Notes from a Coma (19 page)

The combative edge in his voice was noted the next day in the newspapers. Before the journalist could come back for a second bite I signalled to another raised hand.

“What’s been the reaction of your father to your volunteering?”

“His reaction was that of any loving parent. As you can imagine he is more than a little worried. But we sat down together and talked it through. I can’t say he’s happy about it but it is my wish and he respects that.”

“When did he first hear about this?”

“The day I was shortlisted. I told him that morning.”

We were alone in the hall after the journalists filed out. JJ stood up clutching the plastic bottle of water. I would never meet him again without one of those bottles in his hands, a kind of security blanket, a small shield against the world.

“That went fine,” I said. “You did well.”

“I’m going back to the hotel,” he said. “I need to make a few calls.”

“You’ll watch the nine o’clock news?”

“No—I can wait for tomorrow’s reviews.”

“Have you any plans for tonight? Now that you’re in the big smoke is there anything you want to do?”

“No, I’m going to stick to my room. I’ll probably raid the minibar and watch some TV.”

“Good, you look like you could do with some sleep.”

The following morning this tall fella with shades and a red bandanna on his head walked up to me at reception and stood in front of me. Out the corner of my eye I saw Dermot by the lift door looking blankly at me. The tall fella in front of me wasn’t saying anything or moving and for a moment I thought I had wandered into some sort of a stand-off. After a long moment he pulled off the shades and grinned.

“Will this throw them for a few hours?”

“It threw me,” I said. “Yes, for a few hours but no more.”

“I saw the papers after breakfast so I went out and got sheared. The hairdresser wouldn’t take any money but I signed and dated a ziplock bag before I left.”

“She’s going to sell you off one snip at a time in a month.
^†
If you don’t fancy the train Dermot can drive you home.”

He shook his head. “No, let’s keep it simple while we can. Sarah is coming to get me at the station.”

“Whatever you say.
Thoughtful and articulate, wearing his genius IQ up front. An unlikely candidate for such an
adventure
. You’ve made an impression, JJ, the photos looked well.”

“So the hairdresser said.
The kind of young man any mother would be glad to see her daughter bringing home
. I hope Sarah’s parents read that.”

“That’ll play for a few days. Brace yourself for the claw-back though.”

“That’s the bit that worries me.”

“That’s fame for you.” I handed him a red folder. “Have a read of this on the train. It’s the biogs of the other subjects.”

“Have you met any of them?”

“No, nor have they met each other. You will meet together in Castelrea Prison two weeks from now. You will be brought together for the first time for the induction sessions. That will take a week—a detox session, the last medical checks and psychological checks. Your job from now till then will be to look after yourself. No injuries or mad drinking sessions. And that girlfriend of yours—Sarah—I’d get my fill of her before I leave if I were you … it could be a long three months.”

“Yes.”

Dermot ran him to the train. I let them go alone, my
presence would only draw attention to him, defeating the purpose of the haircut. He phoned me later that evening to tell me that journalists were already outside his house but he had refused as politely as he could to say anything.

You could feel the town bracing itself the night JJ gave that press conference. The pubs were full and of course there was only one topic of conversation on the agenda. To say that people were stunned would be putting it mildly. What the hell was he thinking of? What did he hope to gain from it? The consensus was that no one in his right mind would put himself forward for such a job. Of course someone said this was exactly the point—JJ was not in his right mind, hadn’t he spent a full month in the ceilidh house not so long ago? How had this ever escaped the people who were supposed to be screening those volunteers? Listening to all the talk it struck me that if JJ thought he was going to get any admiration for what he was doing he was going to be sorely mistaken. Even in those first hours after the press conference you could sense the town raising its guard. They knew what was coming. This town would now be held up to scrutiny in a way it had not earned or prepared itself for. It’s not the kind of attention any place wants drawing on itself. No one was going to thank him for it.

I was glad he wasn’t around that night.

I got a call from him the following morning, around ten
o’clock. He sounded calm, like a man with a good night’s sleep behind him.

“Well, JJ, that’s some pyjama party you’ve signed up for.”

“So I believe. I’m calling from Dublin, Ger, I’m coming down on the evening train. The reason I’m calling you … you saw the press conference last night?”

“The whole country saw it. You came across very well. Confident and resolute, the square-jawed young man with the right stuff.”

“Good. I’m just putting you on your guard here. Sooner rather than later the press is going to start asking more questions. That stuff at the press conference was just the bare bones, they’re going to come looking for more. I just wanted you to be aware of that. I’ve rung around a few other people.”

There was a different tone in his voice then, a note I’d never heard before. He was low-key, tentative—moods I didn’t readily associate with him. It took me a moment to figure it out: JJ was on the defensive. For the first time in all my years of knowing him he was on the back foot about one of his ideas, anxious for others and the consequences of what he was doing. Was he looking for reassurance? I wondered.

“Fair enough, JJ,” I said. “I haven’t seen or heard from anyone yet but as you say it’s probably only a matter of time. I haven’t been up town this morning yet so I don’t know who’s around.” There was a pause on the other end of the line but I could hear his thoughts. “Don’t worry, you’re one of our own. We’ll talk you up.”

He laughed. “Thanks. I don’t like putting you in this position but there’s no way out of it. You know yourself that if certain things got out how they can be made to look. A bad situation could be made to look a lot worse.”

“No worries. How are things besides? You looked confident on the box. Are you nervous?”

