Shiver the Whole Night Through (8 page)

BOOK: Shiver the Whole Night Through
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I shook my head, laughing at myself. Then I turned a corner and bumped into John Rattigan. Oh no.

A can of beer jumped in his hand, splashed his coat and fell to the ground. Rattigan followed its flight with a look of shock and dismay that would have been endearing in anyone else. He muttered, ‘Huh?' and glared up at me, the old anger and aggression abruptly back in place, his eyes bloodshot from cans already drunk.

When he clocked who it was, the look of shock returned for a moment, as if he couldn't believe a maggot like me had dared to knock his drink away. If I'd done it on purpose, I wouldn't have believed it either. As it was, it had been a total accident, no fault on my part. And though I knew concepts like logic and fairness didn't hold much sway with Rattigan, I felt obliged to point this out anyway.

‘Sorry about your beer. It was an accident.'

I held my palms up in a show of peace. That only stoked the rage inside him further. Shock got pushed off his face for the second time, aggression returning again. That bastard's ugly mug was having a real emotional tug-of-war today.

Rattigan spluttered, ‘You – you – clumsy
asshole
. Look what you did.'

‘I said it was an accident, all right?'

I made to move past. His arm shot out and stopped me.

‘Why am I not surprised?' he said. ‘The dipshit you are, can't even watch where you're going. Who else would it be but the Carnival Boy?'

I didn't reply. A small crowd had stopped to watch, shoppers and construction workers, kids with their mothers; even a hunched old crow, wings tucked back, leaning forward as though listening in. Everyone was keeping their distance: they all knew Rattigan's reputation as a thug – nobody wanted to get involved.

He went on, ‘Moping around like a little faggot. What's this?' He grabbed my bag with his other hand, keeping the first one on my chest. ‘In the library, were you? The faggot spending his Saturday reading. Jesus Christ. No wonder your girl left you for that knacker of a carnie. The only thing I don't get is why a fine bird like that was going with a mopey little puke like you in the first place.'

He flung my bag to the ground. Stupid Aidan, you left the top untied – books and sheaves of loose paper spilled onto the ice in almost geometric patterns.

Rattigan stepped back and smiled, as if to say, ‘Well, what do you think of that?'

I thought of a few weeks ago, when he'd punched me in the face just because he was an ignorant Neanderthal and got the notion to do it and I was too weak to stop him. I thought of all the times he'd made me feel pathetic and afraid. I thought of Sláine, what she'd said about my life being worth more than any of those ‘vindictive babies'.

And I had a realisation, it washed over me like a blast of fresh air: in most cases, other people only have power over you if you let them. They can strike or tease or ignore you, yes. But their
power
over you is dependent on your acceptance of it. Once you stop giving a shit, they've got nothing.

I realised that I'd stopped giving a shit about John Rattigan. He had nothing. And he
was
nothing.

So I said it to him: ‘You're nothing, Rattigan.'

He stared at me, boggly eyed, incredulous. Before he could speak I continued, ‘You're
nothing
. You're a bully and a cretin. You're scum. You are nothing, and you offer nothing. You're a waste of oxygen and a drain on society. If you were to drop dead right now, you know what everyone in this town would do? They'd celebrate. They'd throw a big party and celebrate. Then they'd forget you ever existed, because you're nothing, and who remembers nothing? Now take your filthy hands off me.'

To my amazement, he complied. Probably to his own amazement too, if he gave it any thought, and the amazement of everyone watching – they stood open-mouthed, motionless. I couldn't believe that I was saying all this stuff either, but there it was, pouring out of me. It was almost like someone else had taken control of my mind and was using my tongue. But no, it was me, the real me. Some newfound courage was making me face up to him. Making me honest and unafraid.

