250 Words In A Cave In South Dakota

They hatch in the heat of their descent. We do not know if the Solar System has sailed into them or if they have sought us out. They float through space in their billions: tiny, rocky eggs. Nebulas full of them. They cascade in giant swarms, streaming down through the atmosphere, burning and spinning. As they approach the ground, they unfurl and the air coursing through their talons and antenna makes them screech like banshees.  

We have not seen the sky for years. We live in silence. And many of us wonder why we strive. 

There is no hope now, not among the sane. The mad sometimes disappear and we know where they go, and we understand. Some days we wonder if we who continue to fight are the ones who are, in fact, mad. There are few who believe in any hope.  This ancient strata of quartz, before which I stand, will last until the Sun dies. We are all tired. Tired of living. Hundreds of us left our barricade five days ago to come to this place. Sacred for the native Americans. And now sacred to all Humanity. We have fought our way to this dark cavern. There are nine of us left.  They are coming down the shaft. We can hear them, skittering and babbling. This testimony will be our victory. We were Humanity. 

I have carved this message using a Kratos shoulder-mounted laser. The date is August the 19th in the year of our Lord 2037. My name is 

Three Turns Of A Bolt

Jerry hated the phrase “box room” and was certain that Marie used it with relish. Not enough space to ring her neck in it. He had his own TV and space heater, grand. But sometimes he’d find his dinner or tea, stone cold, on a tray in the hallway. Bare minimum. He wasn’t sure what Tony had been thinking, marrying that one; Basie never took to her. His grandchildren called out hello from the hallway, their voices automated. They spent too much time screaming at cartoons, wiggling those remotes. Joseph couldn’t explain it either.

Joseph was Jerry’s best friend, living at Elmtree Place, what they called “senior assisted living.” Joseph had been sent there right after his wife died. His house was sold off, and Joseph found himself set up at Elmtree. But Joseph didn’t seem to mind. His sons visited every few weeks, bringing a mirth of squealing youngsters and strollers that clogged the doorway.

Jerry and Joseph played nine holes every Wednesday, starting with breakfast at Elmtree in the lively canteen, filled with the smell of fresh tea and scones. The place had easy-to-push doors, wide ramps, and benches arranged in a hexagon around a water feature. Jerry lingered at Elmtree, driving home only after lights-out. Joseph had his own living room where they’d watch golf and chat. Marie wouldn’t allow Jerry to drink in the house, but Joseph kept beers in the fridge.

One evening, as they watched Jason Day tee off, Jerry asked, “How much is all this costing you, Joe?”

“Not sure. The boys pay for it. Most of them,” Joseph replied.

The next morning, Jerry put his name on the waiting list and started counting off the dead.

Alice Dunbar, Joseph’s neighbour, was ninety-three, shrunken to the bare minimum, stripped of non-essential components, like a drifting spacecraft. She wore skimpy blouses in November and slept twelve hours a day. The other twelve she spent talking—random squeaks, whistles, hooting laughter. Her eyes were too bright for her paper-bag face. She was sustained by nothing but sherry. Jerry found her unnerving.

“She’s regressed, that one,” Jerry said. “Reliving her infancy.”

“Alice? Ah, Jerry, come on. She’s not that bad,” Joseph replied.

One day, Jerry watched as Alice sat in her stairlift, giggling as she ascended. The nurses waved her off like a friendly ghost. Everyone called it “Alice’s Chair.” One afternoon, Jerry saw two young men repairing the stairlift.

“Is this yoke battery-powered?” he asked.

The apprentice jumped. “No, it runs off the mains. Jimmy’s reconnecting it now.”

That Christmas, Marie asked to hide a few presents in his room. He planned to object but found a fait accompli—bags of toys and a giant green bicycle stacked against the wall of his box room. Safe enough; the kids never entered.

He wondered if the waiting list was getting shorter. He wondered about Alice and the value she got out of life. Did she even know how ridiculous she looked? Living next door to Joseph would be fantastic. They’d practice their chipping on the lawn and boss the place when they wanted the big TV for Champions League. Jerry was smiling at the idea when he cracked his shin on the bicycle pedal. He removed a tiny set of screws from the box cellotaped to the seat and slipped the screwdriver into his cardigan pocket.

You have to take charge. His youthful resolve had dissolved in Basie’s father’s rage. He took a job at the auto-parts office instead of going to college. Thirty years there, and the only highlight was coming second for the manager’s job in Denmark. After Basie died, he planned to take a train across Europe, but trouble on the news made him wait. Eight years later, he stared at his reflection in the TV glass, his dressing gown draped across him like ill-fitting jigsaw pieces. You have to take charge.

A simple act of kindness for one person, and a smooth progression for another. Jerry decided Joseph didn’t need to be around when he got to Elmtree that day. This was the most daring thing Jerry had ever done. Sitting in his Toyota, his pounding heart brought clarity: he had never done anything daring in his life. He was nearly seventy. He was a spectator, never a risk-taker. What was he risking here? Three turns of a bolt. Even if caught, he could simply tighten them and feign concern about the stairlift’s care.

