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  ‘Darkness is our souls do you not think?

  Flutier. Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins.’

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  ‘And thy belly be like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.’

  —Song of Solomon

  A FRESH CRIME

  A head of them the road runs in a long entwined undulation of mud, patched tar and fjords of green, the grassy surfaces rutted and trampled, but the young shoots surgent in the sun; flowers and flowering weed in full regalia, a carnival sight, foxglove highest and lordliest of all, the big furry bees nosing in the cool speckled recesses of mauve and white bell. O sun. O brazen egg-yolk albatross; elsewhere dappled and filtered through different muslins of leaf, an after-smell where that poor donkey collapsed, died and decayed; the frame of a car, turquoise once; rimed in rust, dock and nettle draping the torn seats, a shrine where a drunk and driven man put an end to himself, then at intervals rubbish dumps, the bottles, canisters, reading matter and rank gizzards of the town riff-raff stowed in the dead of night.

  ‘Blackguards,’ her father said. He always said that when he passed these dumps and vowed to look into his forefather’s deeds and get his ownership straightened out. They walk in silence, the man several leagues ahead, his soft brown hat a greenish shard in the bright sunlight, a bold rapparee, his stride animated with a kind of revelrous frenzy, traffic growing fainter and fainter, a clackety river beyond and in the odd gusts of wind the under-sides of the larches purling up to show ballroom skirts of spun-silver. The road silent, somnolent yet with a speech of its own, speaking back to them, father and child, through trappings of sun and fretted verdure, speaking of the old mutinies and a fresh crime mounting in the blood.

  The man carried a measuring tape – one he had borrowed – the girl, a tin can to collect blackberries. It was too early, berries on the stalks showed rawly pink, little excrescences purposing to come forth in a pained fruition. His spirits were buoyant because he was going to sell some of his fallow bogland, put it in plastic containers marked ‘antiquity’ and ship it. The brainwave had hit him the previous evening when he read in the paper about foreigners hankering for bog.

  ‘It beats Banagher and Banagher beats the bank,’ he had said. In Europe and beyond, men went out on Sundays, shedding their city constraints in search of the bemired underworld. One such lucky party of pioneers had come upon a man thousands of years old and while knowing it to be a matter of gravity, nevertheless brought away a portion of him, his little shrivelled bags, which in the paper were given the Latin name of Testa.

  ‘We might even dig up a little man … A cave man,’ he said.

  ‘I hope we don’t,’ Mary said.

  He leapt to his task, threw off his jacket, as soon as they got there, extending the metal ruler down the moist seams of black-brown soil and hurrahed when it landed in the mire of the water. He shouted the measurements and she shouted them back to make sure that she had heard correctly. Pounds, shillings and pence danced before his eyes, carpets for her mother, her poor moiling mother, a bicycle for her and then getting carried away with his estimations he spun the metal tape in a wide and apostolic arc, a wand, pronouncing his claim over the deserted but fabled landscape, over furze and fern, lakewater and bogwater, bogwort, myrtle, sphagnum, the warblers’ and the bitterns’ cry; his empire. He struck out with it then waved and dandled it to verify both his powers and the riches which had lain so long, prone and concealed, waiting for the thrust of the slane. He fished in one bog hole, then the next, hooking on green scum and a frail cress with tiny white fibres, which he placed at her feet.

  ‘Fancy a snack,’ he said and presently he was combing a third lodge of water for a big fish, no more of your scutty little minnows, a salmon, eight, nine pounds in weight, something to get his bait into. Warming now to this charade he lifted the rod, shook it free of water, knelt to fix to it those juicy worms which had been suffocating in his trouser pocket since morning.

  ‘We’ll make a fire and we’ll roast him … Who was that fellow … I know … Finn Mac Comhill who ate of the salmon of knowledge … We’ll be the same,’ and easing the rod down he watches for the tell-tale ripples, the rings of water in the space above the fish’s nostrils.

  He was acting like he acted with visitors, a spiral of gaiety that was sometimes short-lived and often followed by some argument about horses or the exclusivity of the family motto. Might before right, that was his.

  ‘Go on … Get the fire going,’ he said and drew himself backwards in a mimicry of someone tugging at a formidable weight.

  ‘We’ll cook it at home,’ she said, persisting in the game.

  ‘We’ll cook it here,’ he said, and with his free hand did a shoo in her direction to get her moving, to gather kindling and bank the fire with the strewn turf that lay around like consignments of mauled pampooties.

  ‘Eureka … Eureka,’ he said and told the world that either he would break that fish or that fish would break him. On impulse then he decided to let the bucko stew a bit, and dropping the rod he wedged the metal case under a stone, then searched for cigarettes which he hadn’t brought, said ‘blast, blast’, then came behind her where she was bent down lifting the burnt logs among the cinders from a recent fire.

  ‘Daytrippers,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Daytrippers.’

  ‘I wonder why they came in here.’

  ‘To see the scenery.’

