Love Page 17

  I was exhausted.

  —How? I asked him, the neurologist.

  I don’t know if I ever knew his name.

  —Only you can answer that one, he said.

  I woke.

  —It’s still the same, I told him.

  —The dots.

  —Instead of a straight line.

  —It’s a good image, he said. —I might use it with my students.

  —You have students?

  —Yes.

  —Jesus, we’re getting old, Dave, said Faye.

  She was behind me. Her hand had been on my back, my shoulder, but not now. The neurologist smiled.

  —I’m sorry.

  —So you should be, she said.

  I woke.

  —So, said the neurologist. —I go back to my original question.

  He was looking at me – down at me. I was sitting in a wheelchair. Just back from the third scan. I thought I could walk now. But they wouldn’t let me.

  —Are you a drinking man?

  —No, he isn’t, said Faye.

  —Are you? he said.

  —No, I said. —Not really.

  —Listen, said Faye. —If you asked me, I’d say yes. If this was an Irish conversation we were having. But David – no. He likes his bottle of IPA but he looks at it as much as he drinks it. One or two a week, just. And the odd glass of wine. He used to drink a bit but not now.

  —Alright, said the neurologist.

  —You think I’m lying.

  —No.

  —Exaggerating.

  —No.

  —You do so, said Faye. —Look at him, Dave, he’s blushing.

  He smiled – he grinned. He grinned over me, at Faye. He grinned at me.

  —We’ll keep you for a few days, he said. —If that’s okay. Is that okay?

  —Yes.

  —We need to build up the fluids, he said. —You’re very dehydrated. Dangerously so. We’ll get you into the bed, so we can get you hooked up.

  He took his phone from a jacket pocket. He looked at it. He lifted his other hand and tapped.

  —I want you to look at this, he said.

  His phone was a mirror.

  —Is that an app?

  —Yes. Look, please.

  He was showing me my eyes. My eyes – the irises – are brown. Everything else was red. A consistent, even red. As if I’d coloured in the whites with a marker. I blinked. The red eyes in front of me blinked. I believed what I saw. And I didn’t care.

  I woke.

  I saw him put his phone in his pocket. I saw him adjust his jacket. The weight of the phone had made it slide off one shoulder.

  —It’s not my business, he said. —But it is. You need to think about why you’re here. Why you might be exhausted. Are exhausted. Do you understand?

  —Yes.

  —Perhaps you could talk about that, he said.

  He was at the door.

  —I’ll see you again tomorrow, he said. —No, sorry. On Monday. I’ll see you on Monday.

  —What day is today?

  —Saturday, he said. —My day off.

  —Did you come in for me?

  —It’s the job, he said.

  He was gone. I was alone.

  —He’s such a little fella, said Faye.

  I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see Faye. She was behind me.

  —A little fella playing doctors, she said. —So fuckin’ young – Jesus. I’d say the nurses love him.

  I woke. I was alone.

  —They can pick him up and put him on their knees.

  Faye was in the room. The ward. I heard her feet, her heels.

  —They can give him a bath and wash his botty.

  She put her hands on my face and pulled it – me – to her.

  —It’s nice to hear you laughing, she said.

  I wasn’t aware that I’d been laughing. I hadn’t felt it. I didn’t feel it.

  She let go of me.

  —I like your clicks, Faye, I said.

  —Jesus, David.

  She walked up and down, in front of me, in the space between the wheelchair and the door.

  —Here’s some more clicks for you, so.

  She says it to me. When she looks at me, when she makes me look at her. You like my clicks, so you do. You like my clicks, apparently. When we look at each other. When she makes me laugh.

  * * *

  —

  The driver took us up D’Olier Street, around past the Bank of Ireland and down the piece of Westmoreland Street, to the corner of Fleet Street. I paid him and looked at the change before I identified a two-euro coin and gave it back to him, my hand between the two front seats.

  —There you go.

  —Thank you, sir.

