CHAPTER TWO
[Uploaded on day above.
This is Chapter Two. To read from start go straight to THIS LINK.]
So what’s the book?
A novel, or fiction, whatever the word. It’s set in Ireland, and Canada, and Australia. But written and presented for the various platforms people use to read today. So there’s added links and embedded stuff here and there, but not too many. Those links are underlined like this. Apart from all that, this is is still a written book.
How long?
Pretty damn long. And it could get longer if the author takes any of the comments and criticism on board. But it’s in short digestible chunks. Right now if you read a chapter or so a week you could be here til...oh...Christmas?
So how does this work?
Each week (or so) a new chapter will be published here online.
Over on the parallel site all the chapters so far published will appear, in one file, updated each week...or thereabouts. So if you’re new here right now and have missed any previous chapters, go there first. And then drop in here each week to see the latest.
You may add comments/criticism right here on this blog page, or tweet the author @conankwrites
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Christmas.Eve
This is Chapter Two.
To read earlier chapters go to the parallel site here.
*
TWO
Happy Christmas.
And to your folks too. (Don’t forget to pass that on.) We’ll talk in the New
Year. xxx Lucy.
Adam read the email.
Xxx , he wondered, xxx?
Were they kisses? Meaning love? Or was it just her polite way of saying fuck
you, you bastard? Sometimes Lucy’s love and her fuck-you-you-bastard kind of
merged. This was a volatile relationship. But bottom line this Christmas
morning stayed the same, that she had left him. Again.
His mother knew. And his father. And his sister. And
his brother-in-law. And maybe his sister’s children too, maybe even they knew.
But the kids didn’t care if Lucy had left him or not. Opening presents was
their priority.
Adam had bought the boy
a game, a computer game.
Back home in the
apartment last night he’d tried it out himself. It was very lifelike. Simple
minded yes, but lifelike. But then there’s lives and lives, simple lives and
complex lives. In this game you had to do a lot of things before you died. And
the more things you did the more lives you would get. So you could come back
again. And do more things. Fly a fighter jet through the Grand Canyon. Sing in
the Grand Ole Opry.
Things like that
appealed to nine year olds.
And to twenty nine year
old unemployed building surveyors.
Back home in the
apartment last night Adam had been more than half drunk and crashed his plane
in the Grand Canyon. Suspected that even if he hadn’t been half drunk he’d have
crashed anyway. These games were designed for younger minds, newer minds, the
mutant generation. In any event he didn’t earn any new lives in the Grand
Canyon so had to start all over again. Second time round he was booed off the
stage at the Grand Ole Opry…and so he died again.
That was more or less
it.
After that he’d
carefully packed the game up so’s it looked brand new and unopened.
The girl was thirteen.
No maybe fourteen? Thereabout. He had thought of getting her a dress or a top
or something and had gone to Penney’s. But wandering there in the
young-girl-gear department he decided it might be inappropriate, that he might
come across as a dirty old uncle. He realised that this was the sort of
occasion when he really needed Lucy. Forget about sex or companionship or a
shared interest, the time a guy really needs a woman is when he’s buying
clothes for a young girl. It takes the edge off the dirty old uncle bit. But
Lucy wasn’t there and it wasn’t long before he decided he didn’t want to be
there either. That whether or not he came across as a dirty old uncle was not
the real problem. That the real problem was that no matter what he bought the
child she’d look like a hooker. A thirteen fourteen year old hooker. The
clothes had that thing about them. Someone should write to the papers about it.
But sure as hell that someone wasn’t going to be him. Soon as he did the lads
would say it was all in his own mind. That he really was a dirty old uncle.
Lads say things like
that.
Unsupportive things.
That’s the whole point
of having lads.
They’re like those
particular slaves that Roman Emperors had around the place, the ones to remind
them of their humanity. And their weakness, their mortality. One day, those
slaves would mutter in the ear, one day you too shall die. One day, the lads
would whisper in Adam’s ear, one day you too shall be up before Judge Carney as
a dirty old uncle. Eight hundred and thirty other offences to be taken into
consideration.
So fuck that. Let
someone else write to the papers about the early sexualization of young girls.
Adam went out of the
young-girl-gear department and out of Penney’s and into the GPO.
He didn’t need stamps, just liked the GPO.
