Jammy Dodger (26 page)

Up on the grassy embankment of the circle I paused. Deasil or widdershins? Below me the enclosed plateau of the ring, as flat as a golfing green and as wide as a stadium, resounded with mysterious silence, generated, one could almost imagine, by the megalithic tomb that squatted like some huge stone toad in the centre. A rook (it might have been a crow) called from a solitary tree on the far ridge. How many Neolithic man hours had it taken to carve this out? And to what end? It was more than a burial ground, that much was clear. Sun worship, perhaps. Or human sacrifice. Around me the countryside endured in the wintry air, a breeze frisking the hedgerows, birds floating across a pale sun. Mist was shrouding the woods opposite, like in those lines of Plath's:
On their blotter of fog the trees / Seem a botanical drawing. / Memories growing, ring on ring …

I finished my cigarette and set off, widdershins. In the distance were the hunched shoulders of the hills above Belfast. As I walked I was oppressed by the weight of this place, its burden of primitive belief, aware that I had no faith, religious or otherwise, to compare with that of my ancestors. Except for Poetry and even that, I realised with a flush of shame, I had betrayed – defiled even – with my recent antics. If he were still alive, my gentle, fearless grandfather, who fought in wars and built a life from scratch with his bare hands, what would he think of me?

I stopped to gaze down over the Lagan valley; tried to picture how many summer suns had rolled across this landscape in the centuries since the druids held sway. There was a sudden movement in the scrub nearby: a blackbird pecking at dry twigs. The light was beginning to fade. It was later than I thought.

 

By the time I returned Monroe's car to its proud owner it was nearly dark. At the office I found Fisher, alone, at the window. My arrival startled him and he attempted, clumsily, to conceal something under his jacket.

‘Jeez, you scared the shit out of me!' he said.

He had the suit on, but no glasses and, I noticed, only a thin layer of fluff where his beard should have been. He seemed unsteady on his feet.

‘Where's Oliver? Why aren't you ready?' I demanded.

‘Gone to the shop,' he stammered. He pointed at an empty spirit gum bottle. ‘We ran out of glue.'

‘How're you feeling? Did you get a chance to look over the new material?' I asked.

‘Indeed I did. Rehearsed it earlier. No worries.'

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door flew open and Oliver entered. Not, however, the Oliver I'd seen the previous day. Not ghost-pale Oliver in Cubist planes of white and cream. This was quite a different Oliver.

‘What the fuck's your game?' he cried on seeing me. ‘Did you forget what's happening tonight?'

He stood at the desk, glaring at me as he struggled to pull a bulky object from his pocket.

‘We've been here for friggin' hours, you know. You could've lent a hand. Where the hell have you been?'

He held up a large tub of maple syrup-coloured glue.

‘William, I'm afraid I could only get Bondo-Stik.'

Fisher grunted. Oliver turned back to me.

‘Well?'

‘Yeah, sorry, I had to, er … I um …'

‘You had to what?'

‘I, uh …'

It was no good. I couldn't concentrate. Except for the elliptical white discs framing his eyes, Oliver was a spectacular shade of pink. Fuschia to be exact.

‘Oliver,' I said. ‘What the fuck happened to your face?'

‘What?' His hand jerked towards his cheek but stopped short. ‘Oh that … I er … I used that voucher you gave me.'

The Sizzlemaster!

‘I wanted to look good for tonight. But I might have overdone it.'

I stepped forward to get a better look. At closer quarters there was more complexity to the palette than was first apparent, with graduated bands of magenta and scarlet between brow and scalp, and rich char siu tones on the ears. A swathe of leprous blisters provided lizard-ish texture across the nose and upper cheeks, while slicks of emergency exudation glistened at his temples where the weaker skin had broken down. The mask-like effect where the goggles had been added a dash of albino raccoon.

‘No, it's not too bad,' I said.

Oliver, meanwhile, was examining my snout.

‘Speaking of which, what's the story with
that
?'

‘Just a spot.'

‘Yeah, well you might want to put a dab of something on it.'

(This from a man who would be wise not to fall asleep in a baboon enclosure.)

‘Guys don't you think we ought to get me ready?' Fisher enquired. ‘We're on in a couple of hours.'

