Torn Water Read online

  On this particular day there is no escaping them. James and his friends are being watched closely by Manus McManus, because they had not shown up at the previous chess and ping-pong championship a week earlier at the other school-house. They had preferred the quiet run of a nearby beach, tumbling in and out of the rasps of surf that had spilled on to the sand.

  After the morning lessons with McManus, they had an hour for lunch. As they sat wolfing down their ham sandwiches, they speculated on what the afternoon would hold. Plug reckoned that at least three of the Belfast lot were on two warnings for speaking English and for general disobedience. He believed that because of this they might behave a little better. Alistair shouted that that was ‘bollocks’, just as the landlady, Rosie, came into the room with a fresh plate of sandwiches. Chink apologised for him. James suggested that they just keep to themselves, have a good time, and not give any of them an in. Bubbles, the largest of them, stood up, his sizeable belly quivering over his belt, and said, ‘What the fuck?’ and glared at them in turn, then sat down again.

  ‘I agree with Bubbles,’ Tom McAfee said.

  ‘All he said was, “What the fuck?”‘ James pointed out.

  ‘I know and I agree with him. What the fuck?’ said McAfee.

  The Belfast boys arrive late, just as the round robin games are beginning. Bubbles and James have been paired to play two boys from the other side of the island at ping-pong. Suddenly James realises they have an audience. The Belfast gang, newly arrived, stand in a line behind their opposition. He sees the little one, Paddy, standing slightly apart, a wide, palm-shaped bruise on his face, and a black and yellow ring beneath his left eye.

  Suddenly the leader of the Belfast gang breaks away, pulling five or six boys with him in his wake; they shoal after him, like pilot fish bibbing a whale. James watches him as he strolls away, loose-limbed and threatening. The remaining Belfast boys shuffle sideways, filling the gaps their mates have left like soldiers on a parade-ground. The lean, dark-eyed boy that James remembers from the ferry trip is now directly opposite, glaring at him.

  The match is a fiasco. Bubbles and James lose two games to zero. At one point they had both gone for the same return and crashed into each other, with James coming off worse, landing flat on his back, the jeers of the Belfast gang ringing in his ears. At the end of the game Bubbles hurled his bat down on the table, shouting, ‘Fuck it,’ at the top of his voice.

  ‘As Gaelige, as Gaelige,’ one of the teachers warns him.

  He refuses to shake hands with the victors and storms off down the recreation hall. James does shake hands. They smile at him; he doesn't smile back.

  The next ping-pong foursome dive on the bats and begin to warm up. James leaves the room and goes outside to look for Plug and the others.

  ‘Cathleen. My name is Cathleen.’

  He hasn't seen her follow him. It takes him by surprise and he just stares at her.

  ‘Don't worry, I won't do the seagull thing.’

  He smiles, and wills himself to speak but all he can manage is ‘Wow.’

  ‘You were funny in there, the way you were bouncing off your friend. Too bad you didn't win.’

  ‘Bubbles.’

  ‘Is that his name?’

  ‘I didn't like the other two. They were a bit poncey.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  For a moment they look at each other, and then she smiles quietly.

  ‘Well, well, well. Who'd have thunk it?’

  James turns to see a few of the Belfast boys ringing them, the dark-eyed boy looking him directly in the eyes. He flicks a look to Cathleen and grins. ‘Remember us, Miss Prissy?’

  James remembers the story he had heard, of how they had cornered her the other night, undressing her with their smutty remarks. He looks at Cathleen and sees the light stall in her eyes. ‘Piss off.’ As he says it, he steers Cathleen away and walks them both in the direction of the school-house, his legs tingling viciously with nerves.

  The first blow gets him squarely between the shoulder-blades, causing him to lurch forward, his legs buckling like those of an unsteady foal. He desperately spreads them and trying to turn, meets the next blow full in the face. He hears Cathleen shout and sees her peel away to one side. He hears the dark-eyed boy snort as he ploughs his boot into his backside.

  The ground when it meets his face is damp; he feels its wetness spread across his cheek. He rolls on to his back. He can see a crowd has begun to gather, closing him in like a pig in a pen. He looks around for Cathleen, but can't see her any more. He sees his attacker hovering above him, his fists held loosely at his hips, a look of disgust on his face. He knows that he must get up. He must respond. Honour demands it. His body quakes as every cell, every molecule in him goes to war.

  When he is half-way to his feet he lunges at his opponent, and his fists start smashing their way into the other boy's face. He enjoys the feeling, the pure thrill of striking back, of inflicting pain, of kicking against what life has dealt him. The other boy grabs him by the hair, trying to pull his head down towards his boots. James's hands move to his attacker's throat, grabbing at his Adam's apple. For a while they stay that way, shuffling together like two old men in the dirt. In the end his opponent's greater bulk begins to tell and they hit the ground and roll, with the Belfast boy scrambling to sit astride him, his knees pinning James's arms to the ground, his wide fists landing blows in his face. They are pulled apart like two warring dogs. McManus holds the Belfast boy by the gathered neck of his T-shirt. James is restrained by Maureen and a male teacher called Liam.