The reception doors sighed as Jerry entered the lobby. Voices and the TV echoed from down the hall. He hadn’t made it halfway across the carpet when a shrill voice behind him made him stagger.

“Mister Jerry? Where are you off to? No visitors in the bedrooms.”

“I was just…”

Adanna, the receptionist, bustled toward him. “Out, out, out! Tomorrow! Come back tomorrow! Joe is not available!”

She herded him out into the cold evening. The whole affair was over in ten seconds. Sitting in his little Nissan, Jerry considered what he had learned: she was rude, and the mission was still a GO. Time was on his side—no, it wasn’t. That was the whole point.

The pier at Howth was lined with tourists eating fish and chips. Jerry double-parked in front of the disabled spot, cracked open the windows, and let the sun invigorate him. But a Garda soon appeared at his window, berating him about his parking, telling him to clear out. Did he know, she asked incredulously, that he was blocking access to the lifeboat?

He reversed, drove off, and took the first corner to get out of her sight. He should have stood up for himself. He wove a modified narrative for later in which she apologised, and they shared a chip, the cheeky bint. Joseph will love that, Jerry decided.

Jerry found himself in a cul-de-sac near Howth Junction. He parked behind a lorry and finished his chips. Unable to remember where he’d been going, he returned home. Marie found the screwdriver in his cardigan three days later, throwing it with venom into a drawer.

The landline rang the next morning as Jerry was sitting up, waiting for the blood to fill his feet. Marie put the receiver down hard and rapped on his door. “It’s for you.”

“Thank you, Marie,” he said, but she was gone.

Jerry threw his robe three times before catching it, spun around to put it on, and ventured into the hallway before returning for his teeth. He picked up the handset, palm anchoring the small of his back. Already exhausted, and it was just after nine.

It was Adanna from Elmtree House. There had been a passing. A vacancy at the centre. He would be informed by letter within five working days. He thanked her, suddenly nimble and alert. After hanging up, his heart began to race. He found his mobile under a book by the bed, stood in triumph, and as it rang and rang, he stared at his dishevelled reflection in the TV screen, waiting for Joseph to answer. It rang and rang.

The Letter of Wishes

 

To Whom It May Concern,

Ah, Joe! It has been a day of memories; I saw your parents at the gate. As we walked past for the last time, I felt your brothers watching from the windows of Glenmactire. You’ve joined them all now, buried in that damp, curdling earth.

This letter is an arrow I launch through time. I want to write it now before I still numb from your passing. I have an envelope ready; I’ll hand it to that young Higgins fellow myself. He’s promised to add it to my other documents.

Joe! Poor Joe! We spent a bitter afternoon at that uncrafted hole in the ground where they stuck you. It rained black-striped Galway rain that you loved.

We always liked to linger over our goodbyes, remember? I could have stood there until I was smoothed round by the rain. Today is the only day I will feel comfortable there. Today is your day in that place. Your Death-day, I suppose. Tomorrow you will be just another interned spirit.

How can you settle in Death for that small cavity in the ground? A stained stone marker? Conformity, even in Death. Especially in Death. Did you really believe that the Earth will some day spit you out? That you would rise shining from the ground, dressed in that velvet blue suit of yours? So be it. I saw how much comfort it gave you near the end.

But I will not re-visit you in your gravel prison. Instead, I will visit the wooden bridge at Annalooby to hear your laugh. I will walk in The Ferns in July to hear your brooding silences. I will sit in the waves at Carraroe to feel your touch.

There is a place on Howth Head, not far from Helen’s new house in Dublin. Aoife and I discovered it, but I suppose many people go there. It has a view of Howth harbour and the two slender beaches that run like tendons on a woman’s neck up the coast and onto the cliffs. It overlooks the forest and magical tunnels that weave down towards Sutton Castle. There is a particular spot there. We leaned over and watched a vixen and her cubs exploring the rocks below.

Why wait for the Sun’s death to release me from some gray hole in the ground?

Joe. Poor Joe. I have to stop now.

Maura O’Connell, Carraroe, September 17^th 1979.

***

2024

A line of circling crows led me to her. The Transmitter Tower on the West Mountain lay etched against descending clouds, brown with the blood of the setting sun. She had slid about ten feet down the side of the shale embankment. She had come to rest with her hiking boots pointing back up the hill. My own boots crushed the gravel as I ran over and fell to my knees beside her. The crows scattered, having not yet found the courage to approach her.

She was smiling. Her knitted hat had come off. She had an unfinished arrangement of heather and posies in her gloved hand. I pictured her holding them tight as she slipped, determined not to lose them. I carefully transferred them to the inner pocket of my Bag of Tricks. Above me, the wind whined through the Transmitter wires. A similar sound escaped my throat.

My phone was clinging to a signal. ‘I’ve found her. We’re up the road from the quarry. Near the Transmitter.’

My father was leading my brothers as they searched the cliff walk. ‘Aoife? Is she…’ The signal faded.

‘Yes, Dad. She’s gone to the Summerlands.’