The construction of Dunseverick's beard, a labour-intensive task at the best of times, was significantly complicated by the Bondo-Stik which, it soon became apparent, had the resinous tenacity of pine sap. Before long we were wearing crepe hair mittens and the scene, viewed from a certain angle, resembled a team of werewolf beauticians at work on a particularly challenging client. The glue also gave off dizzying fumes that interfered with our perception of time, further slowing our progress. Fisher, it was clear, had been refreshing himself throughout the day and slept through most of the operation.

‘By the way Oliver,' he burbled during a waking moment. ‘I forgot to say, someone rang for you while you were out.'

‘Oh? Who was it?'

‘Actually, I didn't get a name.'

‘Man or woman?'

‘Man. He said it was quite urgent and wanted to know where he could find you.'

Oliver froze.

‘What did he sound like?'

‘Dunno … business-like?'

‘Business-like?'

I could see where Oliver's paranoia was leading him.

‘Anyway, he seemed like a decent fellow so I invited him along tonight.'

‘You
what
?'

‘Yeah, he said it would be a nice surprise for you.'

Oliver said nothing. He sat down. A new layer of sheen lacquered his face.

‘Oliver, I know what you're thinking but I'm sure you're wrong,' I said, plucking a stray tendril from Fisher's chin. ‘I bet Niblock doesn't even know you exist.'

‘Did I fuck up?' Fisher asked.

‘Not at all. Nothing to worry about,' I assured him, adding: ‘Listen William, you need to stop scratching or you're going to end up with a wonky beard.'

‘I can't help it,' he moaned. ‘It's devilishly itchy.'

The poet's suit, I noticed, was beginning to smell
very
bad. Too late to do anything about that now. I briefly wondered whether we should demand the surrender of the hipflask that bulged in his inside pocket but decided it was too late for that too. The fact was, it was too late for a lot of things. The die was cast. The hour was upon us …

It was showtime.

 

The launch was to take place in the City Hall, where Winks had secured one of the civic reception rooms through a friend who worked there. Half way along the Dublin Road it began to snow and by the time we reached the baroque splendour of our venue the pavements were almost white. The flakes were swirling around the pale green glimmer of the building's central dome; falling through the
sfumato
glare of the Christmas lights that looped across the facade. The ground was slippery under foot and it took both Oliver and me to assist the poet up the front steps. Once inside the building, even more effort was needed to propel him up the steep marble staircase to the upper floor.

In the Great Hall, preparations – to our mild surprise – seemed to be in hand. A low stage and a podium had been set up at one end, and Pixie's food and drink laid out on trestle tables between the Corinthian columns on either side of the room. Under the towering stained-glass windows half a dozen white-faced Marcel Marceaus in striped T-shirts and high-waisted trousers leapt into poses of exaggerated welcome as we entered (I'd forgotten about Oliver's arrangement with the Mime Cooperative). At the back, early arrivals – among them several academics including Monroe and Trench – were hovering around a table laden with the latest
Lyre
publication, sipping Norwegian Cabernet.

‘Thank God,' I said to the others. ‘The books are here.'

We gathered to inspect
Twenty Poems
. It was, indeed, black. Blacker than anything I'd ever seen.

‘Jeez Oliver, I'd assumed there would at least be a title on the spine,' I remarked.

I opened one and was immediately reassured: chunky point-size, nice fonts. The poems themselves looked convincing on the page. Interesting, I thought, how the formality of print confers authenticity …

‘Artie, a quick word?' Mick the Artist was at my elbow. There had been fresh alterations to his physiognomy: a silver bolt through his septum; a tiny crucifix in his left eyebrow.

‘Hi Mick, what's up? Great cover, by the way.'

He drew me to one side.

‘Yeah thanks. Listen, there's a slight snag. The printers have fucked up. It seems the ink's not quite dry yet.'

I looked down at my fingers. Sure enough. I glanced around, noting for the first time the Sea Devil's smudged mascara, Monroe's black eye, Trench's koala bear nose. That overweight chimney sweep was Cornelius O'Toole. A flush of solar wind swept over my skin and I shivered. Had I caught a chill? (I was also beginning to suspect my pimple was upgrading its status to Pulsator.)

