The Good Son, page 12
You shouldn’t have brought me down here, Mickey.
Killer? You’re telepathin’ again.
You’re not allowed down Flax Street. You know that you’re not allowed here on your own. And you know you’re not supposed to take me out of the house without askin’. And now I’m in Flax Street. And now I’m goin’ to get run over.
The Saracen’s movin’ slowly. Killer’s got plenty of time to get out of the way. Why doesn’t he? ‘Get out of the way!’ I can’t walk in a straight line. A useless drunk like Da.
Mickey, it’s comin’ to get me.
The man who tried to help me is comin’ back.
‘Mister, get my dog,’ I shout, ‘Please, Mister, my wee dog’s there.’
He runs for me. ‘Not me. My dog!’ I cry. The stupid man.
‘Killer!’ Thank God, he hears me. He moves to me, but his back legs aren’t workin’. What’s happened? What have I done? The Saracen roars. ‘Killer!’ I can walk straight. I speed up. I point to him and the man who is comin’ for me turns and sees Killer. He puts his arm over his eyes.
I turn to see the Saracen swervin’, but Killer is hit on the side, lifted off the ground, spun. He lands at the side of the road. He moves. He’s not dead. ‘I’m comin’!’ Whatever it takes. I’ll get the best doctors in the world, we’ll fix you, I telepath. I reach him and lean over. Should I lift him? I don’t know what to do. Killer looks right at me. Right in the eye. He wants to tell me somethin’.
Help me, Mickey, can’t ye see I’m dyin’ here?
His eyes close. No, Killer, don’t go to sleep. If you bang your head you don’t go to sleep cuz you never wake up again. Remember I told you, that’s what the woman said to me when I fell off the swing at the Waterworks.
But I didn’t fall off the swings, did I, Mickey?
‘No. It was the bomb. And the Saracen,’ I say.
Cuz you took me out. And you let me go.
‘It’s all my fault.’
I love you, Mickey.
‘I love you too, Killer. I’m so, so sorry.’
It’s you I’m sorry for.
Why?
Who are you gonna play with now?
Killer closes his eyes. He wants to go a wee sleep. I close my eyes too.
Dark.
Words.
Spinnin’.
Hurtin’.
Fireworks.
Shush.
‘Where do you live, son?’
‘Mammy?’ I open my eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ says the man. I can hear.
I walk past him.
‘Mammy.’
I’m a good boy.
And my Mummy will love me.
I run and it hurts.
I’m dizzy. Sick. Spinning.
In my street everyone’s out. I blink. My eyes roll back in my head.
I’m at our back gates. How did I get here?
Concentrate. Hand through. Open latch. Sneak in.
I need to wash face. Remove evidence. Water. Killer’s bowl. It’s the only way.
I wash my head and face, the water turning red. I empty it down the drain. I look at my reflection in the metal bowl. There’s no blood.
Wee Maggie comes to the kitchen window. ‘Maggie!’ I shout-whisper and wave. She sees me. C’mere, I call with my arm. I hide behind the yard wall.
‘What’s wrong?’ she’s scared.
‘Did you hear the bomb?’
‘Aye, it was a big one. Everybody’s out,’ says she.
‘I was there. I was right there. Look what I done.’ I show her my trousers.
‘You’d better get in to Mammy,’ says she.
‘Ma will kill me if I go in like this. She’ll know I was down there. You’ve got to get me some clean shorts or trousers.’
‘How can I get them out?’
‘Maggie, you’ve got to get them,’ says me. ‘And don’t say nothin’, even if you get caught. Say anythin’, but don’t tell, quick!’
Wee Maggie runs back inside. The piss is stickin’ my trousers to my skin. Bendin’ down, I can really smell it. I kick off my boots and pull my trousers off over my feet.
‘Mickey,’ I hear whispered. Maggie comes with a plastic bag.
‘Keep dick,’ I say.
I peel off my pants and put the clean ones on and the new shorts. I shove the wet stuff into the bag and put it in Killer’s dog box. My stomach flips, but I can’t think about that now.
‘Is Paddy in?’ I say.
‘He just went upstairs,’ says she.