‘Stop that nonsense.’ I could picture him tightening like a fist. At this time of year, the East Mountain shrouded the cliff walk hours before sunset. The air would be cold and dead under a sky filled with a spectral light. He called my brothers and they started back towards the car park in Balscadden. ‘I’ll have the ambulance meet you at the top of Windgate Road. You must guide them up to her. Don’t touch her. We’ll be there as soon as…’

I switched off the phone. I would tell them later we got cut off. I had no intention of leaving her.

I plucked heather from the damp ground and made a circle of it around her. I found wild yellow posies and added them to the circle. The rest I scattered over her head. Some peeled away into the wind, lessening its bitter, polar taste. I began to hum.

I must have done sometime right. A last blast of red sunlight slotted through the gap between the horizon and the clouds. The hillside heather became washed in autumn blood. I began an old Sufi chant. I raised my eyes to the heavens and recited aloud a poem she had taught me. The Sufi poet, Rumi:

Become the sky…

Your old life was a frantic running

from silence.

The speechless full moon

comes out now.

The ambulance lights washed over me, cleansing the blood and nailing me back to the canvas of a harsh reality: my grandmother lay dead beside me. The two men who emerged from the headlights were strangers. They came and walked all over the posies. They led me away before I could open the Circle. They brushed away the heather from her face and covered her with a big, orange, plastic sheet.

***

Nobody greeted us. Danny parked the bike around the back of the house. In the past my brothers had complained about its presence; it blocked their Volvos and Cherokees. I took a knitted cardigan – red and purple with lines of emerald green - from my Bag of Tricks and wrapped myself in it.

The kitchen trembled with a blast from the Bailey Lighthouse fog horn. It was a mournful but reassuring sound.

Danny wrapped his wide arms around me. ‘What are you thinking there, Rua?’

‘I was wondering if she’s laid on all this fog for us.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking myself. You better get in there. Stop putting it off.’ After a moment longer, he gently pushed me loose.

‘Will you wait here for me?’

‘Of course. And remember: stick to you guns.’ His eyes glowed warm over the wild mash of his black beard.

As I walked down the hall, I asked my Ancestors to give me strength, reminding them to keep their promises as I would keep mine. I turned the handle at the the living room door and walked in.

My mother widened her eyes, looking me up and down. I grew conscious of my long black dress and purple stockings, my crazy cardigan. I resisted the urge to tuck away the streaks of blue in my red hair. She sat perched like a small bird on the edge of the old Indian mahogany chair, her pin-black eyes darting around the room. She looked like frosted glass.

Father was flanked by my two brothers, all standing in front of the open fire; two generations of the same broad-shouldered champion breed. They oozed rugby, sex, iron and aloofness.

My mother bit out her words. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for over an hour.’

Mr Higgins, the family solicitor, wore a rumpled black suit and tie. Under his glasses, a red rash grew on his cheeks. He was sinking into a deep armchair and looked like a hermit crab, half out of its shell.

‘You could have started without me.’ I replied carelessly.

Mr. Higgins cleared his throat. ‘Actually all named persons have to attend, Aoife before I can start.’

Michael and Donal got sixteen thousand each. I noticed a flicker of tightness around Michaels’ eyes. He had been expecting more. Business must be bad, selling cars to secretaries. I cannot help but smile; Granny loved surprises. There were several pendants and a fabulous star chart she had made. Her Tarot card collection was the finest anyone had ever seen. I wondered what she had in mind for me.

‘And next, Glencamtire. This is an estate, just outside Carraroe on the Cashla Bay Peninsula. It includes a beach front and seven acres…’

‘Excuse me, Sean. But we’re all familiar with the place, thank you.’ My mother laughed, pulling at her ear.

‘This has been left to Aoife.’

The room dropped through the floor. I gave everyone a puzzled frown. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Glenmactire, Aoife. It goes to you. Congratulations.’

I sputtered. ‘But I don’t want it.’

‘Let me see.’ My father snapped the papers from Higgins’ hand.

‘That’s great, Aoife. Brilliant.’

‘Be quiet, Donal.’ My mother snapped, her eyes fixed on her husband.

I thought of that ruined house on the beach, its wide drive of broken seashells, dipping down to the house. The sea grass growing in the lawn.

My father handed back the deed to Higgins, a bead of sweat under his nose. ‘Thank you, Sean. Please continue. Well done, Aoife.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ My blood was coursing. The place needed some work. I saw Danny stripped to his waist and standing in the sunlight, a door frame propped up against the wall, half painted. I felt sensations of excitement and satisfaction. We will be open in time for summer. A hostel maybe? I saw Danny and I living with the doors unlocked and beautiful dogs tracking golden sand into a flagstone kitchen. We would watch the beach grow and change over the years. We would convert the front room into a candle-lit bar with session music and the Atlantic lightning flashing across the windows…

The rest of what Higgins said passed like a murmur of muffled waves. He closed the legal documents and removed an envelope. ‘What follows is what we call a Letter of Wishes.’

