—Who told you about the station – ?
—I’ll skip all that, he repeated.—Will I?
I nodded.
—Grand.
He stood.
—You went on the radio, he said.—When was that, Victor?
—Thirty years ago, I said.—More. Thirty-one, two – I don’t know.
—And you told the chap what the Head Brother did.
—I didn’t know, I said.—I thought I was the only one.
—You were.
—What?
—In that school. The only one. Before they moved him on to the next school.
—You said he did it to you too.
—Yeah. He did.
I remembered something else now.
—What about your sister? I said.
I was getting used to the darkness. I could make him out and he was the man I’d met that first time, earlier in the summer. The same clothes, the exact same clothes, and he moved now like that man too. He bent his knees and whacked his stomach.
—My sister, he said – he laughed; he growled.—For fuck sake. You remember my sister, do you?
—Yes.
—No, Victor, you don’t. There’s no sister. Sorry. But I knew you’d fall for it.
He bent down towards me. I could smell his breath. He was real. He stood up straight, away from me. I could have run, I could have dashed.
—I knew, he said.—I knew if I made up a girl with tits, you’d remember her and it would get me remembered as well. Because she was my sister. You remembered Eddie Fitzpatrick’s sister, so you had to remember Eddie. It’s so fuckin’ easy. I just hinted that she mightn’t have objected to having your hands on those tits once upon a time, and you remembered her. Cos you wanted to.
He clapped his hands again.
—Flattery, he said.—Never fails. You fuckin’ eejit.
—You don’t have a sister.
—I do, he said.—Just not the one you remember so fuckin’ fondly.
—But I do remember her.
—No, he said.—You don’t.
He was right.
—What about your name? I asked him.
—I’ll tell you, he said.—Listen and learn. Get a group of any men our age, together. Any group of lads. And ask them do they remember a chap called Eddie Fitzpatrick from school. Tell them – jog their memories – tell them he was a bit of a mad cunt. It’ll take some of them a few minutes but they’ll all remember him.
He laughed again.
—Especially if you tell them he had a good-looking sister with a great pair of knockers. What was her name?
—Who?
—My sister, he said.—The girl you remember. What name did I tell you? That time when I told you she’d love to hear from you. Do you remember?
—No.
—No.
—What was it?
—Haven’t a clue, Victor. I can’t remember either. But now that I think of it, it was you who came up with Eddie. For me, like. Do you not remember?
—No.
—Yeah, he said.—Fuckin’ gas. I told you to guess who I was and you said Edward. So, grand. I was going to call myself Lar, but –
He didn’t laugh this time. He went to sit again but changed his mind.
—What is your name then? I asked.
—Ah, for fuck sake, he said.—Come on – Jesus.
He didn’t sound angry now. He wasn’t going to hit me.
—Where were we? he said.—You went on the radio.
—Okay.
—And do you remember what you said?
—I’d been sexually assaulted.
—Molested.
—Is that what I said?
—Yes, he said.—You said you’d been molested.
—Okay.
—Once.
—Yes.
—Just once.
—Yeah, I said.—That’s right.
—Grand, he said.—Why?
—Why what?
—Why did you lie?
—I didn’t lie.
—Stop being fuckin’ thick, Victor.
He sat on the table again, right in front of me.
—He put his hand on your penis, he said.—That was how you described what happened.
—Yes.
—He was teaching you how to – No. He claimed he was teaching you how to wrestle, so you could defend yourself. He got you down on the floor. He pinned you down. Yeah?
—Yes.
—And he groped you. Did he?
—Yes.
—Once.
—Yes, I said.
—It wasn’t once.
—It was.
—No.
—Why are you doing this?
—I have to, he said.—I don’t have a choice. You often think about what your life would’ve been like if it had been a bit different. I’m right, amn’t I? A dose of the oul’ what-ifs. I’m right, Victor, yeah?
—Yes – I suppose so.
—What if you hadn’t gone to college. What if you hadn’t done the record reviews. What if you hadn’t met Rachel. What if I’d written that book. What if I’d stayed closer to home. What if I hadn’t turned my back on everyone who’d ever mattered to me.
He sat up. Creaked.
—You’ve spent years wondering what the alternative Victor would have been like. Especially recently. Haven’t you?
He leaned forward and patted my left knee.
—Haven’t you?
I nodded.
—Hello, he said.
He’d left his hand on the knee.
—You’re looking at him.
He sat up again.
—I am you, Victor. I told you. I’m what you became. It wasn’t once.
—What?
—The Head Brother. We’ll give the cunt his name. Brother McIntyre. Brother McIntyre didn’t grope you once. You. Me. Will I say ‘us’? Would that make more sense?
