Call Me the Breeze (48 page)

‘I don’t think you’re illiterate, Joey!’ was all I could hear as I walked away.

‘Leave it,’ I called back, ‘Mr university graduate! The
truth
, that’s what you’re gonna get this time around! The fucking
truth
, man, got it? Something that you’ll never know about, you or your travesty of a book, you and your dime novel ephemera!’

I think I must have knocked something over, glasses or some shit, for all you could hear was ‘
Oh
!’ and them all looking over as I stumbled
down the stairwell, the very last thing I heard being: ‘It just wasn’t quite good enough now, really!’ All these black cocktail dresses with shocked pale faces going ‘
Tsk! tsk! tsk
!’, shaking their heads as Bonehead shouted after me: ‘
Hey! Joesup! Wait for me
!’

Beaming with pride and pulling on his coat as the two of us fell out into the night. He threw his arm around me, with the traffic swooshing past, bawling: ‘
Ha ha, Farrell! You dirty auld fucker! You couldn’t write your fucking name! Haw, Joesup! Come on now, Rooster Cog-burn! Get up there, Moshe Dyan! The one and only Big Joey Tallon from fucking Mountjoy jail
!’

Of course, now that I can look back with some degree of objectivity, it’s plainly obvious that that isn’t strictly accurate — Bonehead’s somewhat ungenerous appraisal of Johnston’s literary abilities, I mean.

For, regardless of what I have said myself and what we might like to think, there is incontestably a certain amount of rigour and skill that’s necessary when you approach the writing of thrillers or crime novels —and, believe you me, neither happen to be in my possession. So, hats off to you then — however belatedly — Johnston Farrell, and all your midnight oil-burning fellow wordsmith travellers!

All I can say is, I hope you’re out there doing your job better than I’ve been managing here tonight! And that your publishers will endow you with wagonloads of cash, which I certainly won’t be getting for the discursive ramblings I’ve been tapping away at here for hours, regardless of my extensive researches in the depths of the famous ‘Archibe’ (!).

Perhaps what I ought to do the minute I’m finished is mail it off to Johnston, with a letter enclosed eating lots of humble pie. Thereby wheedling my way into having my story reinvented by a gifted, proven master! In particular, perhaps — if the maestro should deem it worthy! — the following little set piece. Anticipating his assent, already, somewhat grandiosely perhaps, entitled:

VISITORS AT DAWN!, from The Potato Head Visitation

The Candidate continued standing in the middle of the floor of his caravan thinking to himself about the next part of his novel, every so often raising his hand to caution his elderly neighbour, who was continuing to potter about noisily behind him as he made his way back to his desk, at which he then sat down to resume his labours. Not just a
little irritated by the persistent interruptions, which took the form of irritating coughs, unnecessarily loud sighs and the idle and deliberate squeaking of shoes. Eventually it reached the point where he could endure it no longer, snapping: ‘Will you for fuck’s sake sit down, Mangan! I told you I’ll be with you just as soon as I complete this sentence!’

For the briefest of seconds, he could have sworn he heard laughing in reponse to his injunctions. Not so much laughing as muffled chuckling, in fact. But almost instantaneously he dismissed such fanciful notions, his calm appraisal of the situation being that when you were up half the night typing, it was only to be expected that you might find yourself prone to the occasional lapse of judgement. Even to the extent of imagining … well, silly things, to put it mildly.

Such as
a chicken
, for example, aimlessly fluttering about your abode. Was it any wonder, he considered, that you might find yourself saying: ‘It’s absurd, these things you find yourself thinking when you fall victim to the unspoken pressures that tend to go along with creative work!’

Then, to your astonishment, discovering that you hadn’t been imagining them at all! Perceiving that there were already some feathers —plain to see! — decorating the cornflakes bowl and others coming floating down from the top of the wardrobe where the so-called ‘imaginary’ chicken was brashly flapping its wings. The Candidate, taken aback by this new ‘reality’, made sure to take a long hard look at the bird. It was scarlet in colour with a small rose comb and beneath its chin a livid quivering wattle. Where had it come from? Why, Mangan, the mischievous rascal, he suddenly realized, had obviously brought it along as a present!

Such noise in his life Joey had never heard coming out of any animal! He stood looking at it for another moment or so, considering what his approach might be to the situation. In the end he decided to confront Mangan — to clear his throat, then reprimand him forcibly. Which he was on the verge of doing when he heard a familiar voice.

‘It’s a Rhode Island Red, Joey,’ said Boyle Henry, pushing back the plastic mask.

The blood drained from Joey’s face as he saw the senator smile. His visitor contemplated an unlit Hamlet.

