Dante's Inferno (5 page)

‘That smell,’ said Berrigan, ‘comes from the bins

Which lie below, full of uneaten food and

Stinking rubbish – the bad news is that

It gets worse the closer you get to it,

And we’re heading that way.’ Before I had

A chance to protest, Berrigan had summoned

The lift which took us down in seconds,

Then we proceeded a little way on foot.

The place we came to was the edge of a steep bank

Composed of broken concrete, mud and steel,

And here the stench was so powerful

We had to step back from the precipice.

Not far from where we stood, Berrigan

Drew my attention to a giant skip

Awaiting collection. On stepping closer,

I saw it was labelled
DISSERTATIONS
.

Berrigan noticed the look of shock on my face,

And tried to reassure me: ‘Not all

Dissertations suffer this ignoble fate,’

He said, ‘these are the ones that didn’t toe the

Line, students who used Freud with Jungians,

Others who used Derrida with Lacanians.

The rest are stored in the library.

Until our noses get used to the stink

We’d better shelter behind this skip,

Once we’ve been here a bit you’ll hardly notice it.’

‘Is there something we can do to pass the time?’

I asked. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Berrigan, ‘I’ve

Thought of that.’ He began to roll a huge joint,

And as he did so, he said: ‘Beneath these rocks

Lie many more souls packed in; and since later

The sight of them will be enough, I’ll tell you a

Little about them.’ ‘While you’re at it,’ I added,

‘Could you also explain the layout of the campus?

At times I find it hard to fathom.’

‘That’s a tough ask,’ he said, ‘but I’ll do my best.

Putting it simply, things used to be arranged

Round the five squares and the points of the compass,

But as the campus expanded, this system

Became rapidly obsolete. Besides, it was

Never very helpful –

Students could rarely find their way to class.

In fact, there’s a rumour that a student

From the 1960s is still walking about somewhere,

Looking for the Lecture Theatre Block.

The new layout (which in reality

Coexists alongside the old one,

Like the imperial and metric systems)

Is simpler: the campus is divided into Zones,

1–9, and each Zone into Areas, A–Z.

This system has the advantage of allowing

For almost infinite expansion,

And it’s useful in case of fire drills and the like,

Which round here are pretty common, as you can imagine.’

Berrigan stopped for a moment, to lick the joint,

And I took the opportunity to ask

About the souls who were confined below.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘Martin Luther King put it well

When he said, “Those who assert that evil means

Can lead to good ends are deceiving themselves.”

All malice has injustice as its end,

And this is achieved by violence or by fraud;

As fraud belongs exclusively to humanity

It is all the more despicable.

In the first Zone below, Zone 7,

You’ll find the violent, but since there are different

Kinds of violence, it’s divided into

Three Areas: 7A contains

Homicides, 7B suicides and

Squanderers, 7C the blasphemers

And usurers, amongst others.

Beyond that, in Zones 8 and 9, as you’ll

See, things get worse: down there you’ll find all

Sorts of fraud of the worst kind: hypocrites,

Of which there’s no shortage amongst academics,

Those who waste their time making crazy predictions,

Cheats and thieves, moneygrubbers, grafters

And like filth.’ ‘Master,’ I said, ‘I’m beginning

To get the picture, but tell me, what about

The souls we passed earlier on, those

Swept by the winds and lashed by the hoses,

Those stuck in the muddy swamp, why aren’t they

Too shut inside the burning gates?’

‘Didn’t they teach you anything at that

Grammar school of yours? You mean you haven’t

Read the
Nicomachean Ethics
? Where do I

Begin? Aristotle distinguishes between

Three kinds of wrong: to put it crudely,

He calls them incontinence, malice, and

Bestiality. Incontinence, he argues,

Is the least of the three evils, and if

You think back to the kind of shades we met

Early on in our journey, you’ll see why they

Suffer less. Are you with me?’ ‘I was never

Too hot at classics,’ I said, ‘I once got

2% in a Latin exam, but I get your drift.

Tell me, though, what’s the problem with usury?

Surely we need people to lend us money,

Otherwise how would you buy a house, for example?’

‘Mortgages,’ said Berrigan, ‘are a con,

It’s just another form of robbery.

This was one thing old Ez got right,

Even if he got it wrong about the Jews

And the fascists – read canto XLV

Where he puts it plainly:

“with usura, sin against nature,

is thy bread ever more of stale rags

is thy bread dry as paper,

with no mountain wheat, no strong flour

with usura the line grows thick

with usura is no clear demarcation

and no man can find site for his dwelling.

Stone cutter is kept from his stone

weaver is kept from his loom…”

Now, speaking of stone, it’s about time

We picked ourselves up again, and had

A closer look at this landfall,

We need to think about making our way down.’

The point we came to, to make our

Descent, not far from Reception,

                   was steep and treacherous.