My stomach flips again. I can’t go to my room.
‘What’ve you done?’ says Ma, steppin’ into the yard.
‘Nothin’,’ I say. Does she know? I look at Maggie. She shrugs.
‘No use lookin’ at her. It’s written all over yer face. What have you been up to, wee boy?’
‘Nothin’, Mammy, I swear to God.’ Please God, help me. I’ll do whatever you want.
‘That’s a sin before God, yer a wee liar. You’re goin’ up to see the Priest, I’m not jokin’ ye.’ Ma frowns and comes for me. ‘What’s that on our head?’ I touch my head and I can feel warm goo. ‘Get in here til I look at ye.’ Ma walks into the house and I follow.
‘I was runnin’ down the Bray, Mammy, and I fell and I didn’t want to tell you cuz I knew you’d shout at me.’ I try to sound like I’m four. ‘Didn’t I, Maggie?’
‘Yes, Mammy, he did. I saw him,’ says she.
‘Did you take her up there with ye? I’ll break your neck, wee boy. She’s not allowed up there. And ne’er are you. You’ve no sense. C’mere til I have a look.’
I walk over. She puts her hands through my hair.
‘Awoah!’ I say, more to get her on my side.
‘Look at ye. You’re bleedin’. You stay away from there, wee boy, do ye hear me? I’m sick tellin’ ye. You’ll have to go round to Mrs Brannagan and get some dumbbell stitches.’
‘Ach, Mammy! Do I have to?’
‘Yes, ye do. Go round right nigh and say yer Mammy sent ye.’
‘Sake!’ I say, kickin’ the floor. ‘Can Wee Maggie come with me?’
‘No, she can’t. Now, go on, get round there.’ Ma twists her weddin’ ring. ‘And nigh I’ll have to take her to work with me, wee boy.’ Ma pats her purse in her pocket, grabs Maggie and heads into the livin’ room. ‘And before you ask, you can’t take Killer.’
Another bomb goes off inside me. Through me. Inside my head is that noise you hear when the TV programmes finish at night.
‘Where is that dog?’ Ma asks.
I can’t speak. My arm rises all by itself. I don’t even tell it too. I point out at Killer’s box.
‘Go the back way, it’s quicker.’ Ma leaves and Maggie follows her.
I walk out the yard door, lift up the roof of Killer’s dog box and climb inside, closin’ the roof behind me. I’ll go round to Mrs Brannagan’s later.
I smell Killer on the scrap of carpet he slept on. I hug the old blanket I covered him with when I first got him and suck the corner where it’s rough.
Whenever I close my eyes I see zombies, covered in blood, in No Man’s Land. No Man’s Land. Where the dead live. They’re coming for me. I keep my eyes open in the dark.
12
THE ENTRY BEHIND Jamaica St. stinks. It’s used as a rubbish dump. I wish Wee Maggie was here with me, but I can’t tell her about Killer. She can’t keep a secret. Look when I told her about Uncle Tommy. But she knows somethin’s up cuz I wouldn’t let her come with me.
Concentrate boy!
Up the short, steep hill of the big, bumpy Eggy field. It’s empty. It’s so big. It’s covered in jaggie nettles and wet-the-beds. I’m not allowed up here, but I’ve never wanted to come cuz on hot days, when there’s wavey-world over the tarmac, the Eggy smells of dead. I wonder how many of the bumps are just field and how many have dogs and cats buried in them. I heard there’s people buried too. Touts. Grassers under the grass. I don’t know if there is or not, but I’ve never heard of a secret that wasn’t true.
Everyone thinks Killer squeezed out the back gates somehow. That he’ll find his way home. I scratch my dumbbell stitches, which aren’t really stitches at all. They’re skinny plasters. Mrs Brannagan says there’ll be a scar. I’m glad. I’ll never forget then. Even when I’m all grown up.
I made a lollipop-stick flier like Ma’s-a-Whore showed me, but like a crucifix. Holdin’ it in prayer hands, eyes to the ground. No thinkin’ of anythin’ else. The funeral starts . . . now.