‘Did you hear a knock?’ he said impassively. He went over to the door.

‘Ah, hello there!’ he exclaimed breezily as he opened it.

Hoss Watson and Sandy were standing outside. Joey saw that Jacy was with them, pale in her imitation leather coat.

‘Look, Joey, it’s the Three Stooges,’ said Boyle. ‘Come on in out of the cold.’

She was as beautiful as ever, all right, even though she had put on a lot of weight and was dressed in a hooded jersey shirt and sweatpants. Her lovely blonde hair was black at the roots now and looked like it hadn’t been washed.

‘An old friend of yours, Joey. Remember her?’

‘Boyle, no!’ she pleaded anxiously. ‘Don’t go through with this! It’s unnecessary! Can’t we just go now, please?’

‘Go? What are you talking about, go? You have to say hello to your old friend, don’t you? You seemed very keen a couple of nights ago.’

‘I didn’t mean that. You talked me into it.’

‘Fucking women. Can’t stick with anything. Make a decision, then go and fucking change it. Hormones, maybe. But what the fuck. Come on now, Jacy. There’s a good girl.’

He shot Joey a glance. ‘You want her to stay here, don’t you, Joey?’

Before Joey could answer, Boyle gave Jacy a hug and said: ‘You see? Of course he does, baby! You two have a lot to talk about!’

He smiled over at Joey. ‘After all, it’s been a long time, Josie!’

Jacy averted her eyes and dragged on her cigarette.

‘Come on now, girl!’ barked Boyle Henry as he slapped her backside smartly. ‘Shape up out of that!’

He reached into the pocket of his cream-white suit and produced a cellophane package, winking over at Joey as he pulled up a chair.

The dawn had long since passed and everyone was a little bit drunk. Boyle hummed to himself as he poured himself some more vodka, before returning to combing the white powder. He asked Joey whether he would like a sniff.

‘No, Mr Henry, I’ve given drugs up,’ he replied.

Boyle sighed, looking pained. ‘Do you not approve? Is that what you’re saying?’ he asked.

Joey shook his head. ‘No. It’s got nothing to do with that. I’ve just given up, that’s all. For a long time now.’

‘Well, is that a fact?’ Boyle said.

‘Yes!’, blurted Joey, louder than he’d intended.

Boyle paused, then frowned. ‘Don’t get snotty now, Joey! That mightn’t be such a good idea!’

‘I’m not getting snotty,’ Joey protested.

‘It’s nice to be nice,’ said Boyle, snorting some coke. ‘Isn’t that right, Hoss?’

‘Yes, Mr Henry. It’s a very good thing to do.’

‘It just that your attitude puts me in a very embarrassing position, Joseph, that’s all I’m saying,’ went on Boyle. ‘You see, now you know that
I
take drugs, you might go off and tell people.’

‘No! I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t do that!’ said Joey.

‘Would you not?’ asked Boyle, sniffing again as he raised his eyebrow.

‘No. That’s one thing I definitely wouldn’t do. Because I know it would …’

‘Would …?’ quizzed Boyle.

‘Affect your position …’

You could barely hear Boyle as he said: ‘Affect my position?’

Joey nodded. He hadn’t meant to say that either.

‘Thanks, Joey. Thanks for saying that. It’s just that I’d be worried, you see. I’d be worried you might put it in one of your films. One of these films you’ve been making.’

Before Joey got a chance to reply, Sandy McGloin announced: ‘Do you know what, lads? I’m hungry!’

Boyle contemplated his cigar and said: ‘Are you, Sandy?’ Then he glanced towards Joey and said: ‘Did you hear that, Joey?’

Joey nodded. Boyle came over.

‘So what do you propose to do about it?’ he asked, sucking his teeth.

‘I don’t know,’ said Joey.

‘You don’t know?’ said Boyle. ‘Well, maybe this will help you clear your thoughts!’

The crack of his hand rang out sharply then lingered for a bit in the air. Joey’s face stung. The smoke of the Hamlet was obscuring Boyle’s face but you could still see the movement of his lips. They weren’t unlike, Joey thought — absurdly, perhaps — two small independent creatures communicating in the undergrowth.

‘Just tell us, Joey, where we can get some grub then, Joe Boy,’ Boyle said, ‘for Sandy.’

‘I think there’s some bread in here, Mr Henry,’ said Joey, his face still flushed as he stumbled awkwardly to the cupboards, trying hard not to look in Jacy’s direction. She was shivering.

‘Boyle,’ she said, ‘I’m not feeling well. Can we go now?’