  ‘You can see scenery anywhere but you can’t get as lonesome a place as this.’

  He asked her to try and guess what those daytrippers might have eaten.

  ‘Oh … Anything … Hard-boiled eggs … Potatoes.’

  ‘And after the spuds comes the strawberries,’ he says and starts then to feel the stuff of her dress, pinching the bodice underneath it. In the instance of his doing it, she thought she had always known that it would happen, or that it had happened, this, a re-enactment of a petrified time. To impede him she stood up and made fidgety bustly movements, remarking that they had better be getting back, pretending not to notice the snapping of the elastic, his jesting with it, allowing it to snap back and forth, jesting of flesh and ruched thread, then not that at all, a hand on the gusset, his splayed hand lifting her up and off, like it was the swing boats, going out, out, a sherbety feeling, out into the cumuli of space.

  ‘Is that nice?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is that nicer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What are little girls made of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice – say it, say it, Mary.’

  ‘Sugar … and spice … and … and…’ the voice growing pipey and the mountains and sky bumping into one another.

  ‘Say it … Say it.’

  ‘We’ll lose our fish,’ she says.

  ‘He has the worm … He’s OK, come,’ he says, the voice softer now, hiving u
p her dress and walking her backwards, his arms cumbent so that she has to droop on them, her eye catching an old Ovaltine tin with a picture of a lady with a saffron mantilla, veering her away from the light, onto a cushiony incline with a ring of gorse above it, his figure falling through the air, an apotheosis descending down into a secrecy where there was only them, him and her. Darkness then, a weight of darkness except for one splotch of sunlight on his shoulder and all the differing motions, of water, of earth, of body, moving as one, on a windless day. Not a sound of a bird. An empty place, a place cut off from every place else, and her body too, the knowing part of her body getting separated from what was happening down there.

  It does not hurt if you say it does not hurt. It does not hurt if you are not you. Criss-cross waxen sheath, uncrissing, uncrossing. Mush. Wet, different wets. His essence, hers, their two essences one. O quenched and empty world. An eternity of time, then a shout, a chink of light, the ground easing back up, gorse prickles on her scalp and nothing ever the same again and a feeling as of having half-died.

  Her pink canvas shoe had fallen into the water and she lifted it funnel-wise to free it of ooze. He looked at her, a probing look, looked through her as if she were parchment and then half-laughed.

  ‘What would your mother say … Dirty little thing.’

  He crosses to the lake, wading through the thick lattice of bulrushes and she thinks he is washing now in the brackenish water, swabbing himself with the saucer leaf of the water-lily and that on him will linger the sweet lotus of that flower.

  Everything is drying, coagulating. It is a plasma. She will wash in the river, wash and rewash and pleat herself back together. She will throw the knickers far away down in the fairy fort. She does not know what has happened. And there is no one that she can ask. An image floated up then to startle her, something she had once seen and thought of as being quite harmless; it was a cake at a party which seemed to be uncut but when she brought her face up close to it, every piece had been severed, every severed piece, side by side, a wicked decoy.

  Climbing the roped rickety gate that leads from the bog road to the outer road she wobbles, grips a tassel of flowering dock, and the coral seeds crushed to shreds she puts in her pocket. Only they will know. No one else will ever know.

  Except that they will.

  * * *

  In the City far away men of bristling goatee beards, men of serious preoccupied countenances, move through the great halls, corporeal figures of knowledge and gravity, the white of their wigs changing colour as they pass under the rotunda of livid light, ribs of yellow hair, smarting, becoming phosphorescent, powerful men, men with a swagger, a character personified by the spill of the gown or the angle of a coiffed wig, their juniors a few paces behind them laden with briefs and ledgers, the whole paraphernalia of the law in motion, some already at the bench, others walking slowly to the appointed courts, men of principle who know nothing of the road or the road’s soggy secret will one day be called to adjudicate upon it, for all is always known, nothing is secret, all is known and scriven upon the tablet of time.

  FRUITS

  It was Saturday. She was let stay in bed. Her mother felt her head. Scalding. Scalding.

  The sun made little incursions of light, bluing Our Lady’s blue cloak and emphasising the white disc of her chest. Dust on the linoleum moved in whorls like it had life in it. She would mop the room when she got up. Swish the side of the mop, the feathery part, over the grey-blue linoleum with its motifs of trodden berries. She did not look at Our Lady. Our Lady knew. Maybe her mother knew. Maybe Tara knew. Maybe the teacher that she liked knew, maybe that was why he was so abrupt. She would never have a boyfriend. ‘I’ll never have a boyfriend, ever.’ She didn’t get crushes on young boys, like Tara did. But she had a crush on the new teacher who had come to the vocational school. His name was Augustine and he had a beard. She imagined if he lay in a hayfield, little pismires getting in there and tickling him and his asking his sweetheart to tease them out. He was engaged. She had gone to the school and had him called out to give him a message.