‘A what?’ Father croaked.

‘It is a document written by the deceased in which they may express their desires for special arrangements. It is dated September 17^th 1979.’

Mother had been staring at me. Her head snapped. ‘But that’s the day…’ Her voice faded as a memory overwhelmed her.

Father cleared his throat. ‘I see. Proceed.’ He eyed the envelope with suspicion. It had the colour of dried cream. The page Higgins drew from it was as white as snow. I recognised my grandmother’s elegant ink-pen hand-writing.

Higgins cleared his throat and began to read through the bottom of his bifocals. ‘It has been a day of memories…’

***

When Higgins finished reading, I jumped to my feet, laughing. My fingertips were tingling. ‘My God, I remember the foxes! I know the exact place. We can all go. This is great!’

‘Stop that nonsense, Aoife.’ My mother snapped. ‘We’ve all been buried in Galway. Your grandfather was buried there. There’s a plot ready and everything.’

Was this how it felt to communicate with aliens? ‘But this is her wish. To be cremated. She wants to be cremated.’

Mother fussed over her sherry. ‘Well, she didn’t really know what she wanted at the end. We know what we’re doing.’

‘But this was written years ago. The day Grandpa died!’

‘Father McBride has already started making the arrangements, Aoife. It’s all set for Tuesday morning.’

I barked a laugh. ‘Well, hold on there, Dad! You heard what she said.’

‘We’re her family, Aoife. We know best.’

‘Oh, come on! Granny hasn’t been to Mass since she was 16 years old. She grew pot and sold homemade Tarot cards. She hated that place. You can’t be serious.’

There was a general shifting of feet. Mr Higgins took the opportunity for a quiet sip of his whiskey. My mother directed a freezing chill towards me. ‘My mother was a good Catholic and will be buried in the manner of her kin.’

I mentally drew a sword. ‘Mr Higgins. This Letter of Wishes…’

He lookup up from closing his briefcase. ‘It has no legal standing, Aoife.’

‘Is that all, Sean?’ Father spoke quickly.

‘Oh. Yes, indeed.’

‘Then let me show you out. Thank you so much for coming in this terrible soup…’ My father crowded over to him, ending the debate. Higgins rose from his chair like a bumble bee tearing away, leaving his sting behind.

‘No way are you doing this. She loved you all, despite the fact that you’re a bunch of stuck-up bastards. And this is how you show your love and respect?’

‘Don’t think that after everything she put us through that you can start issuing orders now on her behalf. She’s my mother, not yours.’

‘You never gave her an inch, did you? Even now.’

Donal was examining the letter, the way he might examine a fossil in his office at the National Museum.

My father returned. ‘Tom. We’re not having any of her pagan, devil worshipping rubbish, is that understood?’

‘I am not a devil wor…’

‘And you.’ Mother turned to me, all guns blazing. ‘I’ve had enough of you shouting down this house, roaring on about her disgusting habits and those ridiculous obsessions. She’s a Catholic. Her whole family are Catholic.’

‘I’m not.’

She took a sharp breath. ‘She’ll go to Church and she’ll be buried on consecrated ground.’

‘So she gets to rot in a box like a load of forgotten fruit. Congratulations. You win.’

There was carpet against my cheek. My mother had slapped me.

 

***

 

The fog made a tunnel of light as we roared up the hill, past the Summit Inn. The bike followed the rising road right to edge of the car park. Across Dublin Bay, the fog glowed orange from a thousand street lights. The silent city could have been in flames from Dalkey to Irishtown. Around us, trees stood like petrified sculptures, etched into the mist. There was only the whispered dripping of leaves around us.

The fog horn rang out suddenly.

‘Jesus, Rua. Where did we park? That lighthouse sounds close enough to kick.’

I lifted the helmet from my head and sat on the wall while Danny rolled a joint on the gas tank. My cheek was still stinging.

‘I got Glenmactire.’

I wondered if he had heard. Then he said, ‘And so she slapped you?’

‘No. Granny wants to be cremated. She wants her ashes cast off the cliff up at the Bamboo Forest.’

That stopped him. He smiled, gazing in the direction of the East Mountain. ‘Excellent choice. We should wait until summer, though. You can keep her ashes in…’

‘Mum refused.’

He lit the joint with a sigh. ‘What is that woman’s problem?’

‘Granny told me a little about it.’

 

***

 

Young Joseph Maher stood in the doorway, his blue suit matching the wide Atlantic summer sky behind him. He was a thin, tall man with a full pair of lips and dark hair oiled across his forehead. ‘Come along, Helen!’

Maura, Helen’s mother, followed her to the door. She was not dressed yet, but wore a thin black night gown. Her red hair curled around the white curve of her shoulders. She leaned against Joseph as if suddenly weak. Helen looked away at the curlews pencilled on the strand. She felt her face burning.

She heard her mother ask: ‘Who’s saying Mass this morning, Joe?’

‘Er… I think it’s Father Convery.’

‘Ah. Too bad. He loves to linger. You’ll be hours.’ Her voice is dark.