‘Yeah, I was in the library,' I went on. ‘Know why? Because I'm a human being with a brain that I like to use from time to time. I'm not an animal, Rattigan, like you. In ten years I'll be doing some job that you won't even understand what it is, living far away from this kip. But you'll still be here, still stupid, still acting like an animal. Drinking cans in the park and trying to prove how tough you are. What a great future you have to look forward to.'

I heard one of the workmen chuckling, probably happy to see Rattigan get what was coming to him, finally. For the first time, I looked him right in the eyes; and for the first time, Rattigan looked away. He couldn't hold the stare.

I said, ‘All you have is brute strength and the willingness to use it. That's
all
you have, and all you are. I know you can beat me up, you're stronger than me. That doesn't change the fact that you're a shitty person, nobody likes you, and hopefully you'll be dead soon so we can have that party I was talking about. Okay? So I'm going now. Take it easy, jerk-off.'

I turned to leave. He looked in shock again. I was pretty sure that was going to win the tug-of-war; aggression had slinked away for good. Rattigan muttered, ‘I should  …  should bust your bloody teeth out for  …  talking to me like that  …  '

‘If that's what you need to do, Johnny boy, knock yourself out. Knock
me
out, I can't stop you. Won't change a goddamn thing. You'll still be a supreme asshole. Still be nothing. You'll always be nothing.'

I left him, hunched, staring at the ground, his lips moving as he tried to process what had just happened. I wasn't fully sure myself. I crouched and picked up the books and things that fell from my bag; a little old lady hobbled over and helped, smiling kindly. I smiled back and said, ‘Thanks.'

And I nodded and smiled to the crowd around us as I stood, now separating and returning to their lives – it was all smiles today. Including the man from the library, Kinvara. He must have left soon after me. He grinned mischievously, tipped his finger off his forehead in salute and said, ‘Bravo.' I gave a little bow.

Kinvara added, ‘From the Latin. Look it up.'

I said back, ‘I will.'

One of the children smiled at me too, as if I was his big hero, and I wondered if he was a victim of bullying. So many poor kids getting hassled; it was always the way. But for once, I wasn't one of them. For once I had the power.

I walked off with a light step, heart pumping, head buzzing, a surge of energy through my whole body. It felt like I was being lit up from inside with a thousand electric lights.

Then I burst out laughing. Holy crap. You just
owned
John Rattigan. What the hell's going on with you, man?

I felt pure happiness, an adrenaline shot,
boom
, straight to the heart. I only wished I'd done it months ago. Although maybe I couldn't have. Maybe I was only now rediscovering the strength inside me. Becoming a different person.

I heard a voice behind me, aged but not weak, medium-pitch. It was the old dear who'd helped me gather my things off the snow. Once more she hobbled towards me – it sounds like the start of a literally lame joke – held out her hands and gestured for me to give her mine. She took my fingers and looked deep into my eyes. Her own seemed a bit funny, gone blooey, very distant, as if she were high on something. I smiled self-consciously, wondering what this was all about. But I kind of already knew.

The old lady said, ‘Now look at your hand.'

She left and I looked down. There was writing on it. Tiny veins under my skin had redirected the blood, filled themselves with it, which made them rise up and form words.

Sláine was doing this. It wasn't really happening, I was hallucinating, yet it was as real as anything I'd ever experienced.

‘I think you're ready to know what happened,' the words read. ‘How I died.'

How I Died

‘Another cool trick this afternoon, by the way. You're building up a real repertoire, Sláine. You could go on stage, put on a magic show.'

‘Oh?' she said vaguely, pretending not to know what I meant.

‘With that old lady. Hypnotising her or whatever you did. It was good, I was impressed.'

She smiled. ‘I aim to please.'

‘Were you nearby?'

‘Mmm  …  sort of. In spirit, let's say.'

Two wine glasses clinked as I placed them on the table in the hunting lodge. I'd pinched them from home. I was sure my mother wouldn't mind – they were cheap old things, though free of cracks. It was past midnight on Saturday, Shook Woods was frozen and motionless, Sláine was sitting on the bed and me on a stool, and we were talking. Or rather, not yet talking about the big issue. Her death. I didn't want to force it so decided to go along with the flow of conversation, wherever she wished it to travel.

