Bullfighting (6 page)

And that was what went through my head the morning I found the rat.

I shut the kitchen door. And I leaned back against it. I had to force myself to breathe. To remember – to
breathe
. In, out. In, out. My heart was pounding, Jesus, like the worst hangover I'd ever had. It was sore. Really sore, now – like a heart attack. Huge in my chest. And I leaned against the kitchen door.

Just out there, out in the hall. In, out. In, out. My very educated mother. My very educated mother. And when I got the breathing together, I went back in. I went in and I had another look, to make sure I'd actually seen what I'd seen. I was half sure there'd be nothing there. It was a bit of brown paper, a wrapper or something, one of the baby's furry toys. Or even nothing at all. A shadow. It was just about dawn, the blinds were open. Any of the things on the windowsill could have made a shadow. At that hour of the morning. I took the long way. Instead of going straight for the fridge, the direct route. I came around here, to this side of the counter. I was scared, yeah. I'm not going to
not
admit that. But I wanted to
see
, to be absolutely sure. To see it from a distance and an angle. To be absolutely positive.

And, yeah, it was there. In under the pull-out larder. A rat. A dead fuckin' rat. A huge fucker.

Lying there.

And I still couldn't accept it. I couldn't – comprehend it. I was staring at the fuckin' thing. There was nothing else, in my head, in the world, just that thing lying there, under my pull-out larder, that I installed myself – that was my own fuckin' idea – and I couldn't get to grips with the situation. I couldn't just say to myself,—That's a rat there, Terry, and you'd want to think about getting rid of it.

No. I couldn't organise myself. I couldn't
think
. I walked out and shut the door again. I was going to go back in and go through it all over again.

And then I heard him. The baby. Inside in the sitting room.

And I kind of cracked up.

It was only a few inches from my feet; did I tell you that? Yeah. Two, three inches. Making the coffee, I was. Good, strong coffee. I picked up the habit in America, in Florida, on the holliers. Orlando. Before the baby. He was conceived there, actually, now that I think of it. During a storm. Thunder, lightning. It was something else; you'd never see it here. And good music on the radio at the same time. Good seventies stuff, you know.
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
. It all seemed to fit. The music and the weather. Even though it was pissing outside and he was singing about the desert. But it was American. And we were
there
. Myself and herself, after all those years. And that kind of explains why we've one child that's eight years younger than the others. He's a souvenir, God love him. Him and the coffee.

Anyway, I'm making the coffee. I've done the plunger bit and I've gone to the fridge for the milk. I drop the spoon, and I'm halfway down to picking it up when I see it. The fuckin' spoon was right beside it. It's probably the first time I ever dropped a spoon in my life. I
don't
drop things.

Anyway, I'm leaning against the kitchen door and I hear the baby chatting to himself in the sitting room. That's when I get really upset. I'm nearly crying, I don't mind admitting it. But I'm also thinking, and I'm straight back into the kitchen. I'm thinking, deciding.

—Terry, I'm saying, out loud for all I know.—Action stations. Let's get rid of the cunt. Gloves and bag. Gloves and bag.

I shut the door behind me, to make sure himself doesn't come in and see it on the floor or me with it in my hand. I go over to the press where she keeps the plastic bags. She's mad into the environment, dead keen. We've a whole house full of plastic bags. Anyway, so far, so good. I'm doing something. I'm in control. The press is over there. The one under the sink. Well away from your man on the floor. There's no need for me to go too near him yet. I'm assuming he was a male. It's hard to imagine that there'd be such a thing as a female rat. But that's just me being stupid. Let's just say it was a male; it's easier for me. I had go past him, whatever sex he was. But I didn't have to look at him, to get to the sink. I go straight over and I have the door open before it dawns on me that he might have friends in the vicinity. Fuckin' hell, I nearly shat myself; I nearly fell into the press. But it was empty; it was grand. No sign of disorder, claws, droppings – it was grand. I take out four of the bags. There's hundreds of them in there. And one of the big black bin ones. I shake out the bags and put them on the counter, one, and one, and one, and the last one. Really fast now, no procrastinating. No way. Not with the baby in the room next door.