“I feel fine. Today’s reviews are pretty much what we expected: curiosity and bewilderment. Things will get critical from now on.”

“I suppose you’ve answered this more than once already but do you know what you’re doing?”

He laughed again, the kind of laugh he kept for those moments in our discussions when he was about to deliver some telling point. “No,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not so sure either whether knowing would be a good thing. What I do know is that I want to go through with it. I’ll probably call you in the next few days. I have two weeks to myself before this thing starts.”

“Make sure you call round before you go away.”

“I will. Many thanks, Ger.”

“Sound.”

I took a walk out after that phone call just to see if indeed the world’s press had descended on our little town. As far as I could see there was no one around, just the same quiet street you’d expect at that hour of the morning. When I stepped into Kelly’s for the paper JJ’s face was spread over every front page on the shelf. The same colour photo in each one as if JJ had only presented this one glimpse of himself for examination. It showed him seated behind the
table looking straight into the camera, no expression on his face. His left hand was outstretched on the table before him, clutching that plastic bottle of water. If I’m not mistaken a cropped version of this photo is the standard portrait of JJ you now see everywhere.

Eddie took the money from me. “We know he has brains but do you think has he any sense?”

“It’s an adventure, Eddie, that’s what young men go for.”

“He’s brave though, I’ll give him that.” Walter Crayn came in behind me and picked up the
Irish Times
. “Three months’ room and board with no worries … there could be worse ways of spending a wet summer.”

Eddie opened a tabloid on the counter. “He was always a bit odd, the same JJ. He’d come in here some mornings with his head in the clouds; it was like drawing teeth getting talk out of him. You’d wish him luck though. That’s all I can say.”

“Twenty purple as well, Eddie,” Walter said. “Let’s hope luck has nothing to do with it. I suppose we’ll be going out to the Killary from now on to keep an eye on him.”

That conversation drew me up. My reading of it was that the disbelief and bewilderment of the previous night had given way to a cautious support. A night’s sleep had allowed us to order our thoughts and put aside whatever reservations we had in our hearts. He’d made his decision and being one of our own we would support him whatever way we could. We weren’t without doubts or indeed cynicism but we would stand behind him. Walking out of the shop that morning I felt good for him, more confident.

I was sitting down to a pile of exam papers when I got the first call: a feature writer from the
Irish Times
. He was looking for what he called background colour, anything that might help the public get a clearer view of our new hero, as he put it. How long had I known him and what kind of student had he been? What were his interests, how did I think the town would react to one of their young men volunteering for such a project?

My speech was ready. JJ’s call had prompted me to put a few thoughts together. I was as bland as I could be without giving offence.

“I’ve known the lad since he was thirteen years old. He was a pupil here in the local school and teachers and pupils alike were very fond of him. He made friends with everyone during those years, made friends and kept them.”

“What was he like as a pupil? Seemingly he was very bright.”

“Yes, that’s well known, very gifted. JJ has an IQ which allows him to turn his mind to anything. It was obvious to everyone who taught him that he was an exceptional young man.”

“Did you think he ever suffered for his intelligence?”

“No, certainly not to a degree that will allow for any cheap theorising.”

“What I’m getting at is do you think his intelligence and the fact that he was adopted left him with some want in his heart which he might hope this project would fulfil?”

“Nothing I know about JJ leads me to believe that there is a want in his heart or his head or any other place. He is
a questing soul, there’s no doubt about that, but I’m firmly of the belief that this is because of an unusually sharp mind, not the result of some existential malaise as you might put it. You have to remember JJ is read beyond his years. He could put any of his teachers to shame in any discussion. Always questioning, always looking for answers.” I drew myself up and tried to change tack. “This is beginning to sound like an obituary; I hope it’s not going to come across like that tomorrow.”

“No, but as I say there is a real shortage of background detail on him. Always looking for answers you say. How do you think JJ imagines a three-month coma will provide any answers?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know what’s on JJ’s mind nor should anyone else either. All you need to know is that he is a young man any teacher would be proud of. JJ has a lot of goodwill coming to him. Let’s hope he comes through this unharmed and that he can get on with his life.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“As JJ himself has said, anyone in their right mind would have worries.”

That interview was quoted verbatim the following day, padding out a ream of pop psychology and low-grade sociology. The most accurate part of it was the headline, a four-word phrase which sounded like the first line of a lonely heart’s ad:
Restless Mind Seeks Rest
.

It wouldn’t be the first time this village had someone who flirted with his own death like this.

If you go out this road about two miles and turn left
after the sign for Conlon’s timber yard you’ll see this big hall in off the road on your left. The roof is stripped away now, the whole thing falling in on itself.
^*
You wouldn’t think to look at it but back in the seventies this was one of the most hopping dance halls in the county. In 1972 a Cork man by the name of Considine—Mick Considine I think, a P&T worker—made an attempt on the world record for being buried alive in that dance hall. Raising money he was for some sort of sheltered housing project below in Cork … A section of the floor was lifted up and Considine was lowered down in a coffin. They timbered up the hole and a slab of concrete was poured over him. A small headstone and a limestone border finished off the whole thing. That evening while the band played we literally danced on his grave into the early hours of the morning. Five days was all he lasted. An attack of claustrophobia nearly choked him and it was only by the skin of his teeth that he was broken out by two local lads with a pair of twelve-pound hammers.