She had prettied up the place further: a large colourful rug covering half the floor, a Picasso print in a frame on the wall, even some sprigs of holly in a vase on the table. An ashtray for me, some toilet roll if I felt the call of nature. There was also a gas heater, giving off a lovely warming glow. I couldn't begin to guess where she'd got this stuff; it didn't matter. The whole world had been reduced to this stone-and-wood shack, the two of us in one moment, and that was all that counted.

Sláine somehow knew about my researches into the Famine, although not exactly what I had found out. How? I don't know. By this stage, nothing about that girl came as a surprise. I just accepted it as the way things were, the way she was.

She leaned against the wall, getting comfortable on the bed. Interestingly, she had a physical presence, in that she didn't fall through the wall – she wasn't a ghost in the traditional sense. Yet at the same time, the mattress didn't depress under her, the blankets weren't shifted or scrunched; Sláine had no weight, as such. She kind of floated on that bed, as light as a pillow feather.

I gave her a quick precis of my discoveries that afternoon and she said, ‘Actually I knew that already. About my family fleeing for survival, and William John staying behind. But it's an odd coincidence – I didn't know until recently. I started researching the family history during the summer. For no reason. It was just something I felt  …  compelled to do. You know what I mean? Nothing to do with college or anything. I just had an urge to know.'

‘Sure. I mean I don't really know – I have exactly zero interest in tracing my family tree. Couldn't give a rat's ass if they were all a pack of murderers and rum smugglers.'

‘I used to feel like that. Didn't interest me at all. But last summer, yeah  …  Soon after the Leaving. I was at a bit of a loose end anyway, no summer job lined up – that's probably why.'

‘Well, at least it was pretty cool material,' I said. ‘The Famine, like it's awful but fascinating too. And your guy, the ancestor? He was an interesting character.'

Sláine looked at the low ceiling, cobwebs stretching across corners like supports in a tiny suspension bridge.

‘He was  …  It must have been unusual, their relationship. Eleanor – my great-great-whatever grandmother – she was poor, relative to William John McAuley. He owned a shop and land, which I suppose made you rich for those times. She wasn't from absolute poverty, but they would have been small farmers, like tenants of someone else. I think it was a step down in social class.'

‘So McAuley, he sounds fairly forward-thinking for that time?'

‘Yep. And he was very well educated, apparently. Had a room full of books in his house, a whole library really. He read all the time, everything and anything. He was famous for it. Probably
infamous
, ha! “That weirdo McAuley, what's he wasting his time with all those books for?”'

‘Ugh. People were so dumb back in those days.'

‘He was into all sorts of stuff. This's according to family lore, you know. History, philosophy, eastern religions, astrology, Classical civilisation, Celtic civ  …  Even things like witchcraft, seances, mediums, all this far-out stuff. Different cults, old gods, like the old Irish gods? The river gods or whatever. That's what people used to say.'

‘Ouija boards are such horseshit, aren't they? They never work. Sorry, that's a totally irrelevant statement. I'm sorry, carry on.'

Sláine smiled. ‘Anyway, his wife and kids survived the Famine and eventually returned to town and found him  …  dead, missing, who knows. Dead, I suppose. They inherited his property, his land, the business  …  And here we remain.'

We were still dancing around it, the reason she'd summoned me. Sláine had said she'd tell me how she died, as much as she understood it. But she hadn't broached the subject yet. She didn't even explain why there'd been no contact for several days. All she said was, ‘I needed to rest  …  I was very tired. I needed time to rest.'

What was that supposed to mean? Did dead people really ‘need to rest'? Sláine admitted that she didn't sleep any more, so what did she mean by ‘rest'? Chillax in front of the telly with the feet up, a cup of tea and a few fags? Somehow I couldn't picture that cosy little scene taking place here in gloomy Shook Woods.