In one door and out the other, that sort of liking. Appreciated the
architecture, the period feel. Nineteen twenties, thirties? Around then. Great
architecture, good times. Pity about the rise of Nazi-ism. Gulags and despots,
all that, pity. But whatever, he liked the place. And liked to imagine he was
Patrick Pearse rallying the revolutionaries in nineteen sixteen. Tragic, a
poet, and mad. A country needs that.
Another GPO
thing...Adam liked to look at the statue of the dying Cuchulainn. It kind of
gave a focus to a man walking up O’Connell Street, a good gaze at the statue of
the dying Cuchulainn. But this day he couldn’t see the statue, it was hidden by
a Christmas Crib. So he examined that instead. And thought vaguely that they
should have had the three wise men dressed as postmen. It’d kind of give it an
edge. Might write to An Post about
the matter. But hardly worth the stamp.
They’d think I was a
crank.
So that was the second
letter he wasn’t going to write today.
Nothing about the over
sexualisation of young girls, nothing about three wise men dressed as postmen.
Oh well, Adam thought,
the world’s a poorer place.
He looked at the crib
and walked away. Appreciated the architecture, some, imagined he was Patrick
Pearse rallying the Volunteers, some, and went back out onto the street. There
was a girl garda standing in the doorway, watching drug peddlars like she was
tired. He looked her up and down. Wondered about her life. And her underwear.
And her hair stuffed up into her hat, and how it would look on her naked
shoulders in a tumble. Pretty damn good, he reckoned, pretty damn good. And he
then walked on.
He turned up Henry
Street and looked at the stalls there. He listened to the harsh voices of the
attendants. And noticed their harsher faces, thin lipped and cruel eyed.
Generations of Dublin’s criminal families hereabouts, he told himself. Slum
dwellers. One tap in the yard. And a bucket of shit on the landing. They’d come
from that to this.
How far was that
journey?
Holy Mother, he
decided, so this is what you get, this genetic mix. A thousand years of Irish tribesfolks
breeding with Viking rapists and British soldiers. And throw in syphilitic sailors from Christ knows where. This is what
you get. Holy Mother. He walked up as far as Arnott’s and then walked back. No
need to linger further. The decision was made. He’d actually almost immediately
seen what he wanted and his mind was made up. But a pause between mind and
action was always useful, particularly where money was involved, and tight.
There was a recession on. And he was unemployed. But needs must. So on the way
back down the street he stopped again at that particular stall selling the
large wooden bird with the two foot
wingspan, the bird of no particular breed that you suspended from the ceiling
in such a manner that it flapped its wings and looked like it was flying.
He liked that.
And the thirteen
fourteen year old niece would like that too, he decided.
Thirteen fourteen year
old girls like colourful wooden birds with two foot wingspans flapping over
their bed. Or so he told himself. Not entirely convincingly, because he vaguely
suspected that they’d prefer Johnny Depp hovering by the bedside but he just
wasn’t going there. That was dirty old uncle territory.
He bought the bird.
And not only did he buy
the bird… he hung it from his niece’s ceiling this very Christmas morning. He’d
brought along fixings and screws precisely for that purpose. His brother-in-law
watched him. And said this is bloody ridiculous, you’re making holes in the
ceiling.
“I’m a building
surveyor”, Adam told him. “I’m looking for the joist. Trust me”.
“I don’t trust you.
You’re an unemployed building surveyor. That bird is going to fall on her
head.”
“This bird is not going
to fall. You could swing out of this bird. You’ve got to think of your
daughter.”
“What? What do I have
to think of my daughter?”
“Think of her lying
here, imagining she’s in a tropical forest. And big colourful birds are
flapping overhead. Stimulate the imagination. Children need that.”
“What the hell do you
know about children?”
“I have a deep
understanding,” Adam told him, “a deep understanding.”
“Well maybe you should
patch up with Lucy and have some of your own. You’ll know more then.”
“Patch? Up? Lucy and I
do not believe in patching…up…Lucy and I have a deep understanding. The words
patch and up have no role in such a relationship.”
“Oh for godsakes let’s
go downstairs and have another drink, it’s Christmas.”
They went downstairs
and had another drink, it was Christmas.
The niece called him
Adman. When she was a very very small girl she’d latched on to the name. And
now that she was thirteen going on fourteen and dressed like a hooker…but
courtesy of her mother’s taste so that was ok… now she knew quite well his name
was Adam but also knew what an adman was…so she thought it funny.