As, at Aberfan, when

         the mountainous slag heap

Collapsed

                   burying the town,

Slurry, mud and concrete

                        littered our track,

And guarding the way was that monstrous

Bigot, John Bull, in his

                                top hat and braces,

A bunch of skinheads

                      with Nazi tats

                   at his side.

When he saw us approaching

He tucked his thumbs behind his braces,

           whispering something to his friends.

Berrigan, my guide, lit the spliff,

        and as we drew near,

                   he held it out to the skins.

‘Fancy a smoke, boys?’ he asked,

And at once one of their number

                reached out a hand to snatch it.

They sat down amongst the rocks to smoke,

As John Bull stood there, fuming with rage.

‘Quick,’ my shrewd guide called out, ‘let’s go,

Before things turn nasty.’ And so we went down,

             over the scree

                      which I felt shift and tilt

Beneath my feet

                    with the human weight

                                    it was not used to.

I was in deep thought when Berrigan began:

‘Are you wondering what made the podium

          collapse, making this heap of rubble,

Down which we clamber? Last time

           I was here, as visiting professor,

                                           it still stood firm.

Yet, if I remember well, that was just before

The helicopter, carrying scouts from Vanderbilt, came,

                    to cream off any talent they could find,

Then this abyss of stench began to quake,

From top to bottom, that was the moment the

Concrete began to split – here, and in other places.

But now, look out across the marshes,

Towards B&Q, coming closer you will see

                      the river of blood that boils the souls

Of those who injured others through violence.’

       I saw a river – wide, bent like the pin of

            a grenade – embracing the bleak flatlands,

Across which came an

      army of cleaners, trotting in single file,

                          armed with mops and buckets.

Catching sight of us, they stopped short

And three of them approached: ‘You there,

On your way to the river like a couple of rats,

What torture are you looking for? Speak,

Or I’ll give you a taste of my mop.’

                         And then Berrigan called back:

‘We’ll give our answer to Sharon, when we’re

At her side; as for you, I see you’re

                                          surly as ever!’

He nudged me, whispering: ‘That one there is

Trevor, a right bastard, who went down for

GBH before he landed a job here.

The middle one, with the tits,

            is Sharon       an ex-student, who did a

                PhD on Achilles and homoeroticism.

The last is Jock, an ex-para who

Fired the first shot on Bloody Sunday,

                         known for his short temper.’

When we got closer to the bunch,

         Sharon took out her vanity case,

And began to                  powder her nose,

Then she opened her cavernous mouth and spoke

To Trev and Jock: ‘Have you noticed how

The one behind moves what he touches?

This is not what dead men’s feet would do.’

And Berrigan replied: ‘You’re right,

                                            he is no dead man,

He travels along this dismal estuary

                              by necessity, not pleasure,

To see how the dead live.

Now, give us a guide for God’s sake,

One who knows the area,

To lead us safely along the river,

I want to show this one the souls

Who suffer.’ Sharon looked over her

                       right breast and said to Trevor:

‘You go, Trev, guide them as they ask, and

If the boss grumbles, I’ll tell him where to go.’

And so we moved off, along the stinking

River’s bank, where piercing shrieks rose

From the boiling sewer. There I saw

People sunk                          to their eyelids,

As the surly cleaner explained:

‘These are tyrants who dealt in blood,

With hot tears they pay for their crimes.

Here stand Sidney and the unmoveable Trevelyan,

Who weighed down Ireland with years of pain,

And there, that forehead smeared with coal-black hair,

Is Bernadette Devlin; the other one,

The blonde, is Myra Hindley.’

I looked up at Berrigan, but he said:

‘Let him instruct you now, don’t look to me.’

                A little farther on, the cleaner stopped

                above some souls peering from the blood,

Which here reached to their throats.

He pointed out a shade off to one side,

Alone                           and said:

‘That one, if I’m not mistaken, is Sam Cooke,

Who took a Catholic girl back to his room

To strangle her, cutting her

Throat before he dumped the body                   on

Waste ground.’ Then I saw other souls,

Their heads and chests above the blood,

And I knew the faces of many who were there.

Then the river’s blood began decreasing, till

It cooked the toes and nothing more,

And here was a signed footpath, which we could follow

At ease. ‘Just as the river gets shallower on this

Side,’ said the surly cleaner,

‘On the other side it gets deeper,

Till it reaches the spot where tyrants moan.

There you will find Raleigh            and Essex,

And, sunk deepest of all,

                                   William of Orange,

Whose battlefields were highways of blood.’

Then he turned back, and retraced his steps.

Trevor had not yet reached the bridge by B&Q

When we found ourselves entering a wood

Marked by a narrow dirt track.

The leaves were not green, but black,

Nor were the branches straight

                    but gnarled and twisted,

And each tree bore a laminated white label,

Grown illegible through wear,

And wilted flowers at the base of the trunk.

No holts so rough or dense have those wild fowl,

That flee all cultivated tracts,

Between Mersea Island and Maldon.