Of course Sláine didn't stay in the forest, though, did she? This was her home but she could travel other places as well. And she'd ‘brought' me home, somehow, twice. I wondered where else she'd been since becoming what she was now. Could she enter properties besides my house, or was this – our friendship, relationship, whatever – making it possible? I debated whether to ask, then decided to switch gears by telling her about the Rattigan incident instead.

She listened to my story, then said, ‘How did it make you feel? To do that.'

I laughed. ‘Gee, I'm not sure I'm comfortable going there just yet, Doctor Freud. Maybe another few sessions on the couch first. Maybe you could
get
a couch first.'

Sláine frowned at me, almost maternal, and I remembered again how much older than me she often seemed. She said, ‘Don't hide behind sarcasm. I'm not a psychiatrist and you know that. I'm just – interested in you.'

That was a nice thing to hear. One of many. I said, ‘Okay, sorry. I'm a moron, I admit it. How did it, uh  …  You know what? It felt feckin'
great
. Every bit as good as I'd imagined. I didn't even mind that I haven't the balls to, you know,' – I chuckled – ‘smash his face in too. I have to admit, that little fantasy has kept me warm on many a night. John Rattigan's face at the business end of a lead pipe. And me standing over him, screaming – no, not screaming. Saying it really quietly, you know – it's more menacing that way. “How's it feel, asshole? How's that taste of your own medicine going down?”' I laughed louder, partly embarrassed but happy too, almost giddy. ‘That would've
ruled
. But hey, what happened today wasn't bad either.'

‘Do you still want to punish him? Do you want revenge, I mean?'

‘On Rattigan?'

‘On all of them.'

‘Uh  …  I dunno. Like, walking away today, having just
destroyed
him, basically, with nothing but the power of my intellect  …  That felt good. And it proves I'm the bigger man, right? I'm better than him, I don't need revenge.'

‘You still haven't answered my question.'

‘Yeah, I know, I know  …  This is called stalling, Sláine. Playing for time.'

‘That's fine. I can wait.'

I sighed and pulled out my tobacco. ‘Then you might be waiting a long time. Because I'm not sure I know the answer to that myself.'

Sláine looked at me for a good while, then nodded to herself as if something had been settled in her mind. She stood up and crossed the room, turning the oil lamps down. The room dimmed to a twilight blur. I liked it better this way. Now it felt even more like a place of seclusion, a womb, somewhere warm and safe, to hide away from the rest of the world.

She floated to the wall opposite me, brought her hands together and pursed her lips. In this darker atmosphere, weirdly, she seemed to be glowing more than before. Her skin, impossibly pale. Her clothes becoming whiter every time I saw her. I squeezed my eyes shut and told myself it was the light playing tricks again. I opened them.

Finally Sláine spoke the words I'd been waiting for all evening, for days past: ‘I said you were ready to know how I died. So here it is.'

‘I can't explain everything because I don't understand it all myself,' she said. ‘Not yet. Hopefully I will, eventually. For now, I'll tell you what I know.'

‘All right. That's fair enough.'

‘And I'm sorry, again, that you're only hearing this now. I was  …  worried. For you. How you'd react. I wanted to build up to it, gradually. It's  …  this is outside everything you've ever known. There might be some – what can I call it? “Psychic disorientation.” So, you know. Brace yourself.'

‘All right. Braced.'

‘That night  …  the night I died,' Sláine began. ‘It didn't feel special in any way. The whole day, the weeks leading up to it – my life was carrying on as normal. College was good, I was enjoying the course, staying with a nice group of girls in Galway. Heading out, having fun. No romance going on. I'd had this thing earlier in the year, it got a bit serious on his side and I didn't feel the same. I knew I never would, so I'd called it off about two months before.'

