A novella, or short story, in a series of installments.
Part I: The feast of Stephen.
Drafted again. Another fucking relative. And no occasion for false consolation. None of this, “he died in his sleep”, “sure, he didn’t suffer”, or “he had a quare long life, sure” – none of that. Dominic died slowly, from leukaemia, and he suffered, by fuck did he suffer. He was only forty seven, the poor fucker, only forty seven, and he’d spent most of that in jail with loyalist psychos because of a string of armed robberies. His wife, Auntie Margo, had been eighteen years his senior, but her vivacity had prevented this from being a barrier to their fling, and marriage. That was only two years ago. Now she looked frazzled, washed out, almost deader than he was. Most of their marriage had been spent with him being diagnosed, then going through a series of treatments, each of which seemed to logarithmically accelerate his degeneration. They had clung on to the dwindling odds of remission until the poor bastard expired his last puff of air. And there were a lot of people who had once called him all the sleekit bastards and scums of the earth under the sun now commending his memory to their pint glasses.
Stephen was compelled, by the usual motive of not wanting to cause a fuss, to be present at this charade. The worst of it was that it was Boxing Day, and he had fully intended to spend it drinking cheap cider and watching a series of videos based on the theme of someone with extreme martial arts skills avenging some dishonour. But he wouldn’t be that fucking lucky. He listened with insincere indulgence to Rob and Jackie, his uncle and brother-in-law respectively, as they exhaled self-righteous horseshit about the drug dealers in the Stiles and Rathenraw estates. “That’s some dirty wee cunts,” Rob divulged, “sellin drugs tae the wee’uns so they get thum hooked fer life. See if I was in charge of the polis, I’d have squads on dawn raids in them estates until they get the fuckin message. And you know what it is, like? The fuckin IRA’s got that estate under the screw, n has them wee lads out runnin drug errands fer them as soon as they’ve dropped a ballick, like. Fascist bastards.” And so, tediously, on.
It was not that there were no drugs on the estates, nor would Stephen resist the very strong possibility that the IRA extracted rent from their supply. It was just that he knew perfectly well that this had nothing to do with the ire of his interlocutors. They were just pissed off at the idea of kids having a good time. And they knew fuck all about it. He’d heard their ignorant rants about ecstasy many times, which he’d also listened to with a forced smile and wordless acquiescence. “Fuckin killer drug, that ecstasy the wee’uns ur on nigh! I fuckin knew a felly who’d took one tab ay it, fuckin collapsed on the spot and ended up in A&E with an organ infarction. They had tae give him a new liver!” There was actually no subject this pair could not opine about with confidence and an immediate set of Real Life references to back them up. Whatever it was, someone they knew had been there, and they didn’t fuckin like it. Like.
Stephen shuddered to imagine the deadpan fuckwitteries this pair exchanged on a daily basis. They worked together as a painting and decorating firm. The worst of it was that they would soon be in a position to hire other workers, who they would treat exactly as they did younger family members. This would inevitably involve the routine dispensation of stern moral guidance, underwritten by a tacit threat of violence. Their most devoutly held wish for Stephen was that he get out on the fuckin town and find a nice wee girl, like. Take her home, ride her sideways. “And,” Jackie invariably added with a wink and a violent nudge to the ribs, “give me a bell if you’ve any trouble finishin’ the job!” Stephen took this shit because the alternative was to have a scene, and potentially to be assaulted by a relative, and end up being blamed by his family for the whole thing.
Once, Stephen had dreamed of fleeing, getting out of the six counties and their suffocating atmosphere of decline, failure, introspection, paranoia and pathological obsessions. Now he couldn’t even imagine getting out of Antrim. This miserable dependency of a sub-country, with its sub-sapient sub-culture, left its residue of unaspiring parochialism on every one who didn’t escape. And it wasn’t that the aspirations he had shed were careerist ones. Merely to socialise with people who were normally adjusted, who had never considered it normal to speak of ‘poofs’ or ‘pakis’, and who didn’t know grown men who behaved like insecure adolescents whenever their masculinity was obliquely challenged – mon ahead then ya bawstard, mon da fuck, I’ll knack yer ballicks in for ye – this would be something. But having pissed away his ‘A’ Levels and failed to act on his UCAS forms to get into a University, he considered himself fortunate to have his job at the library in Randalstown.