  —Goodnight.

  —God bless you, sir. And your friend. You are good people.

  —Thanks.

  —I hope you are happy.

  —Seeyeh.

  Joe was looking down Fleet Street.

  —Fuckin’ Temple Bar, he said.

  —We’re not goin’ down there, I said.

  —I know.

  —We’re too old.

  —We’ve too much taste.

  —We’re snobs.

  There was a crowd outside the Palace, smoking, chatting, laughing. But it wasn’t too bad, too packed, inside. There was a free stool not too far from the door. The driver’s words had pleased me. He’d seen something in us that I hadn’t felt. Something in me, something about us, our past, our present. It wasn’t just drink. It wasn’t just anger.

  Joe took the stool.

  —Whose round is it?

  —I haven’t a clue.

  —Okay.

  He ordered two pints from a passing barman. He looked around, and at me.

  —Good pub, he said.

  —Yeah.

  —Remember the jacks, back in the day?

  —No.

  —Ah, you do. Down the stairs, into the Black Hole of Calcutta. The light never worked, you just hoped you were pissin’ in the right direction.

  —They were all like tha’.

  —That’s true, he said. —We’ve come a long way. So, yeah –.

  I thought he was going to say something. I thought he’d get going on what he’d wanted to say in the taxi, what he claimed he’d been trying to say all night. But he didn’t. He took out some coins and made a neat pile of two-euros, six of them, on the counter.

  —They’re heavy fuckin’ things to be luggin’ around, he said. —If you’ve too many o’ them.

  I didn’t respond. It was up to him.

  —It’s only a matter o’ time before there’ll be no cash at all, he said. —It’ll all be cards. Would you miss it?

  —Cash?

  —Yeah.

  —I like a bit o’ cash in me pocket.

  —Same here, he said.

  The barman had arrived with the pints.

  —Good man; thank you.

  He picked up the coins and put them into the barman’s hand.

  —There you go.

  I watched the pints settle as if it was the first time I’d seen it happen, the tan darkening to black and the arrival of the collar. I couldn’t help myself.

  —It’s a fuckin’ miracle, really, isn’t it?

  He knew what I was talking about.

  —It is, he agreed.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. It had been one of our lines, since we’d heard some oul’ lad say it, probably where I was standing now.

  Joe picked up his pint and placed it a few inches closer to him. I did the same – I leaned across him and put my glass on top of a wet bar mat.

  —I don’t think I want this one, I said.

  I meant it.

  —I’m fuckin’ full o’ drink, I said �
�� another phrase we’d got from an old man when we were young men, an old man who had probably been younger than we were now.

  —We’ll take it slowly, he said.

  It was up to him. He could use the time we’d left or we could fill it with drivel; we’d hug and never see each other again.

  He took the top off his pint.

  He put it back down. I really didn’t want my one. I held it but I didn’t pick it up.

  —It’s a strange one, Davy, he said.

  —Is it?

  —I’m a different man, he said.

  —Are you?

  —You’re bein’ aggressive.

  —Am I?

  —You fuckin’ are, yeah. An’ there’s no need.

  —I’m not.

  —I don’t really blame you, he said. —It’s all fuckin’ weird, I suppose.

  —I’m not bein’ aggressive.

  —Okay.

  —You said you’re a different man.

  —That’s right, he said. —Well, we all are. You are.

  —Ah, fuck off.

  —No, we are, he said. —We’re older, we change. We do. But, like, now. I feel like I used to – I think I do. Because I’m with you.

  He smiled.

  —It’s good.

  He picked up his drink.

  —Come here – cheers.

  I picked up mine. We tapped our glasses.

  —It’s good, he said again.

  He wanted me to agree.

  —An’ tha’ makes me think how strange it’s been, he said. —How strange it must seem.

  —I don’t know, I said. —You still haven’t really told me anythin’. But yeah, it’s a bit fuckin’ weird.