—Hang on, I said.
I wasn’t sure if he heard me; I wasn’t sure if I’d spoken.
—You’re saying he groped you too?
—I’m getting a bit sick of this, Victor.
He straightened up again.
—I’ll say it once more. Only the once, now. I am you. And another thing now that I think of it. You are me.
He laughed.
—You poor fucker.
—I don’t understand.
—Don’t blame you, man. I am what you became. I’m all your regret.
—I still don’t understand.
—No.
He creaked again.
—He didn’t molest you – me. Us. Once. He didn’t stop there. Once. Twice. It was seventeen times. He raped us, Victor.
—No, he didn’t.
—He did. And you know it. He raped you. He got your trousers down. He told you to help him. That was the killer. Because I did. I unbuckled my belt. I helped him. And he raped me. For a month. And no one said a thing. Remember?
—Yes.
—Yeah. The blood on my underpants. I tried to wash it off but there was still a stain and I couldn’t throw them out cos I only had two pairs. And I even hoped Mam would notice the stain and I was scared shitless she would. The fuckin’ shame – the consequences. And no one asked why I was late home from school all those times. None of the lads asked why I had to stay behind. And Dad being sick. He was a clever fucker, Brother McIntyre. Wasn’t he?
I nodded. I didn’t want to hear my voice. I was already listening to it.
—It wasn’t my fault, he said.—Do you remember saying that? It wasn’t my fault. I bet you thought that. I bet you said it. To Rachel.
I nodded again.
—What’s tha
t about, by the way? he said.
—What?
—Rachel.
There was no satisfaction in his voice, no life.
—There’s no Rachel, he said.
I couldn’t shake my head. I couldn’t nod.
—I’m right, Victor, he said.—Amn’t I?
I couldn’t look at him.
—Well, there is, he said.—She’s on the telly and that. Did you even meet her?
I could speak now.
—Yes.
—That’s right, he said.—Outside the studio.
—Yes.
—And her van. Going back into town.
—Yes.
—And?
—I couldn’t – We were going to meet.
—She liked you.
—I think so.
—She did.
—Yes.
—But you didn’t go – you didn’t turn up.
—No.
—You were too frightened, he said.—Of what would happen or wouldn’t happen. Of touching her, yeah?
I could nod.
—And being touched, he said.—I know the feeling. Been there, Victor. Fuckin’ done that. I’ve never had an erection. Can you believe that?
He sighed.
—All in the head, Victor. All in the head.
He sighed again.
—You made it up. The whole thing.
I looked at him.
—I’m sorry, Victor, he said.—I really am. It would’ve been nice, wouldn’t it? Rachel.
I could see him clearly now. It wasn’t a mirror. He wasn’t a twin. But I was there. Our eyes. I had teeth he’d lost but the mouths were the same, a slight dimple on the right side that Rachel had told me she liked, on the way into town in her van. He was two stone heavier and a lot of that weight seemed to rest around his neck. But the faces were the same.
—I’m not supernatural, he said.—A ghost or anything. Sorry.
—What are you?
—Like I said. You. Me.
—I still don’t understand.
—You and me, both. But here we are. Here I am. It wasn’t my fault. You were never sure why you said it. Or thought it. Sure you weren’t?
I shook my head.
—I’m betting most people think it – it wasn’t my fault. And try to get through it. Who’ve been raped, I mean. The guilt. But. It was what he said.
—What?
—I’ll tell you now. It was the – the eleventh time he called me to the room. I was too frightened not to go – disobeying him. Frightened of what would happen, you know. He’d call to the house. It’s stupid now, thinking that. But that’s now. He knew he was safe. Cos of Dad. He knew I’d never blab. He knew I’d always turn up. I’d never go home to Mam and tell her. But then he said it. ‘You’re old enough to stop me.’ D’you remember?
—Yes.
—Thanks, he said.—Thanks for saying that.
I could hear him breathing.
—‘You’re old enough to stop me.’ That was the evil part. Or the most evil – the worst. When he said that. Do you remember?
—Yes.
—Yeah, he said.—He condemned us there, didn’t he?
—Yeah.
We looked at each other.
—It wasn’t my fault, he said.—It wasn’t our fault.
—No.
—It wasn’t our fault.
I was crying. I couldn’t stop crying. And I can’t stop.
Author Photograph Credit: Mark Nixon
Roddy Doyle was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of ten acclaimed novels, including The Commitments, The Van (a finalist for the Booker Prize), Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (winner of the Booker Prize), The Woman Who Walked Into Doors, A Star Called Henry, and, most recently, The Guts. Doyle has also written two collections of stories, and several works for children and young adults. He lives in Dublin.
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