He commuted to and from work aboard a slow, dirty, Leyland bus – the lesser spotted blue and white striped northern Irish Ulsterbus, omnibus rex - enjoying the journey through a pastoral segue between the two towns. The lush fields surrounded by mortar and stone walls, and punctuated by antique cottages formed a rustic, pacific, restful tableau that was only infrequently disturbed by the imperial bunting and the union colours painted on lamp posts and kerbs.
Randalstown itself was a dirty little town devoid of any remaining industrial core, but it bordered some attractive forest that Stephen liked to walk through, and sat astride the River Braid, whose flush and flow he liked to sit and gaze it. It was a quiet, anaesthetizing place. Working with books imparted, he liked to think, a scholarly aspect to him – even if he only stacked shelves. He did read, borrowing books he liked the look of by the half dozen. But he digested only fitfully, taking in small passages of interest while drinking cans of cheap lager and eating microwaved pizzas. As a result, he acquired a repertoire of half-formed ideas, vaguely comprehended sentences which permitted him to occasionally adopt a studious pose in the right company. Not that the pretence would ever be challenged. People pitied him for what they called his ‘brains’. Or they just pitied him, full stop.
People kept thrusting cans of warm beer at him, not pausing to notice the nearly full pint glass that he was cradling. Stephen just kept setting them down on the table amid the half-eaten sandwiches and cold poultry. He was trying not to get pished. If he got pished, he would open his mouth, and it would be a fucking train-wreck. He extricated himself from the conversation with Rob and Jackie. His teary-eyed mother saw him and pressed her mouth into a tight, grim smile. He nodded, stepped over his father – who was himself almost completely wrecked and arguing volubly with a couple of his uncles – and retreated to the bathroom. The door didn’t have a lock. This was something he hated about his parents’ house. Because whenever there was a birthday, a wedding or a funeral, any time you went for a slash there was always a strong chance that you’d be interrupted by some soused prat with an equally weak bladder. “Eh, shorry mate, like, eh, ye gonnae be long, like? Eh...”
He micturated a tiny trickle into the bowl, but didn’t flush in case anyone took that as a cue to assume that the bathroom would be free, and come up the stairs. He stood before the mirror, and tried to unruffle his appearance. Bags under the eyes and a slouched comportment made him look world-weary – he was only twenty-three! He should look full of fucking beans! The dandruff, bane of his existence, stood out on his black sweater like he was under a fucking ultra-violet light. He swept it away, tidied his hair, and washed his face.
Towelling the moisture away, he noticed a dark red lipstick sitting out on the tiled window sill, the moist, waxy cylinder exposed. His mother’s. She had obviously applied her ‘face’ in a rush, after preparing the snacks and sandwiches for the wake. He still wasn’t sure quite why this had the effect it did on him. He felt giddy, and stirred with arousal. The impulse was to smear it on his own mouth, just to see what it felt like. But he had always felt that acting on that urge would be a death sentence. He could just imagine being caught, and the kinds of people who would consider such predilections a reason to pan his head in with a lead pipe. Such mangled gender wiring, if that’s what it was, was a confusion too far. He stood, motionless, barely breathing, swallowing, his eyes fixed rigidly on the objet petit a, the little thing that structured a whole inner fantasy life. And then there was a light knock on the door.
“Stephen?” His mother. “Ye comin doinsturs, love? There’s people that want tae say hello.”
“Aye, I’ll be thur in a second.” He said, adopting a slightly gruff tone of voice, as if to ward off any impression that he might be a secret sissy. But it only added to his confused state of self-loathing when he realised that he’d actually imitated his father’s own gruff Belfast cadences.
“Eh, awright love...” His mother disappeared, probably as unconvinced by his performance of brusque masculinity as he was. Oh Christ. He took a deep breath, fixed his jeans so that the still obtrusive erection wasn’t so jarringly apparent, then made his way doinsturs. Instead of joining the wake, however, he slipped into the deserted sitting room to watch the television. He picked a video to watch, and pulled a beer out of one of the twenty-four packs next to the Christmas tree.
The alien invasion was just about to inconvenience Will Smith when Bam entered the room. His proper name was Barry, but even his mum called him Bam, and he’d occasionally heard it said “oh aye, he’s a bam awright”. The meaning of this escaped him, but he gathered the general implication that the lad, his younger cousin, was violently unstable. Which he was - or had been until the experience of ecstasy and raves had mellowed him out. He was one of the tens of thousands of northern Irish kids whose brush with the rave scene had neutralised a whole childhood of indoctrination and socialisation into violent self-assertion with a sectarian bent. He was now a gentle giant, a chilled out hippy with a shaved head. But there was something aggressive about it nonetheless, something of the born again Christian about him. Having achieved the heights of zen-like calm, he now believed he had a unique wisdom about other people’s emotions, and how they should be dealing with them. And from a look at him, Stephen could see he was in that proselytising mood.