Slowly, I march across the field til there’s a dip between two mounds. I kneel, layin’ the crucifix gently, gently on the ground. With my fingers, I dig at the soil, fingernails stuffed full brown. I spit on my hands and wipe them on my jeans. Of course, they’re just goin’ to get dirty again. See. You should be goin’ to St Gabe’s, you’re so stupid.
Concentrate Mickey! Can you not even do that? For Killer.
I dig. Two hands like paws. Diggin’ like a dog makes a hidin’ place for a bone.
When the hole is Killer-sized I sit up, take a slow, deep breath and knot my fingers together. Eyes closed, I see Killer lyin’ dead in Flax St. I see me kneelin’ over him. I pick him up and hold him in my arms like he’s a little baby.
‘I’m sorry, Killer. I’m really, really sorry.’
Killer’s dead eyes open. Are you really, Mickey? he telepaths.
Yes.
You have to tell Ma the truth.
No. I can’t. She’ll kill me. They’ll all hate me.
Then you’ll have to tell God.
I thought he knew everythin’.
You have to go to Confession.
I can’t tell.
You have to, Mickey. Unless you wanna go to Hell. That’s the way it is.
Will God forgive me?
Yes.
Will you forgive me?
Yes, I will. Then I’ll rest in peace. Killer’s dead eyes close.
Goodbye, Killer.
I open my eyes and imagine him in my arms. I lay him in his grave and fill in the hole. I put the lollipop crucifix into his grave and bow my head.
‘Oh God, please take Killer into Heaven with you. He can guard it. He’d bark to let you know if anybody’s climbin’ over the gates, just like he did for us. If you let him in, and promise not to send me to Hell, I do solemnly swear I’ll go to Confession.’
I pull out some wet-the-beds and place them beside the crucifix. I stand up and genuflect to the grave and bless myself. ‘Amen.’
I pass the shop on the corner of Fartin’s street with the poster in the window. Loose Talk Cost Lives. Isn’t Confession ‘loose talk’? But Priests can’t tell anyone. I saw it in a filim. Montgomery Clift wasn’t allowed to tell, even though the man was a murderer!
I look up Fartin’s street. I wish he could come with me, but I have to do this alone. On the Crumlin Road, I check both ways. Way down the road, our ones are smashin’ the windows of a city bus, hijackin’ it, too far away to be trouble for me. I run across to the Chapel.
I bless myself with the cold water in the wee font. Inside – cold silence. Why is it always dark in here, even when it’s warm and sunny outside? Marble and gold, chalices and candlesticks. Like a palace. Or a filim set.
Down the aisle I check the Priest names outside the Confession huts, lookin’ for one I don’t know. I always say the same things in Confession: ‘I was cheeky to m’Mammy’ and ‘I said a bad word, Father’. I never have anythin’ really bad. Except today.
It’s dark in there and the wee shutter he opens to talk to you has a grill so he can’t see you, but he can recognise your voice. I could put on an accent, use my actin’ skills, but if he wants he has a wee curtain he can look out when I leave.
The new Priest is makin’ a bee line for me.
‘Ah, Mickey Donnelly, how are you?’ says he.
‘OK, Father.’ Does he remember the name of everyone in Ardoyne?
‘So you’ve finally come for our wee chat then?’
‘No, Father, well . . . I mean, I have to go to Confession,’ I say, bowin’ my head.
‘OK, Mickey, follow me.’
He walks up the altar steps before I can answer. My stomach twists as I follow through a door behind the altar and down a corridor of dark brown, shiny wood. It smells of polish and old sofas. The floorboards creak, like in scary filims. No good tryin’ to sneak around in here. He directs me into a room and closes the door behind us. He sits on a big, dark wooden chair with carved arms and red velvet cushions. A wooden throne.
‘Now then, Mickey, let’s talk. Sit down.’ He points to a pew and a small wooden chair. God must love wood. Ah, Jesus – carpenter – wood. Got it.
‘Are you ready to make your Confession?’ says he.
‘Are we not goin’ into a Confession box?’ says me.
‘Och, well, I don’t like using them, I prefer to sit with people in front of me. I think it’s very old fashioned to put people in a scary, dark room, as though sin was something to hide from.’