  —I understand.

  —So, educate me, I said. —The only thing you’ve really mentioned is the wall.

  —The wall.

  —The wall in the film.

  —I know which wall, he said. —Maybe the wall wasn’t a good one. A metaphor or whatever. But it probably was. But anyway, that’s it.

  —What’s it?

  —Well, I don’t know, Davy, he said. —I keep tryin’ to think o’ the words. Words to do it justice. On paper, like – I’m guilty. I can see tha’. I left me wife an’ family for another woman.

  —Spunk eyes, I said.

  He smiled, he shrugged.

  The smile was gone.

  —We haven’t had sex, he said.

  —So you said.

  —Did I?

  —I think you did.

  —Okay.

  —Have you not, though?

  —No.

  —With Jessica?

  —Yeah – no. With Jessica. Who else?

  —It was just for clarity, I said. —The question.

  —Okay, he said. —But yeah. Jess. Just so you know.

  —It’s none o’ my business, I told him.

  —Just so you know, he said again. —So, in fact. It’s not a case o’ me walkin’ out on my family – for the gee.

  I laughed – it burst from me. I hadn’t heard the word in years. It wasn’t one of Faye’s words.

  —Sorry, I said. —I know it’s serious. But the gee –

  —Drink talkin’, he said. —But I hope that’s clear, Davy. I didn’t do what I’ve done for – like, a cliché. Okay?

  —Right, I said. —Okay. Understood.

  —We haven’t had sex, he said.

  The pub was full but there was no one looking at him.

  —I don’t care, I told him.

  —An’ I don’t either, he said. —That’s my point. It hasn’t happened. An’ I don’t care. An’ you mightn’t care either but I bet you think it’s weird.

  —The whole thing’s weird.

  —The sex, I mean.

  —No, then, I said. —Not really.

  —Unusual then – a bit.

  —Probably, I said. —Yeah. Definitely.

  —Interestin’?

  —Yeah. I think – yeah.

  —Good.

  —Why is that important? I asked him. —Why would you care if it’s interestin’?

  —Well, it has to be somethin’, he said. —Jesus, man – I mean.

  —What?

  —I’ve – wha’? – erased more than half me life. In a way. An’ not even for the sex.

  —You haven’t erased anythin’, I said. —Are you tellin’ me you’ve murdered Trish an’ your children?

  —No, he said. —No. No.

  He looked away, at the window and doors, the snug in the corner, the bottles on the shelves in front of us, and back.

  —No, he said. —But I’ve murdered somethin’. Not literally, but I’ve done somethin’ fuckin’ dramatic an’ maybe wrong. I love my kids, Davy.

  —I don’t doubt it.

  —No, I know you don’t. I’m talkin’ to myself, really. But it’s as if they didn’t exist.

  —Didn’t?

  —Don’t exist, he said. —No –. Didn’t. They exist. But –.

  He looked at me. His eyes were wet.

  —They didn’t matter, he said.

  —An’ she isn’t even a femme fatale.

  —No, he said. —No, that’s right. Anyway, that’s all bollix, the femme fatale business. Blamin’ the woman.

  —Spunk eyes.

  —There you go, he said. —Exactly. My spunk, my eyes. I’ll take full responsibility for them.

  —You’re bein’ very noble, Joe.

  —Fuck off, he said. —It’s true. Those fellas you were mentionin’. The ones tha’ go after the younger women. They’re responsible for their own decisions. They’re not bein’ led down a fuckin’ path by their mickeys.

  —Joe, I said. —This is really borin’.

  —Talkin’ about women is fuckin’ borin’?

  —Don’t start now, I said. —Be honest. You’re not talkin’ about women.

  —Fuck off, Davy.

  —You’re still tryin’ to avoid talkin’ about the one particular woman.

  —That’s not true, he said. —I did start. I’m startin’ – I am.