“Awright Bam, what aboit ye?” He said, hamming up a Belfast accent that he usually didn’t have much trace of. There was something in his voice that people identified as posh, fuckin snobby like, or even English.
“Not bad, son, not bad. Fuckin scunnered aboit yer man’s pawssin, like, though its fur tae say we never saw eye tae eye. Yerself?”
“Yeah, I mean, aye,” Stephen fluffed. He was amused by Bam’s presumption – the idea that he and Dominic had ever had anything to see eye to eye about, or not. He had never spoke two words to him, and no one would have given a fuck about his opinion one way or the other. But there was something about this culture that led people to believe that it was a sign of maturity to disapprove of someone you didn’t know, to ventilate uninformed sanctimony, to be strongly opinionated in matters that didn’t fucking concern you.
“So, eh,” Bam said. Here it came. “How come yer not oit wi yer fawmly, like? Y’know, enjoyin the craic, havin a bevy?”
“Don’t feel like it,” he shrugged, trying to be amiable. It would be perfectly within his rights to tell this nosy, priggish, bossy bastard to get to fuck and mind his own business. But that, of course, could arouse the boy’s ire and get him lamped, and he would get the blame.
“C’mon, Stevo,” he said, chidingly. “It’s yer fawmly!” Yeah, my fucking family, and my fucking business, you irrelevant bag of fucking dog’s toss. Away and fuck yerself with a dipstick you daft bastard.
“I know, I know. Sure I’ll go back out in a while. Just wanna relax fir a wee bit, like. Y’know?” He said, almost beggingly. Leave me a-fucking-lone.
“But...” Bam’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darkened. His puzzlement was ominous. “Surely, you’d want tae, y’know, meet everyone and say hello... It does ye good tae express yerself...” His hands were curling into balls. Had he been sent in by someone, to draft him back into the commiserations and heavy drinking? His mother, maybe? Or was he literally just this thick and up himself?
“Don’t worry, mate,” Stephen tried to be placatory. “I’ll be back in a wee bit, honestly. No worries, pal.” Bam looked far from placated. He was ready to open his mouth again, when the door opened and yet another uncle, big Terry, the gangly red-faced farmer with cheeks the same texture, solidity and hue as the pipe he almost always had in his mouth, appeared. He was Bam’s dad.
“What’s gaun on here?” He said, his fierce brown eyes scanning the room. “You,” he motioned to Bam, “away ye go son. I want tae talk to Stevo here.”
“Hiya Terry,” Stephen said, trying to commix the correct proportions of bonhomie and funereal despondency.
“What aboit ye?” He said in reply, sitting down on the sofa, too close for comfort, and without any warmth in his demeanour. He lit his pipe, tossing the spent match at the fire place and sizing up Stephen with upturned eyes. “Listen to me, son, I’m not here to fuck around.” His long, bony, powerful hand gripped Stephen by the nape. “See if yer not back oit in that fuckin kitchen in two seconds flat, I’ll put you through that fuckin wall, n there’ll be another funeral today. Y’hear me? I’m not fuckin jokin, don’t you fuckin smile at me. Listen to me, son. I don’t like ye. I never have. I think yer a smart-arsed wee cunt. You were a bastard to yer ma and da as wee’un, thievin from every cunt under the sun. You’ve been nothin but trouble all yer life, n you’ve never done anythin with it. But yer a part ay this family, and that means you’re expected to fuckin well join in, ye anti-social wee cunt. You hear me?” He twisted Stephen’s head around to look directly into his eyes. “I’m not jokin.” He raised his fist under Stephen’s chin. “Get in that fuckin kitchen nigh!” Stephen gulped, his face whitening and moistening with sweat, his eyebrows creasing in disbelief. “Go!” Terry said, fiercely, and batted the back of Stephen’s head with a ferocious swipe. Stephen got up, but didn’t avoid the impact of the blow. He was almost in tears, but tried to put on a front for the rest of the family. He joined in. As he was told to. His mother looked at him with concern, as Terry followed him out of the sitting room. But she apparently decided that whatever had happened was for the best, and she handed Stephen a can of strong lager. He swallowed the warm, foamy, bitter liquid with big gulps. Terry was right. He was part of the family. He always would be.
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