Black Water, page 23
‘Go on, Bowie, ya have it, ya have it,’ Jig encouraged, crouching down at the canal’s edge.
The Luas thundered over the bridge above him. A gust whipped down the waters, under a second, curved bridge and around the gentle bend of the canal where Jig was, near graffiti of a girl fishing. As he watched Bowie splutter and scramble in the waters, he remembered the day he became his owner.
‘Ya think ya be able to look after Bowie for me?’
Jig was delighted, but confused.
‘Ya mean it?’
His granda nodded.
‘Yeah.’
He took Bowie out of his granda’s lap. The pup gave him loads of licks on his cheek and ears. Jig burst out laughing.
‘Ah Bowie, Jaysus. Bowie.’
Jig patted the dog on his hard little head.
‘Is it a present, Granda?’
His granda stared into the waters. He had his pork-pie hat in his hands and rubbed his fingers around the edges of it. Bowie licked Jig on his cheek, but he didn’t react.
‘Granda?’
His granda sighed and faced him.
‘Jig, I have to . . . go.’
Jig shook his head to make the sentence go away.
‘I have to get out of here, Jig. I have no choice. If I had one, I’d stay.’
Jig couldn’t open his mouth. It was stuck dry. He could hear his breath through his nose.
‘And, I won’t be coming back. I can’t help it, Jig. Sorry.’
What about all the things he did with his granda, Jig thought, things he wouldn’t be doing any more. He’d be left with his da and his ma.
He could feel his granda’s strong hands on his shoulders.
‘Bowie will look after ya now, Jig.’
A big bark roused him.
He never found out why his granda left. His parents would never talk about it.
Jig watched Bowie pull himself out of the canal, the water slick against his muscular body. He dropped the ball on the grass and gave himself a shake. He padded over to Jig and nudged against him.
Jig grabbed him with both arms, not caring he was all wet.
There was a deep growl from nearby.
Jig knew the noise.
It was weird, but as soon as the shape of Ghost and Cracko emerged into view and took the path down to him, things kind of went silent, as if people and sounds had slipped into the waters.
Jig clasped his chain onto Bowie’s collar.
‘How’s the Jigster?’ asked Ghost, looking around him, but not at Jig.
‘Alright.’
Jig glanced at Cracko. He was biting on his lip, his arms hanging loosely beside him. He twitched at an image of him lifting that kettle and pouring boiling water onto that woman’s head.
‘Show us Bowie there,’ Ghost said, sticking his arm out like a rake.
Jig pulled Bowie in, then relaxed when Ghost gave him the eye.
Ghost clasped the chain and gave Bowie a firm tap on his head. The dog looked over at Jig. Ghost kicked the ball into the canal. Bowie jumped in after it, but Ghost dug his feet in to take the pull on the chain.
‘Woo, easy there, Bowie,’ Ghost said.
‘Hey, fucking watch Bowie,’ Jig roared, moving towards him.
He got about a foot. It felt like his right shoulder got jammed in a door. Twisting, he saw Cracko’s thick, scarred fingers clamped over his shoulder and felt it would snap if he moved.
Ghost pulled on the chain and dragged the dog along the edge of the waters towards a concrete ledge.
The bridge overhead clanked loudly with the passage of a Luas. Jig saw the top of Bowie’s head. He was trying to climb the ledge, but it was too high for him to grab.
‘Leave Bowie alone,’ Jig shouted.
Ghost wrapped more of the chain around his hand. He pulled hard and rose his hand up, his wiry arm tightening. The collar dug into Bowie’s neck as he was hauled inches out of the water.
‘Yer going to fucking choke him,’ Jig shouted.
Cracko laughed behind him and pressed his fingers deeper into his shoulder. Jig let out a roar.
Turning his head around, Cracko made a sssh sound with a finger. Jig knew not to roar again. Unless someone else came down the path, no one could see him.
He was sweating all over.
What the fuck is going on? Why they doing this?
Ghost lifted Bowie again. The dog struggled for air.