‘Well, maybe if you didn’t drink so fucking much you mightn’t feel so bad!’ snapped Boyle.

She cast down her eyes.

‘I can see your bum, Joey,’ said Hoss.

‘Look at Joey’s bum,’ said Sandy. ‘Jacy, look at Barbapapa’s bum.’

Joey stood up and handed Boyle the loaf of bread. Boyle broke off a chunk and started feeding it to the chicken. He said: ‘He likes it. He likes his bread.’

He was staring right at Joey now, steadily tapping his foot. He lifted the Rhode Island Red.

‘Have you had enough to eat now, chicky?’ he asked as he gently stroked the dome of its head. The bird shook its head like a peevish dowager.

‘Here, Joseph,’ he said.

‘What?’ Joey replied.

‘Do it, will you?’

‘Do what?’

‘Wring its neck! What the fuck else would you do? Isn’t it a chicken, for fuck’s sake?’

Joey hesitated.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that, Mr Henry.’

Boyle stared fixedly at him.

‘What did you say?’

‘Please, Boyle!’ interjected Jacy. ‘That’s enough! Let’s go! You’ve made your point!’

‘You want to leave him, do you? You want to leave your old friend like that? You
are
her old friend, aren’t you, Joey?’

‘Yes, Mr Henry,’ he said.

‘Well then, don’t disappoint us. Do it.’

‘I can’t,’ he reiterated.

‘I see,’ Boyle replied. ‘So I have to do it myself then. Is that what you’re telling me, Joey? Why is it I always have to do everything?’

Joey didn’t answer. Boyle said nothing and reached into his pocket,
sighing melancholically.

‘It’s just as well that I came prepared then, isn’t it?’ he said as he flipped the cutthroat razor open. He ran his thumb along the edge and turned to Hoss and Sandy.

‘Say goodbye to the chicken,’ he said, ‘Say goodbye to the chicken of forgiveness.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Hoss as he wiggled his fingers.

‘Goodbye,’ said Sandy.

It didn’t take him long to completely decapitate it. He put the bird down and it ran around for a few seconds before collapsing.

‘Get me a tissue,’ said Boyle, and swiped the blade clean. Then he smiled and said: ‘It’s time to go to work. You ready, Joey? Get those duds off! Hoss, we ready to roll?’

‘Ready when you are, Captain Birdseye!’ replied Hoss as he grinned behind the camera.

It was Hoss who did the bulk of the filming, his celebrated sense of humour, despite his good fortune and Armani suit, clearly having lost none of its spark. He winked at Sandy, who twinkled and shook his head. Hoss camply placed his hand on his hip and said: ‘I know what you are probably thinking, Joey — this is a violent movie, right? Would I be right now in saying something like that? A video nasty, maybe?’

Sickened, Joey nodded, for there could be no denying the idea had fleetingly crossed his mind.

‘Not at all!’ snorted Hoss good-humouredly. ‘Sure what would we want to make another one of them for? We’ve already done that! It’s …
in the can
! Right, boys?’

‘Right!’ chirped Boyle, sniffing a little and rubbing his eye.

‘100 per cent!’ piped Sandy, as he flicked some coke up his nostril.

‘If you don’t believe us, Joey, all you’ve got to do is go over to Mangan’s caravan just as soon as we’re wrapped up here. Jasus but he’s a great actor! I can see now why you picked him! I say there, Boyle, you pay attention! We’re getting ready to shoot here!’

‘Please, Boyle, what more do you want?’ pleaded Jacy, hoarsely.

‘Now, baby, baby! Don’t go spoiling things!’

‘That’s right, Jacy!’ laughed Hoss. ‘Who knows, we might win ourselves
an Oscar? Whaddya think, Joey? Think we might make it to Tinseltown? I reckon we’re in with a fighting chance. They love comedies over there, you know!’

‘So that’s old Mangan fucked then!’ said Boyle.

‘That’s one thing you can be sure of!’ laughed Sandy. ‘Pissing down his leg like that! I mean, for God’s sake!’

‘Who’s going to give you Oscars when you go and spoil it like that?’ scoffed Boyle. ‘Not a hope in hell!’

‘All the same,’ said Hoss, ‘make sure you watch it now, Joey! You owe it to him! After all, it was you who introduced him to the big time!’

‘And encouraged him to open his big fucking mouth!’

‘I dare say he’s regretting it now!’

‘We won’t, though! We’ll make our money out of this little baby!’

‘Short and all as she might be!’

‘OK, folks! That’s enough talk! Come on, get ready!’ called Hoss, as Sandy took Jacy’s hand and led her over to the bed.