“So what did you get me
Adman,” she asked, “you said it was a surprise.”
“Yes I did, it’s up in
your bedroom. Go up there and see.”
She went.
She came back down
again. She said “hey everybody, Adman gave me a surprise in my bedroom”.
I wish she hadn’t put
it quite like that, Adam thought.
“It’s a big wooden
bird, flapping on the ceiling. It’s great. Thanks Adman”.
“The pleasure is all
mine,” he told her. “So what school are you going to now?”
“Ah yes.” Adam hadn’t
the remotest idea of where or what that was.
“Ad finem fidelis,” she
said. And looked at him steadily.
“You wha?”
“Ad finem fidelis. It’s
our motto. It means to the end, faithful.”
“Faithful to what?”
“I’m not exactly sure,”
she said. And looked at him steadily.
“Ah.”
“I looked it up on the
internet,” she added, “ it’s the motto of the Gilroy Clan. They’re Scottish.”
“Why would a Dublin
girls’ school have the motto of a Scottish clan?”
“Could be many
reasons,” she said, nodded.
It was at this point
that Adam realised she was taking the piss out of him, that some private
amusement was going on in her head.
“Whatever,” he said, to
put a stop to that. “Now about the bird. Up there.” He pointed to the ceiling.
She looked up at the ceiling. Looked back down at him. Still taking the piss,
but what the hell. “Now what you’ve got to do is lie up in your room at night,
and imagine, you’re far far away, in a mystery land. In a forest. Or a jungle.
And there’s a great big flapping bird, over your head, mysterious.”
“I’ll do that,” she
said, nodding, seriously. Too seriously to be not taking the piss.
“Reminds me of the holy
ghost,” said Adam’s brother-in-law.
“What?” most people
said.
“Well, like you know, those
pictures of that bird over Mary the virgin mother’s head.”
“Yes but he got her
pregnant,” said Adam’s sister.
“I don’t think a wooden
bird would get me pregnant,” said Adam’s niece.
“I’ll have less of that
talk,” said her mother.
And Adam thought well
you might have less of that talk if you didn’t dress the girl as a hooker. But
he didn’t get very far with that line of thinking because his sister turned to
him, and turned on him too. “Now look what you’ve started.”
“What have I started?”
“Putting ideas in the
child’s head, you shouldn’t be let out.”
“I didn’t put ideas
into her head. It was him.” Adam pointed at his brother-in-law.
“The trouble is,” said
Adam’s mother, “that young people today have no respect for religion. The bird
we see depicted over the Holy Mother’s head is deeply symbolic. It’s the Holy
Spirit.”
“Exactly,” said Adam,
“egg zackly. I agree completely.”
“Oh shut up you,” said
Adam’s mother. “You’re just trying to get one over on your sister. The point
is. When I was that child’s age I didn’t even know what sex was.”
“Ah but you do now
dear,” said Adam’s father.
Adam’s mother giggled.
Oh God, thought Adam.
“So where’s the
turkey?” said Adam’s father.
“Adam hung it over your
bed,” said Adam’s brother-in-law. “And what I want you to do is lie there and
imagine you’re far away.”
“Sure I do that every
night,” said Adam’s father.
Oh God, thought Adam.
“Can I have a glass of
wine?” said Adam’s niece.
“You certainly can
not,” said her mother. “Pregnant and now you want wine.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Talking about pregnant
I mean.”
“But everyone else in
the room is drunk.”
“Your brother’s not
drunk.”
“He’s only ten.”
“And you’re only
thirteen.”
“Fourteen, just
fourteen. It’s important for young people to learn to drink in a controlled
environment. Under supervision.”
“Well you can have half
a glass mixed with water,” said Adam’s sister.
Adam watched the niece
go over to pour herself a glass of wine. Her dress was too short. Or her legs
were too shapely. It was one of those two things. He watched as she poured the
wine. A full glass of wine. He didn’t notice her do anything about the water
bit. And no-one else did either, the conversation had moved on.
“I didn’t drink until I
was eighteen,” said Adam’s mother.
“Made up for it since,”
said Adam’s father.
Adam’s mother giggled.
Oh God, thought Adam.
His niece across the
room caught his eye. Raised the glass to her lips and winked. Yes definitely
that dress was far too short.
Oh God, thought Adam.
“Come on let’s eat,”
said Adam’s sister. “The turkey is free range.”
I wish I was, thought
Adam.