‘I can’t help the poor man. He’s only worries for our souls.’ Her father’s voice was light and playful.

‘Say a prayer for me then.’

‘I always do.’

Helen was chilled by her father’s words. She wished now that she had brought her coat. But she cannot re-enter the house; her parents are kissing in the doorway. It takes several minutes but finally, father and daughter start up the driveway. With every crunch of her feet on the sea-shelled path, she feels more and more released. She can feel the stink of incense receding from her clothes in the beach breeze.

She takes her father’s hand and they share a smile. She loves Mass. It is the only time she has Daddy all to herself.

***

I am sitting cross legged on the white sheets of our bed in Bayside. Danny is standing by the door, dressed for work. I am naked.

I search his eyes. ‘Do you understand? Really?’

His reply is calm and solid as oak. ‘Rua, Maura planned all this. She was a crafty old fox. Glenmactire is leverage. There is really only one choice. Stick to you guns, remember?’

He winks and we share a smile before he leaves. I pick up the phone in front of me and press the preset number.

My mother’s voice answers. She sounds exhausted. ‘What is it you want?’

My words are liberating. ‘I want to make a deal.’

***

The urn opens with a sigh and I step closer to the precipice. A tendril of powder lifts away in the wind. I raise my arms higher and tilt the urn towards the airstream. A braided twister of ash pours out like a long sigh. The urn grows lighter and I feel it drawing me upwards. I am lifted onto my toes. I raise my arms over my head. A sustained stream of cinders and ash rushes into the draught. I gaze up at the last embers glittering in the high sunlight. The urn falls silent. I am suddenly dizzy and falling forward, too close to the edge. The abyss below yawns open. Gravity has me. I see the rocks. I will not float.

A pair of strong arms pull me back.

On The Hill

From:           Tony O’Leary 

Created:        Tuesday, June 03, 2006 11:45:GMT

To:               Clara O’Leary

Subject:        On The Hill

 

Dear Clara,

 

There are about fifteen people here now. Some of them have brought their drinks up from Queens. Apparently it is an open bar down there and everyone is tuned to Radio One. Terry Wogan has remained on-air, feeding us traffic reports and spreading a cloak of routine over the whole mess. We all agree he is a consummate professional. If by some miracle he survives this, he’s certain to get a Knighthood.

 

I hope you receive this before the server connection is lost. I have found a sunny spot right at the top of Primrose Hill, beside the viewing plaque. The grass beneath me feels like fresh, warm linen and London is spread out before me under a majestic, azure vault. I can see the Millennium Wheel, arrayed like a necklace on the horizon. I can even spot the green dome of St Paul’s rising from between the apartment blocks near Regents Park. Big Ben is glinting in the sunlight like a flaming sword. I can see St. Pancras Station and Westminster Cathedral too. You always loved this view.

 

I would love to send you a picture but I left the digital camera in the flat; it is too late to go back. I hobbled up here as fast as I could. (My last moment in that apartment, a place your mother and I shared for nearly twenty five years, was spent selecting a cane for my walk up the hill. I picked the one you gave me for Christmas, the crook cane with the Vietnamese dragon.) I am sitting here in the sun now with a bottle of Romanee Conti chilling in my backpack. I am enjoying a glass of it right now as I type.

 

Your mother is in Edinburg so she is safe. If you hear from her, tell her I said ‘Adieu’ and ‘Good Luck’.

 

Helicopters have started to fill the sky. The roads around the hill are quiet now but in every direction there is a growing cacophony of car horns and sirens, muffled by the distance and the heat of the day. Several cars have been abandoned on Regents Park Road. Down below, I can see a Land Cruiser tried its luck up on the pavement but got jammed on the railings at the turn. I can see smoke rising into the sky from Chalk Farm Road.

 

I did not expect to meet anyone up here. But it appears that I am not the only one who has decided to face this with dignity and a modicum of typical London restraint and poise. Richard and Adam from the beauty saloon have joined me. Richard says everything will be fine and this is all just a hoax but Adam is shaking so badly that he cannot dial his parents number in Oxford; Richard is helping him. I’ve told them they should get off the hill and out of the line of sight but they have politely refused. I’ve just remembered that Adam is already very sick. I wonder how he feels about Richard joining him. I have to say, it is nice to have someone familiar up here with me. We’re all sharing my wine as I type this.

 

Adam cannot get through. All the lines must be jammed. I saving this email onto our server in Berlin; it should get to you if the company satelite stays on-line long enough.

 

Richard is counting the Army helicopters; it is like a game. We can see twelve at the moment. They are all down by the Thames, hovering and swooping, hopelessly hunting. Their rotors are flickering like fine intricate wings in the sunlight. It would be a beautiful sight if the circumstances were not so appalling, so desperate.

 

My word. That was impressive: two Tornado jets have just screamed right overhead. They’ve banking to the south now. Richard thinks they’re heading over to support the search parties near St Paul’s Cathedral. We’ve already lost them in the sun.