That's the problem, to an extent. He's not a baby, really. Not any more. He stood up about a year ago, without bothering to crawl first. Up he gets, using the couch and my leg to hoist himself, and he's been flying around the place ever since, except when he falls over asleep. We just call him the baby. He'll probably be the last, so he'll be the baby for a while yet. Even though he's built like a shithouse and he'll probably be shaving before the end of the year, the speed he's growing. He'll be the last, I'd say. She swings a bit but I'm fairly certain.

So, on with the gloves. Yellow Marigolds, way too small for me. I have to force them on but the only alternative is picking him up with my bare hands and that possibility doesn't even occur to me. So, I'm all set. I turn to face him. But, God, I feel very exposed. I'm only in my dressing gown. This one here is new, from herself for the anniversary. Eighteen years. I got her a brooch. Doesn't sound like much but it's very nice.

Anyway, it wasn't really the dressing gown. It was the feet. I was in my bare feet. I hadn't bought these yokes here yet. The slippers. I know the rat was dead and not particularly interested in biting my toe or having a look under my dressing gown. But, still, I didn't feel ready for battle. Even if the enemy was dead and stiff. I hated myself then. That was the lowest, really. I couldn't move. I couldn't do what I was supposed to do. I stared down at your man on the floor. In under the pull-out. He was lying on his side. No teeth showing, no grimace, you know, nothing like agony or anger. He was just quietly dead. But I couldn't bend down and pick him up. I just couldn't do it. My home, my pull-out, my family, my little son next door in the sitting room, this bastard had come into my home –
how
is another story – and I couldn't just bend down, pick the cunt up and throw him in a bag.

I really let myself down.

Then I did it.

Just like that. I bent down. I put my hand around him. He was stiff, solid, like wood or metal with a bit of weight on it. Or one of those Transformers toys, but heavier. And I could feel him, even with the gloves on. Cold. Cold and hard. I couldn't feel the hair, thank God. I dropped him into the first plastic bag. And I tied it at the top. Into the next bag, and the next one, and the next, and into the black bag. Then I took him out to the shed. It was cold out there, and still a bit dark, like now. But I still did it, in my bare feet. Just to have him properly out of the way. And I came back in here.

And then – and I'm a bit proud of this – I decided to go ahead with my coffee. Mission accomplished, the worst was over. I'd just carried a dead rat from here to there. I'd sorted out the problem, done what I was supposed to do. I opened the kitchen door again, and I realised that I was still wearing the rubber gloves. So I was taking them off and deciding what to do with them when he came in looking for his breakfast.

And that, I suppose, is what really got me thinking. Really thinking. Not just reacting to the crisis, getting rid of the rat. It went beyond the rat. The rat isn't really involved.

That's my arse. Of course the rat's involved. The rat's to blame.

It's hard to explain.

Look. I never owned a pair of slippers in my life. Now, I fuckin' need them. I got these ones in Clery's. They're alright. They're grand. But I never wanted them. I never fuckin' wanted them. I never wanted to be a man who wore slippers. I always liked the feel of the house under my feet. Get into a pair of slippers and you're fucked; your life is over. That's what I've always felt, since I was a teenager and my father got a pair from our granny and he put them on, sat down in his chair in the corner and never got up again. I mean, he did get up. He went to work, he went into the kitchen and up to the jacks. But that was it: he was old. It got to the point where he wouldn't say hello when he came home from work. He wouldn't acknowledge the family, my mother, until after his feet were safe inside the slippers. We weren't getting on at the time. A bit like me and my eldest now, actually. And everything I hated about him, about myself, about everything, I aimed at those slippers. And now here's me, after buying my own slippers. I've no one to blame but myself. And the rat.