‘Tell me, Jig,’ Ghost said, clenching his teeth with the strain, before dropping the dog, ‘ya know what this filthy canal is full of?’
Jig shook his head.
‘Big diseased rats,’ Ghost said, the bridge vibrating again with a Luas. ‘Some of them are like fucking cats, the size of them.’
It dawned on Jig what this was about.
‘I’m not a rat.’
Cracko’s grip tightened a notch. Jig was forced to kneel down on one leg with the crunch. Loose stones dug into his knee.
‘I’m telling youse!’ Jig roared through his teeth.
Ghost pulled Bowie up again, higher this time. Jig could see Bowie’s hind legs now dangling. He was desperate for air.
‘Ya know, Cracko here,’ Ghost said, ‘carries a nasty-looking blade, more like a fucking hunting knife. He could slit Bowie’s belly and drop him into the waters. Be feeding time for all them filthy rats.’
Jig tried to push forward, but Cracko crunched down on his shoulder hard enough to snap bone. He nearly passed out from the pain, his face wet with sweat and snot.
‘I’m . . . no . . . rat.’
Suddenly, Cracko let him go and he fell face down on the path. He heard a splash and a bark. Looking up, Ghost was leaning down towards him, his cheekbones jabbing against his yellow skin.
‘Good. But we have a hunt on for one. Be at yer gaff at eight, Halloween night. Not a second fucking later.’
Jig’s shoulder splintered with pain as he tried to get up. He watched Bowie drag himself onto the bank. The dog ran towards him, the chain scraping on the path, and landed big licks on his cheeks.
54
It looked like a big plaza to Shay; a cobbled one, like Kilmainham or Collins Barracks. In front of him was an old ambulance, its exhaust coughing dirty fumes. It was covered in rust and the back bumper dangled. He was inside it now, but couldn’t make out the driver. Ahead of them was a gate, its big wooden doors closed. Kids were massed on the wall over it. ‘We have to do it. There’s no turning back,’ the driver said. His voice sounded familiar. The ambulance spluttered as it tried to pick up speed, bobbing up and down. He could hear the back bumper scrape off the cobbles. The ambulance stopped at the gate as it creaked open. Bottles and glasses rained down on them. The roof was buckling. The windscreen began to crack. ‘We have to go back,’ Shay shouted, covering his face with his arms. The windscreen was collapsing. ‘This is where it gets dangerous,’ the driver said. Shay turned to him and saw his own face, all burned and scarred.
Shay screamed as he woke.
Heaving in deep breaths, he composed himself.
His senses told him something was different.
Lisa and the kids were downstairs, but the sounds seemed subdued.
He grabbed his dressing gown, tying it loosely. He couldn’t find his slippers. Something told him to move. Half way down the stairs he stopped.
Three holdalls were lined up by the door. Molly’s favourite dolly, Izzy, was sticking out of her bag. Charlie’s favourite teddy, Alfie the dog, sat on top of his bag.
His body floated as if he missed a step. He clasped the railing to ground himself, as it hit him.
No fucking way. They can’t be.
As he reached the sitting room, there was a beeping from somewhere. He looked into the kitchen. Lisa was leaning over the table, her finger pointing, as if issuing instructions to the kids. She halted suddenly. He knew she sensed his presence, but she didn’t turn to him.
The kids were drawing.
They beamed up at him.
‘We’re going on a secret trip, Daddy,’ Molly said, pushing herself up out of her chair.
‘Nana’s having Halloween party,’ Charlie piped up, struggling to hold a huge marker in his little fingers.
‘Ssh, it’s a secret,’ Molly said.
Shay looked to Lisa.
She had her back to him. She was sorting out a row of tupperwares, filled with Halloween goodies she had bought for the kids.
‘You’re not serious,’ Shay said, with as much strength as he could, but it was almost a whisper.
Lisa busied herself moving things in and out of the containers and wiping already clean surfaces with a cloth. Shay saw her glance at the kids before turning around and looking at him. There was no anger in her features. But something had changed. Her eyes were clear. They told him she was leaving. She held the contact, so he could be in no doubt.