 

There is a horn blaring somewhere in the distance. Someone in the bar told Adam that the keepers in London Zoo have opened the roof of the Aviary but none of the birds will fly away. Someone is trying to scare them off with a klaxon. That is very gallant but I believe it’s futile; the creatures won’t be able to escape very far. (I haven’t shared this opinion with the others).

 

Do you remember meeting Alice the last time you were here? She is the young woman from the apartment below mine. You might remember her from the book launch. She has just arrived with her cello. She is a music student originally from Finsbury Park. I’ve heard her play from the roof garden many times and she is a fine musician. Her pieces are always very thoughtful. If she starts playing, I do not think I will be able to stand it.

 

At the moment, there is a serene calm up here on the hill, fuelled by simple hope and complex disbelief. You would be forgiven for thinking we are all attending a picnic. Perhaps the Blitz survivors bred into Londoners an ability to face imminent disaster with stoic humour. Maybe I am watching a genetic fragment asserting itself.

 

I know this sounds strange, but I wish you were here! You are always so clear-headed in a crisis, particularly for someone so young! Of course, your decision to move to New Zealand is now revealed to be an inspired choice. World events have stepped right in between us. I hope you receive this last little dash for your affections. It does seem, however, that this crisis has robbed you of the last word.

 

Terry Wogan has told us that the deadline is indeed twelve noon. That is only six minutes away. Army helicopters have joined the tumbling mirth. Some are continuing to search around the river, but there are larger ones – Chinnooks, I believe – which are disappearing towards the horizon. I do hope they make it.

 

Adam has started praying aloud. It sounds more like a mantra then a plea for divine intercession. Somehow, I do not think he has God’s attention at the moment. I wonder if these other men have God on their side? They certainly believe so. There was an abundant amount in their message about punishment by Heavenly fire. I deserve retribution for some of the things I’ve done in my life. Compared to me, everyone else here on this hill is an innocent lamb…

 

Excuse me. I don’t want to spend my last few minutes discussing politics and religion! I have spent my whole life engaged in those chattering arguments but now I just want to talk of you and drink my wine until matters are decided. Three minutes left.

 

Not long now so let me get to my point.

 

I am proud of the life I’ve led. Without sounding too pompous, I believe it would have made a very interesting read. I have achieved a lot. But you, dear Clara, are my greatest triumph, my masterpiece! I think this ocassion calls for the whole truth, so here goes. I am not completely calm at the moment; I feel excited! I do not have a death wish, but if I am to leave this world today, then this manner suits me just fine: a blinding flash of light with the calming and composing knowledge that you will live on. That is something I will not mind at all. Not everyone gets a chance to say goodbye.

 

This wine is truly delicious.

 

I am reminiscing now. I can remember that weekend we had with your mother in Bundoran, just after your finals. I know the weekend itself ended in disaster but do you remember that first morning? We woke up with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the dogs aching to get outside; they went berserk in the tiny hallway. I can remember the sand dunes bright in the dawn light and the sweet taste of the Atlantic spray on my lips as we walked along the beach towards the village for breakfast. That was the closest to Heaven I will ever be. Just knowing that a place like that existed and will continue to exist after this damned city and this damned old man are vaporized is a wonderful, shining thought.

 

The last time we parted company, you said I was like London. I asked you what you meant and you said: “Ancient. Dogged. With short fits of artistic combustion and flair.” You were right, my dear. Will you be my Diaspora?

 

Aha. Alice has begun playing Mozart’s Fourth. The notes are filling all the gaps between the trees. She is drowning out the booming jets overhead. I can no longer hear the wailing alarms, the racketting helicopters or the quiet sobbing.

 

I feel free. I will lift my glass to you, my darling daughter.

 

*** check bit failure and signal interrupt ***

*** primary source anomaly at 12:00:03 GMT ***

*** server connection lost ***

 

 

 

Rose Unexpected

(this story was one of the first things I ever wrote; 1982)

Rose pushed with all her might. The tiger’s eye of the oak door opened just wide enough for her to slip through before it slammed shut. The hallway within was tall and thin. Dust beams of airless light leaned down from the windows above the door. Rose brushed a curl of blonde hair from her eyes and stared up the staircase into the darkness.

 

Now would be a good time to open the shoebox and find out what lay within, she thought. Her mother had sealed the box tightly with red ribbon and issued a dire warning to deliver the package unopened. But here Rose realised that she was hidden from her mother and the rushing city centre traffic. She could sit on this bottom stair, pluck open the lid and perhaps this whole, strange adventure might begin to make some sense. But as she stood contemplating this wicked idea, she felt eyes watching her from the down the short, black corridor and the silence began to gather in her head like a thunder cloud, ready to burst. She decided not to open the box and hurried up the stairs instead.

 

She was fiercely aware that this was the first time she had come here by herself. In the past, Granddad would take her, stopping at a few pubs along the way. He would take his time and always halt half way up the stairs to let his breath catch up with him, as he put it. She missed those bright, rainy Sundays. On the way home, he would sit on a bench near the bridge in the park and she would toss bread to the ducks while the sun sank behind the cold, high buildings across the road and the sky turned red with blood and the trees black with shadows. But today she was on her own.

