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Wake up!
Someone was shouting.
—Wake up!
Someone was talking.
I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t, at least not at first.
Not another dream I thought. Anything but another dream.
Black on grey. The fuzzy lines of infinity. The whole head screaming to go back from to where it came.
Dreams.
I had had enough of little girls and mad monks that suddenly disappeared to last me a life time. Perhaps I was dead.
I opened my eyes.
It was John Joe and Patrick.
—Howsitgoin?
They both spoke at once, together, as if they were one and the same person. Their thick faces merged with the pulsating sky.
—What are you doing out on the lake?
—Jaysus!
—Are you trying to tell us something?
—Fucken hell.
—Fucking hell is right.
They were like some tragic-comic duo, clowns from the end of the earth. Their large fat heads peered down on me, eyes. I was sure they were goblins of some sort.
—Get up ta fuck, would ya.
The two of them lifted me.
—What they fuck are you doing around town?
—Did you burn down the bar?
—Ah Jaysus. And the old house as well?
—Wha were ya doing there?
—That’s old Seamus’ house. For the cattle.
—Did you see Seamus? The ole cunt.
—He has a little girl.
I had no idea what they were talking about.
—We better get you out of here.
They dragged me up the hill, each one with his two hands pressed into armpit.
They struggled.
I could not walk.
I fell asleep again.
When I awoke I was in an ambulance of some kind.
I drifted in and out of consciousness.
I saw my father, Mr. Licky, Quinn, the Mad Monk. There was all sitting with me, surrounding me. They drank and smoked, laughed.
—Fuck off, I screamed.
The little girl came up to me and combed my hair.
—Why did you kill my mammy she said?
I sweated.
In.
Her little red dress. Her little red hands.
The walls.
The tiny little cracks.
Out.
I dreamt of driving to Dublin. Through small towns with narrow main streets. I saw people of all ages. They pointed at me. I looked back. They had no faces.
—What did you do to your mother, you poor mother?
I saw my father crying, inconsolably, a cigarette butt in his shaking hand. His name? It was the same as mine. Sometimes I thought we were the same person, that we still were, would always be.
Out.
They all looked at me.
I floated free.
In.
The ambulance bumped along. Through small towns. Narrow streets.
There were cracks in its ceiling.
Little cracks.
With spiders coming through.
I wanted to scream.
But I had no voice. My father had taken it from me.
Mister Licky stood over me, brushing my hair.
He caressed me, combed me.
—My poor son.
I said nothing.
He kept repeating himself.
—My poor son.
—Father, I said.
He stopped and looked at me. His eyes went blank for a minute, then he opened his mouth.
One last time.
Yes.
One last time.