  —Stop it, I said. —I’ll tell you what it is – I’ll tell you. You sound like you’ve been caught sayin’ the wrong thing by – say, Trish or Jessica. An’ now you’re tryin’ to talk your way out of it, or you’re tryin’ to make them forget wha’ you’re afraid they might’ve heard.

  —That’s a load o’ bollix.

  —No, it isn’t, I said. —An’ come here.

  I felt so happy saying that – an’ come here – so exultant and free, I almost cried. I could feel it too; and I understood him – just a bit. I was slipping back, to a different man. A man I might have been once – I wasn’t sure.

  —I’m not interested, I said.

  —Not interested?

  —No.

  —You’ve been fuckin’ plaguin’ me all night –

  —No, I said. —I fuckin’ have not. You’ve been wantin’ the opportunity to tell me about your adventures an’ I’ve been willin’ to listen.

  This wasn’t how we’d been. Joe had always been the one who drove us. I could see him thinking, trying to catch up and trip me.

  —I’m still willin’ to listen, I said. —But spare me the fuckin’ all men bad, all women good shite.

  I picked up my pint. I could feel my arm shake slightly, my wrist ached, but the weight of the glass and its contents steadied me.

  —Okay, he said.

  I put the glass to my lips. The cold on the bottom lip felt good; it felt right. I filled my mouth. It was okay; I’d be able for it. I put the glass back on the counter; I leaned across him to do it.

  —You’re right, he said. —There are some slappers out there. Lurin’ poor lads onto the rocks.

  I didn’t respond.

  —But, he said. —Anyway. This tim
e –. It wasn’t about sex.

  —You said it was.

  —When?

  —At the start, you did.

  —Ah, Jesus, Davy, just fuck off, would yeh. Stop bein’ so fuckin’ pedantic. I love tha’ word, by the way.

  —Same here.

  —A brainy oul’ lad’s word. Anyway. Yes, when I saw her –

  —Jessica.

  —Yes, Jessica. For fuck sake. When I saw her –

  —In the school.

  —Yeah. There was a part o’ me thinkin’, I definitely would.

  —That’s reassurin’.

  —Oh, good. Great. I’m glad. So, yeah, I admit. We were outside the maths room but I was thinkin’ honours biology.

  —That’s still reassurin’.

  —Part o’ me was, anyway, he said.

  —Part of you?

  —Don’t be fuckin’ crude. I thought she looked great. She did look great. Really – fuckin’ lovely now. But when I actually met her, all tha’ stopped.

  —Literally?

  —Literally.

  —But you went home an’ you shagged Trish.

  —That’s true as well, he said. —But you’re a bit of a cunt for bringin’ it up.

  He looked around again, and back at me.

  —I’m makin’ it up as I go along, Davy, he said.

  —I know.

  —I don’t mean I’m lyin’.

  —I know.

  —I’m tryin’ to make sense of it.

  —So, keep tryin’, I said.

  —I am, he said. —I fuckin’ am. The drink is funny, though, isn’t it? You see things clearly but then you can’t get at the words to express them properly.

  —Or somethin’.

  —Or somethin’, yeah. But anyway. Here goes – again. I met Jess an’ I was hopin’ – half hopin’ – there’d be a thing. That I’d finally, after nearly a fuckin’ lifetime, get to go to bed with the woman of my dreams. Our dreams.

  —Your dreams.

  —Yours as well – fuck off now. Admit it.

  —It’s your story, I said.

  —Yeah, but –.

  —Go on.

  —You fancied her too, he said. —But okay. So – yeah. It was there – yeah. The excitement. But more than, way more than excitement. To finally, Jesus –.

  He quickly looked around again at the other men and women close to us.

  —To ride her. Just be with her. She’s lovely, Davy. To feel her under my hands. An’ her hands on me.

  —Honours biology.

  —At least a B+.

  —But –

  —No, stop, he said. —We’re bein’ salacious again. I don’t like it. We’ll leave it at tha’.