‘Great. That's lovely Mick. Very helpful.'

‘What can I say, it's a bummer. But, you know, maybe if these guys paid their workers better they'd get better results.'

He melted away. Monroe strolled over.

‘Looking good Artie, my boy. Another triumph.'

I thanked him, trying not to stare at his shiner. He was smiling expectantly at Dunseverick who was beside me peering at his chapbook.

‘Of course, you haven't met,' I said. ‘Boyd, this is Tyrone Dunseverick, the star of the show.'

The academic and the poet shook hands.

‘Congratulations,' Monroe said. ‘It must feel good to be so much in demand. Tell me, is it true the man from Faber & Faber's here?'

Before I could digest Monroe's unhelpful rumour, Oliver loomed, beckoning urgently.

‘Have you spotted it?' he hissed.

I studied the Hitler moustache that had been added to the nuclear testing ground of his face.

‘Yes, Mick just – '

‘There's one missing!'

‘What?'

‘There's only nineteen!'

‘What?'

‘
Twenty Poems
is a poem short!'

‘You gotta be fucken kidding me …'

I scrabbled through my copy. Seventeen, eighteen … It was true. Bloody printers.

‘Oliver,' I told him. ‘Whatever you say, say nothing.'

The room was filling up. I snatched a glass from a passing Marceau, dispatched it and hailed another. All the artists were in: The Walrus, Heather Turkington, Pollocks, Devine … Who was that with Devine? It couldn't be. Mumbles! Who would've thought? (The sight of her triggered an ache of longing for Rosie.) And there was Monty Monteith, striding across the floor in his dinner suit, closely shadowed by a Marceau parodying his pompous gait. I hoped the mimers weren't going to be trouble. In the corner was Grainne McCumhaill (was that a new beret?) with the counter-feminist from Trench's launch. Dylan Delaney, his arm around a young lady I recognised from the bar staff at Kavanagh's, caught my eye and saluted. No sign of my parents yet.

Winks and Barney pitched up on my blind side.

‘Congratulations Artie, another sterling production,' Winks purred, squeezing my arm.

‘Thanks Stanford.'

‘Contents-wise anyway,' he added. ‘I'm not mad about the cover.'

‘Black,' Barney announced. ‘Is black.'

I could think of no immediate response. (Also, my attention was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of Dunseverick relieving a Marceau of an entire tray of drinks. Where was Oliver?)

‘Don't mind him Artie, he completely overdid it last night.' Winks regarded his partner with a curled lip. ‘I think he might still be a bit twisted.'

Barney swatted away an imaginary fly.

‘Special occasion?' I enquired.

‘Launch of Mad Dog's ‘‘autobiography'',' Winks explained with a limp bunny ears gesture. ‘Free bar all night in Betjeman's.'

‘Say no more. And what state was the great man in?'

‘Actually, he nearly didn't make it. He and Quigley were delayed on the way back from the Big Apple. I take it you heard the play is transferring – ' He broke off, raising his eyebrows. ‘… And lo! Speak of the devil and he doth appear …'

I turned my head. There in the doorway – almost too bright for the naked eye – was Mad Dog, resplendent in a white spandex jumpsuit and rhinestone-studded cape. (‘Bloody hell, it's the Archangel Elvis,' Winks muttered.) His collar was turned up to meet the vast pubic wedges of his sideburns and his mullet had been primped and teased to roughly the size of a small car. He removed his glitter-encrusted sunglasses. The general hubbub faltered; ceased. He surveyed the gathering. Silence echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He replaced his sunglasses. Adjusted his collar. Satisfied that he had been sufficiently beheld, he surged forward into the room, trailing in his wake the elfin figure of Quigley, also in white, and lastly, my bewildered parents.

They spotted me and rushed over in their matching leisurewear, pursued by a pair of silently prancing Marceaus.

‘Artie, who on earth was that man?' my mother demanded. ‘Is that the chap with the book?'

‘That's, um … He's uh …'

‘Bloody spit of Colonel Gaddafi,' my father murmured.

‘We haven't missed it, have we?' my mother said. ‘I couldn't get your father out. He just wouldn't come. I kept telling him we'd be late.'

‘Not at all, you're just in time,' I replied.