 

She felt ghosts breathing on her neck as she climbed further away from the pools of sunlight below. The wallpaper under her hand was yellow and brittle. Greasy spots climbed like spider webs in the corners near the ceiling.

 

She stopped near the top and glanced back down. The sunlight from the street outside made a square patch of gold on the carpet miles below and the distance made her head dizzy. She almost fell backwards before grabbing a stair rod and clambering onto the landing.

 

The hallway was cold, like walking down a well. She wanted her coat. She felt the darkness follow her, looming behind like an avalanche. By the time she got to Mr. McNally’s office, she was rushing and could not bring herself to look behind her.

 

She knocked and a voice called her in. Moist and almost soft, the doorknob slipped from her grasp. She pressed the shoebox to the door with her belly and took the handle with both fists. Groaning with relief, she fell through the door, grabbing the shoebox before it hit the floor.

 

The office within was warm and stuffy, like returning to a duvet in the morning. Paper and books clutched the walls like lichen. The ceiling was stained and grey with an enormous chandelier in the middle, full of diamonds. The wide-open window was white and roared with traffic. Thin clouds slipped into the room like shadows, stinking of garages and gasoline.

 

‘Rose? I didn’t expect you so soon!’ A balding man called to her from behind an enormous desk that was thrown like a dead horse near the far wall. He was round and smooth, like an uncooked bun, with wisps of black hair sticking up.

 

‘Welcome. Do you have something for me?’ His eyes, black pinholes hidden at random in the folds of his face, shone like ink as his leaned over her. His breath, stale and bitter, made her step back. ‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’

 

‘Mr. McNally. My Mammy told me to give you this because my Granddad couldn’t bring it.’ She handed him the shoebox. ‘He’s gone away.’

 

McNally became very grave. ‘Yes, he has. Do you not remember me at your house last Sunday?’

 

‘No. I was sent to bed early, but there were lots of people there. I heard them all night.’ It had been a strange day. Rose had not been allowed into the living room. Early in the morning, her Auntie Angus from Tralee had dressed in her church clothes. After a long Mass, she was brought home. The house was empty and she rattled around in her room, forgotten. Dozens of people came to visit. They filled the house like flotsam in a flooded river, floating between the kitchen and the living room and swirling around in the hallway. Later, she had watched from the landing as a teeming but aimless pool of people gazed through the door into the living room. The house filled with a steady droning mutter, like the way you speak in the back of the church, before Jesus can see you and you have to stop talking altogether. Total strangers would answer the door and allow other strangers into the house. Rose had spotted Jimmy McGiven, the butcher, walking around, but almost did not recognise him. He looked different, dressed in a black suit instead of his usual red, white and blood. Everyone walked around with black pints in their hands. It had been an extraordinary day and Rose had got sleepy very early. That night, she had dreamt of singing, but she knew her mother never allowed it in the house.

 

Mr NcNally had returned to his seat. ‘Yes,’ he said, emptying the contents of the box onto the blotter. ‘Yes, it was quite a send off. Now, what do we have here?’

 

The traffic lights changed on the street below and another cloud of smoke rolled into the room. Rose walked to the window, climbed up onto a stool and slammed the window shut, cutting off the roar and breath of the city. The old man watched in silence as she marched to the door and used the stool to prop it wide open. Fresh air began to circulate into the room.

 

‘Ah. Good girl, Rose. Good thinking.’

 

Rose gripped the edge of the desk and stood on her tiptoes. Several bundles of tissue paper were lying there. She watched his fingers unwrap them. Three rings, two gold and one silver, fell out from the first one. Rose was amazed. It was like watching a magic trick.

 

Mr McNally produced a magnifying glass shaped like a thimble and squeezed it into his eye. Before today, she had never stood this close to McNally. Rose watched his face, fascinated by the folds and tucks. She supposed he looked kind and he had always smiled with Granddad, talking as they did their business. For some reason, she had expected him to ask her questions, but he ignored her completely. Instead, he slid the desk lamp closer and the green glass head joined his to study the jewellery in silence.

 

After a while, he turned to the next package and picked it open. A gold pocket watch toppled out and her eyes grew wide with recognition. ‘That’s Granddad’s watch, ‘ she whispered, amazed. It was the last thing she had expected to see.

 

‘Indeed it is.’ McNally did not look up. His fingers were short and piggy but proved to be surprisingly nimble as he plucked open the case. ‘Well, it used to be his, Rose,’ he said as he idly examined the face. ‘Your Mammy wants me to have it now. He doesn’t need it anymore.’

 

‘But he’ll want it when he comes back.’ She insisted. After a moment, McNally looked at her and smiled with pain. She could see his eye through the glass, white and soft with veins of red.

 

‘Perhaps. But that will not be for a long time, Rose. Now shush.’ He put the watch aside and reached for the last item. Two pea-sized nuggets of yellow tiptoed across the blotter. They looked like teeth.

