Knock Knock, Open Wide, page 25
She sat up in the darkness, suddenly very awake, feeling for Ashling beside her and finding only empty sheets.
There was a low, mournful grinding sound as the legs of the bed were dragged along the floorboards.
Then, a jolt as the bed reached the saddle of the doorframe and could be pulled no farther. Silence, broken only by the distant sound of drunken catcalls and hooting from the front of the house.
Betty sprang out of bed, throwing on a nightdress and then climbing over the bed into the hallway. A rope, tied to the foot of the bed, ran taut out the bedroom door and down the stairs.
Betty started at the figure that stood at the opposite end of the hallway, cigarette in hand, gazing out the window at the garden below.
“She’s giving a show to the neighbors,” Etain drawled sardonically.
“Go back to sleep, Etain,” Betty snapped, and followed the rope down the stairway.
“It’s my fucking house,” Etain called after her.
Only until we call an exorcist, Betty thought darkly.
Betty strode out into the garden where Ashling, dressed in a long white T-shirt and underwear, was pulling angrily at the rope tied to her wrist.
Her eyes were glassy and inexpressive but her movement was angry and violent. Betty marveled that her skinny frame had the strength to pull their bed (with Betty still in it) as far as she had.
A group of five or six drunken students, staggering back to their accommodation from the pub, had stopped outside the house to watch, shouting encouragement and lewd, slurred suggestions.
Ashling’s bare feet dug into the lawn, tearing up chunks of soft loam. She slipped and fell onto her stomach and kept trying to move forward, digging and clawing over the grass like an animal.
The students whooped and laughed. One of them yelled that he could see her tits.
Betty ran out into the garden, slung Ashling over her shoulder, and carried her back into the house, slamming the door behind her.
It’s not her fault. Don’t be angry. It’s not her fault.
But she still found it cathartic to roughly shake Ashling’s shoulders until she woke up.
She was deep in it. It was only after two minutes of shaking her and calling her name and lightly clapping her cheeks that Ashling’s eyes refocused and Betty knew that she was looking at her.
“Niamh?” she asked, groggily.
Betty sighed wearily.
“No, love, it’s me.”
Ashling listed a little uneasily and rubbed her eyes.
“What the fuck?” she muttered, picking at her filthy T-shirt. “Did I go outside?”
“Yup,” said Betty. “Almost dragged the bed out with you.”
“Shit. I must have scared the bejesus out of you?”
“Go have a shower,” Betty said, diplomatically avoiding the question. “I’ll put on the kettle.”
* * *
A gentle blue dawn was rising in the garden.
Ashling, now scrubbed and clean and wearing a fresh T-shirt, sat down at the table and gratefully accepted a steaming mug of tea from Betty.
“I think we’re going to need something stronger,” she said, after taking a swig.
“You want a coffee?” Betty asked.
“No. I mean like a chain,” she said ruefully, raising her wrist to show her the red welts where the rope had bitten her. “If that rope had broken I’d be under someone’s wheels right now.”
Betty set her own mug down and tented her fingers.
“You need to see someone about this,” she said softly. “This is not okay. I mean, it’s never been this bad.”
Ashling gave a hollow laugh.
“Oh, is that what you think? No, trust me, this is not the worst it’s ever been.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ask Etain.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ashling said, shaking her head. “It’s just the new job. Stress. It always gets triggered by stress…”
She stopped. Betty was giving her the “I know you’re lying and I’m not angry I’m just disappointed” look. Deadliest weapon in her arsenal, banned by international law.
“You called me Niamh,” she said.
Ashling closed her eyes and gave a deep, frustrated sigh.
“Right. Okay, that makes sense,” she said, nodding.
“Ash,” said Betty gently. “No one expects you to be over it.”
“I do,” said Ashling with a touch of flint. “It’s been fourteen years, for Christ’s sake.”
“She was your sister. I don’t think you get over that. But you don’t have to be … under it. Either. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not a clue.”
“Just talkin’ shite?”
“Complete shite.”
“I think you need to see a counselor. I did, actually. When we broke up in college.”
Ashling looked at her in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, a little embarrassed. “I never knew that.”
Betty shrugged.
“Any use?” Ashling asked.
“None whatsoever,” said Betty, smiling ruefully. “Complete waste of time.”
“Well, I’m sold.”
“Still, I think you should try. You might get lucky.”
Ashling nodded, and reached across the table. Her pale arm was blue in the dawn light as she took Betty’s hand in a firm, warm grip.
“I am lucky,” she said simply.
“Me too,” said Betty. And she meant it. “Want me to tie you up so you can get some sleep?”
“Nah,” said Ashling, yawning. “I’m up now. Might get started on those tapes.”
“Oh, want some company?” Betty asked.
“Sure,” Ashling said with a weary smile. “That’d be really nice.”
They rose together and went into the living room. Ashling took Betty’s hand and leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth and whispered in her ear:
“Happy half-anniversary.”
“What?”
“You moved in six months ago.”
“Really? Fuck, doesn’t feel like it…”
“More like ten years?”