‘I’ve never done it this way before,’ says me. I look at the floor. I really don’t want to look at him. It’s bad enough havin’ to tell. But havin’ him see me . . . Can I make a break for it now?
‘Well, if it helps, you can turn your chair around and face the wall or close your eyes,’ he says.
I turn my chair and close my eyes. Deep breath. I know my lines.
‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . ’ about two months ‘. . . two weeks since my last Confession. I’ve said some bad words, and I’ve been cheeky to m’Mammy.’
‘Well, are you sorry for saying those bad words?’
‘Yes, Father. And I’m goin’ to try really hard not to say them again,’ says me, to show him I was a good boy once.
‘And what about this being cheeky?’
‘No, Father, I’m not goin’ to be cheeky again,’ says me. I’m a good boy, see?
‘Well, you probably will, Mickey. None of us are saints. We all make mistakes. I sin and have to go to Confession too,’ says he.
I near have convulsions. ‘Really?’ I turn and open my eyes. He smiles. I believe him. I turn back, closin’ me eyes again.
‘Let’s just say that you’re going to try really hard not to be cheeky. And if you are then you’ll make it up to your mother. You love your mother, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ says me.
‘And you wouldn’t want her to be sad, would you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you make it up to your mother and help her around the house. She doesn’t have an easy time of it, what with your father not around.’
‘No,’ I say. Bloody Ardoyne smoke signals. Ma will hate that he knows.
‘And is that what your mother wanted me to talk to you about?’ says he.
‘No, well, sort of, I was messin’ about in Chapel that day. But it wasn’t my fault. My mate was makin’ me laugh.’
‘So, it wasn’t you, it was your friend?’ says he.
I know from school this never works, even when it’s true. ‘It was me too,’ says me.
‘Now that’s better, isn’t it? It wasn’t that hard to tell the truth, was it? And don’t you feel better now?’
‘Yes.’ I feel better cuz he’s bein’ so nice. I rub my hands between my thighs and wriggle on the cushions.
‘Now, is there anything else before I give you your penance?’
‘Yes, Father,’ says me, swallowin’ ten gobstoppers covered in sand.
‘Take your time.’
In the silence, I open my eyes. I see my reflection in the window in front of me. My frown. I lick my fingers and press down my cow’s lick. Underneath my face, letters dance, jumpin’ over each other like a Disney cartoon. Two hands enter, fingers dancin’, kickin’ the letters. The letters from LOOSE TALK. The hands come either side of my face and cover my mouth.
I’m not goin’ to let them stop me. I promised. And I don’t want to go Hell.
‘I did a very bad thing, Father,’ I mumble.
‘Go on.’
‘I can’t, Father, it’s too bad,’ says me. I look for somethin’ I can throw up into.
‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.’
‘It is, Father. It’s really, really bad.’
‘Well, think about it. Maybe you’re not ready to tell me. You can always come back,’ says he.
Yes, yes, come back.
No. I don’t want to do this again. ‘Can I whisper it?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says he. Screechin’ on the floor as his throne moves closer.
‘I took our wee dog Killer out without tellin’ m’Mammy. I brought him down Flax Street where I’m not allowed. And then there was a bomb and he got hit by a Saracen and got killed and it’s all my fault.’ I look at the window to try to see his face behind me but I can’t.
‘Oh Mickey,’ he sighs. ‘It wasn’t really your fault.’
‘But I wasn’t allowed to take him without tellin’ Mammy and I wasn’t allowed down where the bomb was,’ I say. He’s wrong. It is my fault.
‘OK, Mickey, OK. So you didn’t do what you were told. But it was a terrible accident. You’re not responsible for that. Is your mother blaming you?’
I go white like a zombie. I wish I was dead. I feel dead. Dead but full of feelin’s. Bad feelin’s. This might be what Hell is like. I want to run.
‘Mickey?’ I hear in the distance. ‘What did your mother . . . You haven’t told her,’ says he.
‘How did you know? Did God tell you? Am I goin’ to Hell? Am I?’ says me, heart thumpin’, the taste of metal in my mouth.
‘No, Mickey. God didn’t tell me, and you’re not going to go to Hell. But you know what you have to do?’