  Her mother said that if he was looking for accommodation they had spare rooms. Her mother had not said it expressly, she had merely said that the money from a room could help defray expenses. Also another person to sit with them at night would mean there were fewer rows. He seemed baffled at being called from his office and alternated between smiling and blinking. He suffered from involuntary blinking. She had made a hash of the request, saw that he saw that there was scheming in it. He hadn’t. It was simply that he was far too happy where he lived, enjoying a nightly luxury that no one, not even himself, could explain, a succubus who ministered to him while he slept. He had digs in a room above a shop, enjoyed the company of the men who drank after hours and discussed everything that transpired in the town and up the country, every stir. Most nights he was given a snack, a cold beef sandwich or a slice of cake, and then to his bedroom and at totally unpredictable times, his visitor, pulling the covers back, planting this constellation of kisses, hungry kisses on his lower quarters, his coming awake to commune with her, only to find her in flight, sometimes catching a glimpse of a bit of white nightgown.

  He felt certain that it was Moira the shopgirl. It had to be. Yet nothing in her daylight manner gave her away. She would be up early, racing from the shop to the kitchen, frying rashers, getting cakes of bread in the oven, adjudicating on the weather and calling up to him, ‘Your breakfast, professor.’ It was with a great formality she stood over him and poured his tea. He spent hours watching her, he watched her carry crates of beer and plonk them on the counter, then shout to a potboy to come and sweep the place; he watched her peel the muslin from the big cooked hams and put them on the slicers; he watched her slice; he watched her take a fillet of fat with a breadcrumb and sugar coating, lick it and put it in her mouth. He watched her scratch herself. He watched her barge at the postman who was too lazy to get out of his van to deliver the letters. She would not be drawn out on any subject, except the weather. He thought of laying a trap for her such as leaving a suitcase in the middle of the floor which she would trip over, but then thought why spoil it. Her mouth it was that made him certain. In an otherwise homely face, her mouth was maddening, like blubber, red, the red of raspberry wine, practising on itself for its night-time forays.

  ‘Actually, I’m fixed up,’ he had said to Mary and she slunk away, believing that she had made a fool of herself.

  ‘I made a fool of myself … Didn’t I?’ she said to Our Lady and then promised to do a novena so that they would get someone for the room. The sound of the roaring was so fierce and escalating that it was like fire. Her father was taking it out on her mother on account of her being let stay in bed. She ducks under the covers. It follows her there. She cannot hear the exact words but that is of no matter, she waits only for the sound of things crashing and then the silence, the pounding silence which always follows when her mother has fallen to the floor or onto a chair. Yet there is neither a falling nor a silence, just the anger crackling and magnifying.

  Some time later her mother came up to report. Her father had caught some boys raiding the orchard, one bucko up in the pear tree, shaking the branches, another gathering the spoils and a third looking through the hole in the wall, the lookout. Her father had marched them into the kitchen to read the riot act and threatened them with the guards. Her mother re-enacted it, her father writing down their names, their ages and their abodes, when he knew very well they all lived in the cottages, then describing how they were white as sheets and one of them having to go out during the interrogation, got short-taken.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ Mary said.

  ‘I was in stitches,’ her mother said.

  ‘I thought he was shouting at you,’ Mary said.

  Her mother went on laughing. A strange hard brittle laughter. She did not like her mother then.

  You can think more than one thing about the same person at exactly the same time. You can thi
nk oodles of things and they are all different and they are all true. Her mother was a plantation of evening foliage and evening flowers, lush and copious, dark red dahlias; her mother was that bit of stone wall with stained-glass windows that no one could see through; her mother was the Chinese lady in the picture with the dagger in her hair and pursed knowing lips; her mother was the woman who sat on the table when that doctor came and made free with her, was allowed to swing her legs, then feel her calves, then slip off her shoes and she being told in a strained voice to go off and play. You can think more than one thing about a person at the same time and they are all true, but one thing seems to be truer, the clandestine thing.

  Her mother told her that she was to get up, that her father wanted her to do a message.

  ‘What message?’ she said, bridling.

  ‘The fresh air will put the roses back in your cheeks.’

  ‘What message?’

  She almost told then, she was almost ready to blurt it out.

  FLESH

  Run. Run. Run. Then it can’t happen. A road with umpteen cars and lorries, yet a road with bends, blind corners where anyone might be lurking. Her father had told her to go and ask your man with the stallion if he could bring the mare. The man’s phone was banjaxed.

  ‘You’ll be better once you’re up,’ her mother said, the old appeasements about fresh air and roses in the cheeks.

  Passing the cottages, a mother of one of the truant boys launches into a spiel, half song, half tirade, cursing those with orchards, landed people with not a drop of Christian blood in them; a big woman, bare-sleeved, her hands raw from tubs of washing, her arms spawned with freckles, the vaccination marks glaringly white. With a stick she beats a tartan rug that is hanging on a line, marvelling at the motes of dust that come streaming out.