Here the Essex Harpies twine their nests,

Whose namesakes chased the Trojans

From the Strophades, with prophecies of doom,

A mutant breed, sired at Bradwell,

Where the reactor leaks its waste

Into the Blackwater.

Wide wings they have, necks and faces of women,

Their feet are clawed like the falcon,

Their fat bellies feathered.

Raising his voice to drown out their piercing shrieks

Berrigan said: ‘Look closely about you

And you will see with your own eyes

What I won’t waste time describing, for if I did,

You wouldn’t credit it.’ Already I heard wailing

From every side, but could see nobody there.

I reckon Berrigan thought I was imagining

That the voices echoing around those stumps

Came from people who hid themselves on our account,

For he said: ‘Reach out, and break off

A branch from one of these trees,

Then what you’re thinking now will break off too.’

I stretched my hand a little into the air

And snapped off a branch from a thorn tree;

The trunk cried out: ‘What the fuck?’

And when the wound had grown dark with blood

It again began to cry: ‘Why are you roughing me up?

What the fuck have I done to you?

If I was still a man, I’d take you both on,

But even if I was the soul of a shit,

You could show me a wee bit of respect.

We were students once, now we are turned to wood,

Not because we were thick, mind you,

Now show a little pity, for Christ’s sake!’

As a green log, burning at one end,

Hisses and oozes sap from the other,

So from that splintered trunk

Words and blood poured forth at once;

I let the branch drop from my fingers

And stood as one petrified by fear.

‘Lighten up,’ said Berrigan, ‘it’s only a scratch.

If my companion here had read his Virgil

More carefully, and credited what’s written there,

He would not have reached out his hand against you,

But the incredibility of the thing

Made me egg him on.

But tell him who you were; to make up he can

Carry your story back to the world above,

Where his return is sure.’

‘Seeing as you’re asking,

I was a border at Colchester Grammar,

Known for my attitude

And my way with the women.

I was never happier than at a party,

A drink in one hand and a fag in the other.

Later, my love for the booze

         led me on to harder drugs

                          till I ended up on smack,

Drifting into a life of squatting

And petty theft with some old schoolmates.

                          Eventually, determined

To turn things round, I came here to study,

But soon fell into debt. I hadnae any choice

But to start dealing to pay it off.

And it wasnae long before the Dean here

Got wind of it, inflaming the hearts of

Everyone against me,

Till my attempt to gain honours turned to tears.

I could brook it no longer, so one day

I just took an overdose, and that was me done.’

Berrigan listened, then said to me:

‘Seeing as he’s silent now

               ask him if there’s more you wish to know.’

‘No, please, Ted,’ I said, ‘you question him.

I can’t, pity so chokes me.’

Then Berrigan turned once more towards the shade,

Asking: ‘So we might better understand your state,

Tell us how a soul

                            gets bound in these knots.’

Then the trunk blew strongly, and soon that wind

Formed into words: ‘What you ask is easy

To answer. I shall be brief.

When the angry spirit quits the body

From which it has torn itself,

Todd Landman, Professor of Government,

Judges it, then kicks it out.

It falls into the wood, and wherever it falls,

There it sprouts, like grain of spelt;

There’s a brief ceremony, where they give you

A label and a number, and sometimes

A mourner passes with some flowers.

The grain grows into a sapling, then a tree;

At last, the Harpies come, then feeding

On the leaves, give pain, and to pain a way out.’

We stood there all ears, listening to the trunk,

Thinking it would tell us more, when we

Were surprised by a sudden noise,

Like that a hunter hears

As the pack closes in for the kill,

                       beast and branches crashing;

Then to the left of where we stood

         appeared two shapes, part human part fox,

         their faces those of Cameron and Clegg,

Fleeing with such haste

That they tore away with them the branches.

‘Let me fess up,’ said the first, seeing us standing there,

‘I was never in favour of lifting the ban.’

Then to the other, who couldn’t keep up, he yelled:

‘I’ve never seen you change direction so quickly

Since you changed your mind over tuition fees!’

And then, through shame, Clegg

Slipped into a bush and hid amongst the thorns.

Behind these pitiful souls, who had squandered power,

The wood was overrun by black bitches,

Fleet as greyhounds on the track at Romford.

Into the one who hid they sank their teeth,

Tearing him apart piece by piece

Then ran off with his miserable limbs.

Berrigan now took me by the hand

And drew me towards the bush

Which was lamenting from every sore.

‘Oh Nick Clegg!’ it cried, ‘See what good

It’s done you to take cover in me.

Was it my fault if your policies backfired?’

Then Berrigan spoke to the bush, saying:

‘Who were you, who spit your words

                            through so many wounds?’

And he replied: ‘You spirits who have

Come in time to see this unjust mutilation

That has torn me from all my leaves,

Sweep them up quick, and restore them

To their owner. I come from that proud

City torn with strife, which made its wealth

In the linen trade and shipbuilding.

I was foreman when they made the

Titanic
, that fated ship that struck the iceberg;

That same day, I made my home my gibbet.’