  They both receive a public warning. The Belfast boy has already received two and is told he will be on the first ferry to the mainland. He takes the news with an unblinking defiance. McManus shoves the boy away from him with a dismissive thrust of his arm, and strides over to James, calling on the crowd of onlookers to disperse as he does so.

  ‘He started it,’ James says, before his teacher can speak, dancing from one foot to the other. Cathleen, who is standing behind him now, brings out a handkerchief and offers it to him; it appears over his shoulder out of nowhere, causing him to start. McManus takes the hankie from her and applies it to James's lip.

  ‘He started it.’

  A couple of times James looks at Cathleen and sees himself there, in her eyes, his face rounded with enquiry and hope. She smiles at him and gently shakes her head in a show of sympathy, and a spark of something that James can hardly dare to believe is respect.

  Errol Flynn Says he's Proud of Me

  News from Heaven, or space, I should say. Errol Flynn told my father that he was proud of me. He said that I had behaved with great chivalry. He said that of course there had been no swords because the rules of fighting for a woman's honour had changed. Now it was not only fists but feet and knees. He told my father that he couldn't believe how dirty my opponent had been. But he said honour won the day. He said that my burst of punches would have made the finest heavyweight in the world proud, and that my opponent didn't stand a chance after that, even though he had got me on the ground. He said it would only have been a matter of time before his brain gave up.

  ‘Wow.’ I've been using that word a lot recently. It's a special word. I believe it has magic, because my life has changed since I first heard it.

  My father said that at first he didn't realise it was Errol Flynn because he was moving so fast, speeding by like a shooting star, my father said. Also he said he didn't think that Errol was up there with his lot, because of things that had happened in Errol's real life. But Errol told him that he had only recently been let up there and that was why he was moving so fast – in case they changed their mind.

  He said the best kinds of fights are over women, because of the reward. I haven't had mine yet, but that's not why I did it – well, maybe a little bit.

  Anyway, ‘Wow.’

  23. The Captain

  The next few days pass like scenery from a moving train, breathtaking and filled with seeing. James barely t
hinks of his promise to phone his mother, and when he does he ignores it, burying it beneath the gusts of excitements those next ten days bring him. The only time it is difficult for him is if he accompanies Plug to the local phone box, and sees the line of kids queuing to phone home.

  He stood one night waiting for Plug for close on an hour, watching him through the heavy plate glass of the phone box as he relayed the events of the past few days to his parents, events that they had shared together. One or twice he felt for change in his pocket, but something always stopped him. He knew he still couldn't forgive her for letting Sully move in, and the thought of the man in his house made his skin crawl.

  He was now Cathleen's hero. A position he relished. They spent more and more time together. Sometimes they walked for hours on the bumpy headlands and the soft beaches. He felt awkward and shy around her, and loved the electric jag in his heart every time he looked at her. For days their only language was silence, and they would stand and face the sea, both believing they could see every dream they'd ever had rising on the waves.

  ‘Have you done it yet?’

  ‘What?’ James asks.

  ‘You know,’ Plug says, squinting his eyes into a leer.

  ‘No, I don't know.’

  It is the end of the day. Plug and he are walking back to their house along the coastline.

  ‘With what-do-you-call-her?’

  ‘She's got a name.’

  ‘Yeah. What do you call her? Whingey?’

  ‘Her name's Cathleen.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘What's your problem, Plug?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Suddenly they see an old man standing on the point of the headland just below their house. It is some moments before James realises it is Seamus the grocer. In his right hand he holds a sack, his hand bunched into a fist round its neck. The bag is moving – whatever is inside is thrashing around.

  ‘Dia dhuit, Seamus.’

  ‘Dias Muire dhuit, James.’

  The old man looks away almost as soon as he returns the greeting.

  ‘What's in the bag?’

  ‘The Captain.’

  Captain was his dog, a collie. Every time James had gone to visit the old man to buy Manus's cigarettes the dog had lunged at him playfully, his neck mane ruffled with excitement. James had noticed that the dog's back legs were always stiff, and sometimes made it look a little comical because it carried them as if they were fused together, hopping after James as he left the shop every day.

  ‘What are you going to do with him, Seamus?’

  ‘Drown him.’

  James thinks of the dog inside the sack. He sees what he thinks is the outline of a brick. He imagines the look of confusion and betrayal in the dog's eyes. He hears it yelp as it tries to break free of the bag. ‘Don't, Mr Seamus.’

  ‘Yes, don't, Mr Seamus.’

  They look to each other, each egging the other to speak, to do something.

  ‘I'm sorry, lads, but it's the way of things. He's finished. No use to me any more.’

  The two boys bow their heads. James quietly thuds his foot on the wiry grass of the headland.

  ‘We'll take him, Seamus,’ James says.

  The old man looks at him, and shakes his head. ‘No, son. You have a good heart but he's finished. I have a new one at home, so eager she'd take your hand off. I can't afford two – especially not one whose legs have gone. No, this is the way. No more pain. No more struggles.’

