckin’ author.
His right leg was moving to the beat of the words. I could hear it and just about see it.
—Then Brenda, he said.
He’d thrown me. School, then back to half an hour ago. I had to think, to remember Brenda.
—There’s your chance, he said.—The leg-over. A real one now, fuck the laptop. But you don’t.
—No, I said.—It’s like I said.
—She’s not a bad-looking bird, he said.
—No, I agreed.
—In her own right, he said.—Can you not manage it?
It was a real question. He was curious.
—Can you wank? he asked.
—Yes.
—I can’t.
He was – he was devastated. He’d cut himself open in front of me. I couldn’t see him clearly but the hurt was in the words.
—Why not? I asked.
—Think.
—This isn’t fair, I said.
—Well, Victor, he said.—You got that one right. Well done, you. It’s not fair. It’s never been fair. Have you tried the Viagra?
—No.
—Okay, he said.—I often wondered.
—What?
—If it worked. Always, like. In all cases.
—School, I said.
—Good man, he said.—Back to the subject. You know what I like about you, Victor?
—What?
—You always know where you’re going – you seem to. You have that thing about you. I’ve seen you – you always look like you’re going somewhere, you know what you’re doing.
—I don’t –
—Not the point, Victor. You look like it. You have something to do – important. To you, like. I’m not slagging you or anything. I’m being serious. You have that purpose. That thing. Where did you get that?
—I don’t know.
—But you know what I mean?
—I think so.
—I never –
He sighed – contracted, grew again.
—I see people walking, he said.—Just during the day, like. I see them and they all seem to know where the
y’re going. And I always think they’re keeping the secret from me. Where they’re going – where they know they’re going. I’ve always felt that. Left out, I suppose. Excluded – that’s a big word these days, isn’t it, Victor? Excluded.
He stopped. He shifted slightly. I thought he was searching for something in a pocket.
—I was a happy enough kid, he said.—Remember?
—No.
—You do, he said.—But I always felt a bit left out – left behind. It was always hard work.
He clapped his hands. I jumped. I felt puke in my mouth again.
—But I was happy enough, he said.—Until that fuckin’ cunt got his hands on me.
I could see his eyes.
—Remember?
—Yes.
—Yes, he said.—You do.
—I have to – I need to go to the toilet.
—Shit where you’re sitting, he said.
—Please.
—No, he said.—You’re grand. Take a breath. You remember. You know what I’m talking about.
—The Head Brother.
—Yeah. You remember alright. You made your living remembering. You went on the radio and told the whole world about it.
—What?
—The Brother – the cunt. What he did to us.
—I didn’t know he did it to you.
—You did.
—I didn’t. I don’t even remember you.
—Do you want to be slapped again, do you?
He hit me before he’d finished, slapped me. He waited until he’d stopped panting, until I’d stopped panting, and he spoke again.
—I’m you, you fuckin’ eejit.
—What?
—I’m —
—No – what do you mean?
—Exactly what I said. Literally what I said. No escape, Victor. I am you.
—That doesn’t make sense.
—It does, you know. If you think about it.
His right leg was going again.
—But that’s the thing, he said.—You won’t fuckin’ think. I’m doing all the work.
I wanted to stand up. I’d get over to the door, turn on the light. See him disappear.
I couldn’t move.
—How, exactly – really – how can you say that? I asked.
—Say what?
—That you’re me, I said.—What do you even mean?
—Well, I’m not going to give you a fuckin’ list – a blow-by-blow account. You know, what was in the house, room by fuckin’ room. The corn on the third toe on Mam’s left foot. Dad’s job, the uncles, aunties, any of that shite. The special gravy on Sundays. The train set, with the station Dad made for me. I’ll skip all that.