She turned back to run the cloth around the sink again.
Shay stood there, not able to figure out what words to assemble.
‘We’re drawing you a scary picture, Daddy,’ Molly said, spreading her left hand across her drawing as if to reveal it. ‘I have a witch and this is a pot. She puts frogs and legs in to make a potion.’
She smiled up at Shay, who stared at the pot. It had a leg sticking out of it.
‘Mine a scary car with a ghost,’ Charlie said, all excited.
Shay’s face twisted.
They think it’s a game, a game on Daddy. What can I do? My beautiful kids.
Maybe they were only going down for the party, for Halloween, he told himself, and would be back when all the madness died down. He looked at Lisa for any signs this could be true, but she was busy scratching dried flakes off the hob.
He thought he heard the noise of a car. The doorbell rang, but it sounded muffled. Maybe his ears were too blocked to hear. Little feet scampered. He sensed Lisa gliding past him. He shuffled after them.
‘Granpa, Granpa!’ he heard the kids shout.
Lisa’s dad stood in the doorway, clasping the two children in a big bear hug. Lisa was gathering up coats. Shay watched the motions and movements, but felt removed in some way. It was like part of his brain had shut down.
‘Daddy, someone squashed our pumpkin,’ Molly shouted, pointing to outside the front door. ‘And someone stole our skeleton.’
The words didn’t really register with Shay as Lisa and her dad ushered the kids out. Shay looked down at the pumpkin. The top of the head had been kicked in, leaving just the edge of its twisted mouth.
He stood onto the rough tarmac. A gust of wind whipped around his shins and blew back the edges of his dressing gown.
‘Hairy legs, Daddy,’ Charlie shouted and laughed.
‘You’re like a hairy pencil,’ Molly said.
The boot of the car was sticking up. Shay could see smoke from the green curling behind it. His nose twitched at the stink. Bags were thrown in and the boot closed. He could see a mass of twisted metal on the green.
‘Has Nana got a scary Scooby Doo? Has she?’ It was Molly’s voice.
‘And scary sweets?’ That was Charlie’s.
The sides of his dressing gown were flapping back, but he didn’t notice. He was feeling dizzy, like when he spun Molly or Charlie round and round. His mouth was stone dry. He needed water.
Wake up.
There was another voice. The kids were in the back seats. The window was down. What? They’re waving, calling. Someone blocked his vision. It was Lisa. She said something. Was that a kiss against his cheek? When he blinked and refocused, she was in the car.
He heard Lisa’s voice.
‘Daddy has a football tournament on, kids. Say bye bye.’
‘Bye Daddy.’ Molly’s and Charlie’s voices collided and sang. ‘Love you.’
There was a noise. An engine.
Do something, for Christ’s sake.
He reached out his hand and grasped in their direction, but there was only air.
The wind blew again. It ran up his legs, snaking up into his chest.
His vision cleared. They were gone.
He wasn’t sure, but when a door closed nearby, he sensed he had been standing there for a while. Someone looked at him as they passed.
Above him there were claps. An arrowhead of swans swooped low over the house and arced away from him.
He pushed himself inside, forgetting to close the door.
The silence seized him. He shivered at it.
Alfie had been left behind. He lay there at the entrance, his two front paws stretched out. A flame of hope flared somewhere inside Shay.
Charlie will miss this at night. I could bring it down. Yeah.
He brought Alfie into the sitting room. There was that beeping noise again. He looked up and copped it was the battery in the smoke alarm.
‘How did it get to this?’ he muttered.
He half stumbled into the kitchen. His bones chilled at the absence of noise, of life. His feet recoiled at the coldness of the tiles. He stood there waiting for a smack in the face, something violent to wake him up.
The drawings on the table were all that was left of the kids. He looked at Molly’s witch and the cauldron. He didn’t like the leg sticking out of the pot.