 

McNally froze. ‘My goodness,’ he whispered, smiling this time in a completely different way. ‘How’d she get her hands on these?’ He leaned closer and rolled the strange objects with his little finger. He laughed and they winked back at him from under the light. Rose did not notice; she was staring at the watch.

 

‘Granddad said I could have his watch. I swear, one day in the park. He was teaching me the time.’

 

‘Shush girl. Do not interrupt.’

 

‘But why do you get to keep it? Why can’t I have it? He said…’ She felt her eyes sting and she remembered how much she missed her Granddad. She felt her tummy flip over to reveal a green underbelly of sick.

 

McNally was rooting in another drawer. ‘Quiet girl. Now I’m going to give your mother a good price for these, but you have to go straight home. Don’t stop at your friends and don’t show anyone the envelope. Do you understand?’

 

‘May I keep the watch, Mr. McNally? There’s been a mistake. My Granddad wanted me to mind it for him until he comes home.’ She felt her voice crack and she felt dry, like a bone in the yard left by the dogs.

 

‘Stop it, girl.’ The sudden sharp edge to his voice made her blink. ‘You can’t have it. Your mother needs the money and it is not your place to interfere.’ He waved a finger at her, getting angry and uncomfortable.

 

She felt her toes curl and she could not think of anything to say. Tears grew and she looked away. McNally shook his head. ‘Family of miscreants.’ He began counting notes out onto the desk.

 

‘Please, Mr. McNally. Granddad will be gone for a long time, Mammy says. Please let me have it.’

 

Rose felt panic rise in her chest, hot and barbed. But she could see that he was ignoring her. His lips moved silently in the shadow above the lamp, still counting the money.

 

An impulse gripped Rose. She felt her body move beneath her as if someone had tied puppet strings to her legs and arms. Leaping up across the table, her feet dangling, she reached across the blotter and grabbed the watch. The chain dripped from her hand and her arm rose as she slid backwards. McNally’s face formed a round silent O as her elbow hit the desk lamp. It joined Rose as she fell back, tilting over the side and smashing like a puddle on the floor.

 

McNally was rising from his chair, exploding, his face red, his eyes bulging out like ripe fruit. With a flock of wild birds hammering in her chest, Rose turned on her heels and raced out the open door and down the hallway. She stopped at the stairs and looked back into the office. It looked like a tiny cage of light. McNally was struggling to get out from behind the desk. The plangent roaring of his voice carried her down the stairs and out into the glorious sunshine.

LBC

As he arrived, lightning ignited the darkness outside the second floor windows of the Rotunda. My wife, the soldier in battle, takes heaving breaths while the nurses voices grow strident and their hands delved. I am standing close, keeping eye-contact with her, holding a pillow. His tiny figure meets the light. And the silence. The nurses fuss over him for a moment and then they leave the three of us in the half-light. We hold him and call him a silly moo. He is so big, so perfect. So still. My wife brushes his head with her fingers and whispers to him. “Shush,” she says. “Good boy. Shush.” We call him Loman.

 

*

 

I am fourteen, skate-boarding down the steep driveway in the summer sun, over and over again, blissful in my solitude. I never had a chance to avoid the flat stone that sailed over the hedge, so perfectly timed, spinning flat for a neat trajectory that clipped me on the forehead and sent a spray of blood into the air and the skateboard over the wall. I open my eyes, shrouded in red, to see my brother standing over me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t tell Dad.” He is pulling my limp arm but his white, round eyes are on the house.

 

He moves to England for a few years and returns in a red Lancia Delta and spends another year pretending to attend art design college before the ruse is discovered. He writes off the car at a junction in the middle of the night. His room is draped in smoke and sweat. Vinyl albums litter the floor. They don’t kick him out; he simply disappears into the West, minding summer homes for his rich friends. He writes three chapters of something. He writes about the winter tides rising towards him in the candle-light cast in the windows of other people’s houses.

 

He visits for Christmas, shuffling around my wife in the kitchen, raging about Russia and America and Syria. At a party one night, I overhear him explain The God Particle to someone. How it was discovered by two men: Higgs and Boson. He wears torn jeans and his hands shake. He almost never leaves.

 

*

 

The ICU should be in orbit. The blue floor is worn pale by decades of urgency and fear and elation. But there is none of that for us today. We have gathered around our father’s unrecognisable form. He has sprouted roots and branches, a forest of plastic tubes and wheels. His lungs rise and fall but he is not breathing; it is a facsimile of breath. A convincing but hopeless illusion.

 

We must wait for my brother. He updates us with his progress – if Godot had a Samsung. He is outside. He is having a smoke. He is moving the car. He is lost. He is here.

 

We stand around our fallen father’s flattened form while nurses press buttons and leave. The machines cease their counterfeit efforts. The room falls silent. My wife squeezes my hand. “It’s ok,” she whispers. “He’s joining your mother. His brothers.”

 

I look at her, my soldier. “And Loman.”

 

Her smile is like a dawn. “Yes. And Loman.”

 

My brother looks at me, across the gulf between us.

 

“Who’s Loman?”