I felt a prickle of jealousy. Was she talking about Tommy Fox? Was that why he was so cut up? Some sense of unfinished business, maybe  … 
She'd
ended the relationship – that was a good sign, right? But hang on, Aidan, why do you care anyway? You and Sláine are just friends, no  …  ?

She was still talking; I ordered my inner voice to quit yapping and listened.

‘Things were good. Life was good. Ha.
Life
. Remember that, Sláine? Another life, another Sláine  …  I remember it clearly, that Sunday. Visiting an old friend in the afternoon. Coffee in that place on Main Street, you know it, with the old black-and-white movie posters. Home, did a bit of reading. Funny, I don't remember what book it was. Something by Borges, I think  …  Anyway, I felt pretty tired by about nine, so I went to bed early. Said goodnight to my parents, brushed my teeth and lay down to sleep. That was the last thing, really, I ever did. As the old me.'

I held my breath.

Sláine went on. ‘I'm not sure I actually
did
anything more after that. Of my own free will, you know? I was sort of aware that things were happening around me, but I didn't have any power myself. To move, to react in any way. I was just
there
.'

A pause. I said quietly, ‘“There” meaning Shook Woods.'

She nodded. ‘I woke up in the forest, deep in the heart of it. I say woke, but it didn't feel like that, the way you sort of surface slowly out of sleep. This was more like – like being shocked into consciousness by a great cold. As if my body took a huge, sudden breath  …  ' She opened her eyes wide and gasped violently to demonstrate what she meant. ‘  …  And my eyes were open and I was standing in the middle of the forest. Much further in than they found my body – it must have been moved. It's hard to describe how it felt. I suppose – try to imagine you're asleep, and someone throws you into a freezing pool: the way you'd just
leap
back into wakefulness, your entire body screaming. Except there was no water, and no screaming. I couldn't speak, couldn't do anything. I just stood there, under the moonlight.'

Sláine paused again. Jesus, the tension was becoming unbearable.

‘I was fully dressed. Had I gone to bed in my clothes? No. So either I'd dressed myself or someone else had done it for me. How had I got to Shook Woods? Walked there, I guess. My feet were bare, blue with the cold, but I didn't seem to mind. Maybe because the rest of me was so cold too. More than cold, that seems such a puny little word, those four letters  …  I was beyond cold. I felt literally
frozen
inside. All the blood frozen in my veins. My heart frozen, not beating. My eyes frozen, I wasn't blinking. My whole body frozen, I mean I wasn't even shivering in response to it. I was a statue. No, an ice sculpture. The only thing not frozen, it seemed, was my mind – and that wasn't working the way it usually did, either. Everything felt weird and kind of dreamlike. I was present but detached from it too, the way you feel in a dream. How you're part of it but at the same time watching yourself from a distance. The creator and the audience, all at once.'

She looked at me, brows raised in a question. I nodded that I knew what she meant.

‘I don't even know if I was still alive or had already died by this stage. That's how strange it was. I stood there for what might have been an hour, might have been thirty seconds  …  no movement around me, the whole forest frozen like I was, although I thought I heard birds crying in the distance, like a raven's cry, but probably just imagined that. And then  …  '

Her eyes misted over as she was transported back in time to that fateful moment: ‘I felt a  …  presence. Nearby. Hard to describe, again. Not a
being
as such, like a person or some other living thing. But not something inorganic either, you know. This wasn't just the wind blowing  …  A
presence
. I don't know how to  …  Maybe if the wind could have a personality, or the sun or moon, that might describe it. If some element of the weather had a mind or soul  …  The cold. It felt as if the physical state of coldness had come alive. And I realised that the same coldness I felt inside, it was outside me now as well, pushing against me. Pushing to get in. The coldness inside pushing to get out. The two of them moving towards each other, pushing me, pushing
through
me  …  And then I
was
the coldness – it was me, we were one and the same. It settled in me and I was part of it. And I knew for sure that I was dead.'

BOOK: Shiver the Whole Night Through
3.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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