He looked at Charlie’s drawing. There was a massive black jeep, with thick bull bars to the front. They weren’t curved, but straight and angular and bent around the bonnet. The jeep stretched back with several doors and loads of rectangles for windows. The tyres were huge. At the back of the jeep stood a figure, oddly shaped, like a thin man with a big head. There was no nose or mouth. Just two crude shapes for eyes. There were lines from each eye going up and right across the face.
What did Charlie say it was? A scary car with a ghost.
Shay fell to his knees. And raged his head off the tiles.
55
Shay was lying on his side when he woke.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. His forehead pounded. He felt it would split and his brain slop out if he moved. He winced in agony. His head was all soft and bumpy above his eyes. His eyebrows were matted on one side.
He wondered had pieces of tile crunched into his skull, the pain was so bad.
But the empty sick feeling hollowing his stomach was worse than the riot in his head. He slowly pulled his knees up towards him and lay there, clenching his eyes shut, as the demons swarmed into his mind.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Alfie: on the floor, facing him. His black eyes were not sad in a cute way now, more indifferent. The sound of the Luas stole in through an open window. It had that ghostly quality to it, like someone blowing a long breath.
Shay summoned the strength and tensed himself to move. On the third try he managed to push himself off the tiles, hoping his head wouldn’t explode. He stood, wavering, holding his hand out against the fridge. Taking steps in inches, he reached up at the shelves, pulling containers down, knocking others over. Lids and contents spilled and clattered. He searched and grabbed for paracetamol, but there was none.
Serves me fucking right.
He pressed his hands against the counter top and leaned hard. His head jangled. Something beeped.
He turned and moved, his arms stretched out before him, his flat feet clapping through the silence into the sitting room. He sat on the armrest of the couch. Squinting, he saw Charlie’s cars on the floor and Molly’s toy kitchen against the wall. Some building blocks lay scattered. His eyes began to well up again. But anger boiled too.
How could she do this to me? After all I have done, done for her?
Small voices told him that wasn’t true. He defied them and cursed in hushed spits. Anything louder would make the pounding in his head worse.
He edged towards the door and forced himself to tackle the stairs, stopping at each step.
At the top, Charlie’s and Molly’s door was wide open. Shay shivered as he entered. Bedclothes, duvets and pillows were scattered. Teddies abandoned. He stood there, for how long he didn’t know, surveying the room. He tried to recall moments with the kids, but the pounding in his head denied him that. He shuffled to his own bedroom.
Looking outside, he saw kids examining remnants of a fire. Some were trying to start new ones, raiding bins for supplies. He scanned the green, what was left of it. The individual scorch marks – he must have counted a dozen – had connected up in places. The entire triangle was now one big blackness, with just patches of grass.
He closed his eyes. Moving slowly, he sought refuge under the sheets.
56
Jig ran back to the boys and held the box of matches aloft, triumphant.
‘Have them.’
Spikey and Dizzy Dylan stood guard over the mound of old tyres a guy had dumped from the back of a van.
‘I got these out of me ma’s bedroom,’ Jig said, laughing. ‘She’ll be banging the walls looking for them in a minute.’
‘Get some paper,’ Spikey shouted.
Dizzy and another boy ran around, grabbing up armfuls of newspapers, cartons and cardboard.
‘Put them inside the tyres,’ Spikey said.
Jig struck the match. The paper went up quickly. They sat and watched the flame spread and grow. More rubbish was raided.
Jig looked around as kids gathered, jumping up and down at the small curls of flames. The smoke got thicker and dirtier.
Kids coughed and smacked each other on the back, laughing and spluttering. Some hopped from one foot to another, dancing.
The coughing became heavier. The black smoke covered half the green. Jig could see arms reach out through blinds to shut windows, and laughed.
Jig, Spikey and Dizzy moved away from the smoke as it billowed and sat closer to the canal and watched. Their fire coughed away like a dirty old train.
Jig noticed a few people were putting more stuff out. There were bits of tables and beds, mattresses, bags of rubbish and even a big old television.
He jumped up and the others followed.
They ran from one house to the fire and back again.
The sky opened up just as Jig spotted a three-seater sofa.