But it's not just the rat and the slippers. Not really. Look it, I'm forty-two. I don't mind. I was forty-one last year, I'll be forty-three next year. I'm not the worst-looking man in the world. There are lads that work with me ten years younger, and they're in bits. I'm Leonardo DiCaprio standing beside some of those cunts.

And I read. I'm interested in the world. I still get excited about things. I still love watching her brushing her teeth, for example. I still want to go over and clean her mouth out with my tongue, just like I wanted to, and did, from day one. And she still knows it. And other things too.

But I'm forty-two. I'm middle-aged. That's a mathematical fact. In fact, more than half my life is over. So my eldest told me, which was fuckin' charming. The last time she said anything to me. Something about statistics they were doing in school. But, really, it was because I won't let her watch
Trainspotting
. It's a good film but she's still too young. That was what I told her. Next year, probably. Which I thought was reasonable. It's a good film, like I said. But there's too much in it that's not – okay, suitable. Unfortunately, that was the word I used. ‘Suitable.' Her face, Jesus. It hurt. Maybe I'm just being stupid; I don't know. She's nearly seventeen. Anyway, that was when she informed me that my life was more than half over.

But that's not the point. Middle age. The midlife crisis. Whatever you want to call it. I was forty-two when I saw the rat. I'd still be forty-two if I'd never seen it. Okay, I'm after getting myself a pair of slippers but I don't believe that they have evil powers. They haven't made me grow old all of the sudden.

No.

What has really rattled me, what has changed my life, to the extent that it'll probably never be the same again, is the question that came into my head when the little lad came into the kitchen wanting his breakfast.

—Cry-babies, he says.

That's what he calls Rice Krispies. It'd break your heart. Bright as a button.

—Cry-babies, Dada.

And me trying to take off the rubber gloves.

What if?

That was it.

What if. What if he'd been the first one to come into the kitchen? What if he'd picked it up? What if it hadn't been dead? It goes on and on, backwards and forwards, right through everything. There's no end to it. It won't go away and it's not going to go away, and I don't know if I can cope.

 

I've never been a great sleeper. I don't know about when I was a kid. I don't remember. I suppose I was normal. But since then, especially in the last few years, I've got by on very little. Even in the days when I drank a bit, I still got up early, even when my head was hopping. I never liked lying in bed. I'd go down to the kitchen and stick my mouth under the cold tap until I could feel the water negotiating with the hangover. That was as much of a cure as I needed, until a few years ago and I began to feel it a bit more. I've always managed on four or five hours' sleep. And I rarely feel the lack.

I don't drink at all now. I gave up a couple of years back. I just gave up; nothing dramatic. I'd no real taste for it any more. Not that I was a big drinker. Just the three or four pints. That was what I settled down to after I got married and the kids started arriving. Not every night either; a couple of times a week. Then once a week. And then I stopped going altogether. I got lazy. I'd go down to the local and the lads I knew, the ones I really liked, wouldn't be there. They'd gotten lazy like me, I suppose, and there was one of them died. The hangovers, with the kids and that, they just weren't worth it any more. Especially when the lads stopped coming down – after Frankie died, really. Enough was enough. If we go out for a meal, me and her, I'll have a glass of wine but I'm just as happy with a 7-UP.

But back to the sleep thing. The night after I found the rat, I slept as much and as well as I usually do. I just slept. I didn't dream about rats, as far as I know, and I didn't wake up screaming. I just woke up. As usual. I felt a bit robbed, as usual, with the feeling that I could have done with an extra half-hour. I grabbed the book from beside the bed and got up. I went through the whole routine, exactly as I'd done the morning before and every morning before that, going back years.

But it was different. There was the world of difference. I turned on the lights as I came down, which I usually wouldn't have done. But you'd expect that, after the shock I'd had the day before. I gave the door over there an almighty clatter before I came in. Again, that's only to be expected. Even though I knew there were no more rats. The pest control lads had given the place a good going-over the day before. I'd had to go to work but she told me all about it when I got home and when I'd phoned her earlier during the day.