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When I awoke Quinn was dead. He had his head smashed in and his throat had been cut.
There was no blood on my hands. Not a single drop.
I wondered how he had died. Perhaps he had fallen. Or perished from equivocal forces.
We will never know.
Closing the door behind me, I noticed some little flowers in a hanging basket by the front porch.
They were blue.
I could not believe they had sprouted. In this weather! I was always surprised by the Irish spring. Snowing one minute then sun the next.
I picked one up and ate it. Borage, I thought.
It had a faint bitterness. But it was still good.
I had eaten nothing for as long as I could remember.
Maybe on the beach in Bray. I think we had chewed on some bark. Burnt and licked it.
I sat on porch and eat the entire borage plant.
Then I left.
I walked down town. I met no one along the way.
No.
That is not true.
Think.
Yes.
I met a man called Quigley. Michael Quigley.
He was deranged. He smelt of piss. He had his hand out, towards me, begging me.
—I know you, I said.
He muttered something unintelligible, coughing spit from his mouth.
It came as no surprise.
—Do you remember? We went to school together, I said.
He lolled, like Mister Licky, like McGonagall. His head whished back and forward.
To be honest, I felt drunk.
I must have been some sight.
—Tell me this, I said. Where do I come from?
He paused and thought and then laughed.
Loudly.
Then he vomited.
I left him lolling there, half out of his mind, wishing he was dead, saying to himself: I am Peter, I am Paul, I am the chosen one; I went to mass with my grandmother this morning; I love everyone; the leaves turn brown in autumn. Do you want to know the truth, do you? You will never find it. I promise you. Your mother is dead. Haha haha ha.
I looked back.
He was in full flight, ranting to himself. I wondered what he was saying. What he was thinking.
Bastard, I thought.
Some people have all the luck. I picked up and stone and I made to throw it at him. But the wind got the better of me. It took the stone far over his head. It landed in the hoar grass.
At the bus stop, I asked the controller when the next bus was to Galway.
He was fat and bald.
—Are you sure you want to go there?
—Excuse me, I said.
—5.15, he said.
—Thank you, I said.
He walked away, laughing, shaking his head.
I thought about other stones, but none were in sight.
I looked up.
The whole sky was laughing. With all its blues and oranges.
I wanted to die.
Soon.
It will be soon.
Get on the bus.
Get on the fucking bus.
I thought about the home. In Bray. I thought all my years there. I thought about Mister Licky. About his beatings. I wondered were the Matron was now. I wondered if she was looking for me. I doubted it.
I remembered being a boy there. Yes. I remembered that. With my father’s sister. And he uncle. Yes. I remembered that.
But I did not know what it meant.
Quinn was dead, that was a fact. I had killed him with my own hands. Yes. I can admit now. I do not feel the guilt I felt then. When I looked at the two black holes in his head.
They talked too much.
The black holes I mean.
They were my sister and my brother. The two of them. Lost in some unspeakable silence. Sitting there. Laughing. Burning.
It was with the axe.
It was with the axe at the fire place. The back of it.
—Quinn.
—Yes, he said.
—Can you see me?
—Of course I can. Of coure I
I struck him hard enough until I heard bone crack and something hit my face. They I bled him. Just in case. I put my pocket knife into the front of his throat and poked it through. The blood that came out was warm and sticky.
Men bleed a lot.
That is a fact as well.
His infirm mother would find him, lying there.
—Oh Quinny!
Oh Quinny my arse, fuck you and the fucking bad bastarding things you did too us all as kids. Tell your mother now I said.
His tongue was in my pocket.
I should have done her in as well. Just for good measure. Two generations of cunts.
Riddle me this, riddle me that, who’s afraid of the big bad rat?
—Ha, I laughed.
All abroad!
I was going home.
I discarded the tongue on the side of the foot path.
Some dog would find it. Make a meal out of it.
—You’re not talking too much now, are you?
Little faint whispers came to my ear. It was Quinn’s voice. He was telling me to go back to Dublin.
I ignored it.