“Some days?”
She kissed her again.
* * *
Betty had not thought about Puckeen for years and yet the rush of nostalgia when she heard the first note of the theme tune was incredibly powerful.
The childhood memories were as clear and sharp as glass, images and sounds taken when all the equipment was still new and in perfect working order.
She was back in her parents’ living room, sitting Indian-style on the scratchy gray carpet, a bowl of cereal nestled between her thighs.
Each episode was only twenty minutes or so, and Ashling picked out the video tapes at random, watching each one intently and taking notes.
When Ashling had first brought the tapes home, together with the video player, Betty had been surprised to see that they were all Betamax.
“RTÉ stores all their old episodes on Beta,” Ashling had explained as she tried to force the Betamax player and their TV to make friends. “VHS is shite. Poorer quality. Rots away after a few years. Wrong side lost the format war.”
The opening titles were scored to an up-tempo piano rendition of the old ballad “An Poc ar Buile.” Against a black background, images danced to the music: toy soldiers, dolls, white-faced Pierrots, boys cut from newspapers chased by dogs. Numbers and letters swam in rings. A single eye appeared, blinked like a Venus flytrap, and was gone, to be replaced by the words “PUCKEEN written and produced by Gerry Land.”
She had never realized how weird those opening credits were.
In fact, watching the program as an adult, she found them oddly unsettling. There was a dead quality to the cheeriness of the tune and the images. A lifelessness. A chill.
The scene now changed to a bare white set with only a red door and a large black box set on a plinth. The door opened and a man and a woman, both dressed in black-and-white Pierrot costumes, emerged. They took their places on either side of the black box and each gave a wide, coordinated wave.
“Hello, everyone!” said the man.
“Hello, boys and girls!” the woman chimed in with the same high, chirping tone. “Hello, Brian! What are we going to do today?”
“Ah, Brian and Gráinne!” said Betty. “I remember them. Jesus, when’s this one from?”
“’Ninety-one or ’ninety-two, I think,” said Ashling, a little uncertainly.
She had watched enough episodes to know that it was virtually impossible to distinguish one season of Puckeen from another, apart from little clues like the film gradient. The show followed a formula so rigid as to be practically repetition and had done so since its first broadcast. She had seen episodes from the ’60s that used the same dialogue as this episode, word for word. The presenters were different, and had different names, but had borne an eerie similarity to Brian and Gráinne.
“I fancied him. Brian,” Betty admitted.
Ashling arched an eyebrow.
“Oh really?”
“Just a phase I was going through. He’s not still doing it, is he?”
“Why, want me to introduce you?” Ashling teased.
“Fuck, is he actually still doing it?”
“Who do you think hired me?” Ashling asked. “Brian Desmond. He’s producing it now. He’s my boss.”
* * *
After graduating, Ashling had put aside any thoughts of working for Puckeen. There had never been a response to her letter to Gerry Land and she had assumed that she had been passed over. What surprised her was that she didn’t really care.
For years, Ashling had been working toward a single goal with an obsessive determination.
Every choice she had made in her academic life had been leading to that application letter. But when she had finally taken her shot, and missed, she felt only relief.
That was thanks to Betty.
Betty had finally moved in and Ashling’s life had become an altogether happier affair. She had always dreaded coming home before, even when she knew Kate would be there to act as a buffer. But Betty had put manners on Etain. She did not seem to have that same fear of her that Kate did. Kate would walk lightly on eggshells around Etain. Betty would put on her boots, stamp around heavily, and tell her to stop being such a bitch. The fact that the two of them now lived in the house meant they could better control Etain’s drinking. As a result, Etain mostly stayed in her room and didn’t bother them except at mealtimes. For the first time since her father’s passing, Ashling had felt at home in her home. She got a job in a call center, taking phone bets for Paddy Power, while Betty had accepted a fixed-term contract working in the folklore archive. Ashling no longer sleep-walked or had night terrors. She got to kiss Betty goodbye every morning when she headed into the college.
Life was simple. Life was good.
Then she had gotten the call from Brian Desmond.
Her mobile had rung while she was on lunch in the breakroom. Surprised to see an unknown Dublin number, she took the call in the corridor.
“Hello, is this Ashling Mallen?”
The voice was soft and shy, with a hint of a Midlands accent. Male. Probably late forties.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
“Sorry,” he said. He seemed to be the kind of person who apologized reflexively. “This is Brian Desmond. I work in Children’s Programming. In RTÉ?”
“Oh” was all she could manage.
“Am I right in thinking you sent an application letter to Gerry Land last year?” he asked. “For the production assistant job? On Puckeen?”
Ashling had been leaning against the wall but suddenly stood upright.
No way. After all this time?
“So, I know it’s absolutely ridiculous to be following up with you so late but I came across your letter and … I was really impressed. You sound like exactly what I … What I mean is … I’m sure you’ve been snapped by someone else but if you’re still interested in the Puckeen job?”
“Yeah!” Ashling blurted. “Yeah, absolutely!”