  Plug tugs at James's sleeve, but James can't look at him. He keeps his head bowed, trying desperately to stem his tears. He looks at the sack, at the old man holding it, and storms off towards the house, the dog's yelps rising pathetically behind him.

  ‘Hey!’

  He can hear Plug's cries rise behind him, and his feet as they pound after him.

  ‘Hey!’

  He stops and turns to face his friend, his eyes red from crying. ‘What?’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Lavery?’

  ‘Mind your own, Plug.’

  ‘That stupid cow has you daft.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘You've been sleppin' after her like a poodle for the last week and your brain's gone mushy.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘I bet she hasn't even let you kiss her yet. She's just a fucking tease.’

  They look at each other, both taking a moment for what has just happened to sink in. Then Plug says, ‘Look what you made me do, you bastard. You made me fucking curse.’

  Death of a Friendship

  The Kingdom of Arranmore

  Donegal, Ireland

  Count Plug,

  You are nothing more than a shark looking for its next prey. You are lower than a snake; you are less than good. I will not put up with what you said about my queen. I will not tolerate it; I will not hear her slandered.

  I can't believe what you said to me about her. After all we have been through, all the battles for our dear country against the arrogant English and sometimes even our own countrymen. I have loved you like a brother or like the father I never had, and this is the thanks I get.

  I have decided I will cut you from my heart. I don't need anyone else but her. She is my light. She is my ace of hearts. If necessary I will fight you for the things you have said, I will cut your heart from your body and leave it bleeding on the harbour pier.

  My queen says that you are jealous, that you resent what we have found together. People change, that's what I say, people move on and everyone must find their queen. I can't believe you are not happy for us. My fist in your mouth will soon sort that out.

  So this is for you, Count Plug of the Carrickburren lowlands. Death to our friendship, death to our brotherly love, and death to you if you insult fair Cathleen once more.

  Because, as both you and I know, in the films the hero always gets the girl.

  Farewell.

  Baron James O'Lavery

  Overlord of the South Armagh Warriors

  24. The Last Night

  In the three days that are left James does not go back to Seamus the grocer's for Manus's cigarettes, preferring the longer journey to the newsagent on the far side of the island. He blames the old man for what he did to his dog, refusing to believe that it had been the only option. Plug and he never talk about the incident, or their words afterwards, but both events sit between them like a heavy stone. They spend more time apart, enjoying the company of their other friends, Plug preferring to go for long walks with Chink and Tom McAfee to discuss next year's school term, James spending more time on his own or with Cathleen.

  On the final night there is a céilí on the far side of the island. The six boys walk the two miles or so, quietly watching the stars appear like necklaces of icy bullets in the sky.

  James thinks of Cathleen and their last walk together the previous evening. They had met on the broken wall about a half-mile from the grocer's. He remembers how night had been falling, and how she had walked towards him out of the gathering gloom as if she owned it. They had walked the dusty roads, as always in silence, he slightly behind her. At one point she had turned and faced him. ‘Tomorrow is our last night. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he had softly replied.

  ‘We should make it special … tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  For a long time they had looked at each other. Eventually he broke it, turning to pluck at a wind bush.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked him.

  ‘No,’ he had said quickly.

  ‘You think too much, James La very.’

  At that point she had put her hand to his face. It was their first touch. It thrilled his heart.

  James and Bubbles are the first to enter the dance hall, pushing their way through the lines of locals and students that ring the floor. Up on stage an old man sits on a steel-framed chair playing the accordion. James edges ahead of Bubbles until he reaches the makeshift lemonade bar. A young girl tends it, hurriedly col
lecting the empties, draining them into a large bin of slops, then plunging them into a bucket of soapy water. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘A Coke … please.’

  ‘No Coke left.’

  ‘Lucozade, then.’

  ‘No Lucozade either.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Brown lemonade or white.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Brown – no, white.’

  He grabs his lemonade, pays for it, and makes his way back to the main body of the dance-floor.

  ‘Well, Master James.’

  He turns to find himself facing Manus.

  ‘How are things?’

  ‘Good, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, James. Are you looking forward to getting home?’

  ‘Yes … Sort of.’

  ‘You're not going to flap your way back, are you?’ He makes a half-hearted bird motion with his arms.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, take good care of yourself, Lavery – and keep up the Irish.’ He pats James's shoulder, then lets his hand rest there a moment. ‘Thanks for the cigarettes. And maybe see you next year.’ He winks at him, then leaves, placing his untouched lemonade on the ticket desk. James watches him go.

  Later that evening Cathleen comes up and stands beside him. They watch a crowd of kids dancing the ‘Waves of Tory’. All the while he can feel her closeness as they watch, as if she lay in the pathways of his breathing. On-stage the accordion player has been joined by a fiddler, and they begin to play a waltz.

  Cathleen puts her arm on his. ‘Let's dance. After all, it is our last night.’ She steers him out on to the dance floor, and drapes her arms round his neck, her hips swaying slowly in front of him, encouraging him to follow suit. ‘Relax. I'm not going to bite you.’

  He begins to move with her, feeling his body edge towards hers, until he feels the sporadic bump of her hips against his thighs.