“Okay, would you be free to come in for an interview? Say, Wednesday, four o’clock?”
“Love to!”
“Cool! Okay, look, I’ll text you the details. Look forward to meeting you. Thanks, thanks a million…”
He stumbled awkwardly to the end of the sentence and hung up.
Ashling stood in the corridor, staring at her phone, balanced on a knife edge between dread and white-hot anticipation.
One step closer.
* * *
The interview had taken place in a small meeting room on the RTÉ campus. There had evidently been a group in before them as there were dirty plates and brown-stained mugs piled on a table in the corner. Brian apologized for the state of the room as they sat down. She had recognized him on sight. He was a little jowlier now, and his brown hair was well on the way to gray. But he had large, innocent-looking eyes that made him appear younger than his age. He seemed nice in a bland, harmless kind of way.
He was not the kind of person she would have put in front of a camera. He had very little presence for a television personality, even a former one, and seemed to be apologizing for his very existence with every gesture and expression.
He was very obviously attracted to her, and normally she would not have used that.
These were not normal times.
She flirted, she laughed at his jokes. She could practically see his confidence inflate the more they spoke. He was grinning by the end of the interview and talking as if she already had the job.
“So, I’ll be honest with you, Ashling, I’ve been thrown in the deep end here,” he said. “So, to have someone with your background who actually, y’know, knows how to run a TV show…”
Ashling laughed as if he had said something wonderfully witty.
“… that’s just what I need. And I’m not looking to hire a gopher. I mean, look. We’re not Fair City or anything. It’s a very small operation. But, that means you will have much more of a creative input than you would if you were working on Fair City or whatever. You know? The job’s what you make it. And for someone of your age, an assistant producer role, I mean, that’s a real feather in your cap. Sorry, that sounded really patronizing…”
“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” she reassured him.
“So … what would your vision for the show be? What changes would you want to make?”
Ashling had been preparing for this question for well over a decade. She did not miss her mark.
She launched into her spiel.
More Irish language content. A story segment. New footage to replace the decades-old B-reel of the zoo and the botanical gardens that had been recycled ad nauseum. Perhaps even a new opening credits sequence to rebrand the show. Brian nodded enthusiastically to all her suggestions bar one.
“And, if we really wanted to mix things up … maybe actually show Puckeen?”
For a brief second he looked like he’d been cut. Like he’d felt the bite of something incredibly sharp sliding into the soft tissue of his lower back and the pain had not yet overcome the initial shock and confusion. He shook his head. Or, his head shook. It did not seem to be done consciously.
“Ah, no,” he mumbled. “Change is great and all that but the show is the show.”
“Why do you never show Puckeen?” Ashling asked.
“Creative decision,” he said, trying to affect a pale bonhomie.
“Actually,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “the ignorant fuckers lost the puppet back in the sixties. So they just, y’know, worked around it. I don’t even know what he was. I’ve been working on this show since the bloody fall of Rome and I don’t know what the hell Puckeen even is.”
“A goat,” she said simply.
He froze.
“How … how do you know that?”
She stared at him, green eyes as hard and impenetrable as emeralds.
“It’s the name,” she told him. “Puckeen. Means ‘little goat.’”
He nodded uncertainly. “Ah. Right. ’Course.
“Well,” he continued, “y’know, Ashling, I’m very impressed. You seem like exactly the kind of person we’d want on the show…”
“So … are you offering me the job?” she asked, tilting her head coquettishly.
He blushed.
“I, I am. Yeah. If you want it.”
She felt numb with joy.
She thanked him effusively and they shook hands. She rose to leave and then stopped and turned.
“So … will I be working with you and Gerry or just you or…”
“What?”
“Gerry Land?”
“Oh, Christ,” he said nervously. “Didn’t I tell you?”
She shook her head, confused.
He expelled a breath awkwardly.
“Gerry’s dead,” he said simply. “Yeah. That’s how I … that’s why I’m here, like. I’m taking over from him. I only found your letter when I was cleaning out his office.”
Ashling briefly remembered a great shape standing before her, smelling of hair and sweat. She remembered great hands like pale crabs.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. How did he die?”
Brian had become very interested in the dirty mugs on the other side of the room.
“Ah well,” he said. “He wasn’t a well man. He was very large. Fried food. Nothing but fried food. And of course with the stress of this job, it put a terrible strain on him.”
Ashling nodded. “Heart attack.”
“No,” said Brian. “No. He shot himself.”
* * *
Onscreen, Brian and Gráinne stood around the box, their arms extended toward each other, their fingertips touching. There was something ritualistic about it, Ashling mused.
Gráinne and Brian began to chant in unison.
Knock, knock, let us in!
Puckeen, take us for a spin!
Knock, knock, open wide!
Take us to the other side!
Two knocks came from the inside of the box and the lid flew open.
* * *
The camera switched to an overhead view of the box and zoomed in to the pitch-black interior. Ashling knew that it would now transition to prerecorded footage of Gráinne and Brian exploring the outside world.
