The Holy City (7 page)

— Yes, he went on, an alcoholic with very severe problems indeed, every bit as bad as yours, Mr Christopher McCool. And I'm sure that his brother has a lot more to do than come around institutions looking out for his troubled relative without finding himself in mortal danger. Would you have anything in particular to say to that?

No I hadn't, I assured him. What could I possibly say, I said. It was disgraceful what I had done to them both — without question.

— I am deeply, Dr Mukti, deeply remorseful over what I did. I implore your forgiveness. I am abject, craven, ashamed of myself.

And that is exactly what I would have gone on saying if, quite unexpectedly, I hadn't seen him smirk. And cover his face with his cupped chocolate-coloured hand as he whispered:

— Marcus Otoyo was right. You really are quite the freak, aren ‘t you? But not in an amusing sixties kind of way. Oh no.

I went cold all over as soon as I heard that, my muscles stiffening and the hairs on my neck beginning to bristle. Then I found myself responding bitterly.

— Excuse me, Dr Mukti: would you mind repeating what you said just now?

— Repeat it? he replied, provocatively confronting me.

I began to become aware that I had responded too eagerly. Small though he was, Mukti was still clever and had lost none of his dexterous artfulness. Already I could see the eager glint of perceived advantage in his eye.

— Yes, I said, repeat it, please, if you wouldn't mind.

His reprised smirk undermined me again. As did his suave and patient demeanour. The high-pitched tone had all but vanished now from his voice.

— You must be imagining things, Christopher, he said, because you see, I didn't say anything at all.

I had become extremely agitated now and was fumbling awkwardly, without success, for words.

Eventually I said:

— Well, vuh-vuh-very well, that's fine, but I'm sorry you did not, only that there was a smuh-smuh-smirk on your face when you were saying it.

Now he was making me stammer — something I did rarely, only when I was very upset.

— Saying what? he said then. Please tell me what I said. If you heard me saying something then please tell me what it was.

I couldn't stand it. I knew I had to do something. I snapped.

— Oh fuh-fuh-for God's sake, Dr Mukti! I bawled, with my voice now in a higher register than his. Will you stop this nonsense once and for all, for goodness' sake! I heard what you said! I know what you're trying to say — that my intentions towards Marcus Otoyo were somehow dishonourable and that all this talk of literature is just a
smokescreen of some kind. Well, let me tell you something — how about you and that Pandit take off and go back home: back to India or wherever it is you came from! What do you think of that, Tom Thumb? Any views on that, Mahatma fucking Gandhi? Anything to say about that, have you, foxy? Well? Well? Wuh-wuh-well?

Thankfully, all of those minor little turbulences are well past now, long since over and consigned to the dustbin of history. And, like so many events throughout the course of my life, I am in the fortunate position of being capable now of recollecting them in an almost luxurious and sleepily random fashion — lying here on my soft velvet cushions in the Happy Club listening to my CDs of the Carpenters and Tony Bennett and all the others and thinking again about poor old Dr Mukti. Whose good points I can appreciate now without the slightest hint of rancour. As I can, in actual fact, with almost everyone I've known over the years, with whom I have been connected — Marcus Otoyo, happily, included. Whose poise and refinement, intelligence and erudition really were, by any standards, quite remarkable for their time. And in such a quiet, unprepossessing place. I can see how their uniqueness might have come to impress me in the way that they did. How in so many ways he came to embody the spirit of radiant, adolescent wonder itself — a spirituality and longing I could find nowhere else. And which was so perfectly described in the writings of James Joyce. Who belonged to no age in particular, and who infinitely, culturally and artistically, if one was honest, was
superior to anything emerging from the narcissistic, throw-away, congratulatory, complacent and fly-by-night sixties.

I embraced every word that I found in
A Portrait,
surrendering to their ‘passionate euphony'. And became convinced that Marcus Otoyo was a kindred spirit in this regard, that he had been thinking along those lines too. You could tell, I persuaded myself, by the way he carried himself: mysteriously detached, at one remove from the world in which he lived. Sometimes at night I would think of him praying: not in a remote, stark frigid Protestant cathedral but in a warm and big-hearted Catholic one, where the altar was heaped with fragrant masses of flowers, and where in the morning light the pale flames of the candles among the white flowers were clear and silent as his own soul.

I thought of him blinded by his tears and the light of God's mercifulness, all but bursting into hysterical weeping as he watched the warm calm rise and fall of the girl's breast that day on the strand. With the glowing image of the Eucharist uniting in an instant his bitter and despairing thoughts. While sacrificing hands upraised the chalice flowing to the brim. So far distant from the Gothic grey grimness of what was left of Thornton Manor. And the lives of all who had lived there: in a place which, beside this, was the colour of dust. The shade of the gravestone that was Henry Thornton's face. No, a book such as Robert Louis Stevenson's
A Child's Garden of Verses
meant nothing to him, not in any real human way. Maybe not in any way at all.

Yet another indication of Catholic sentiment: unreliable, quite despicable emotionalism.

One troubled night I dreamt of Henry Thornton, my eyes snapping open, still seeing him bursting dramatically through the high French windows of Thornton Manor, with rain and sheet lightning sweeping out behind him, his face a mask of bitter resentment, tearing the book
A Child's Garden of Verses
from Lady Thornton's pale trembling hands. Before casting it contemptuously into the roaring flames, its thin leaves edged in gold immediately turning to ash in the heavy grate. As I fled from her lap, out into the yawning black maw of the night — hopelessly blinded by bafflement and sorrow.

Resounding in my ears the mercilessness of his chastisements, as he continued to charge her with that most grievous sin.

— Fornicating with Carberry like a common fucking whore, and bringing that oddity, that thing into the world! You call yourself a Protestant? You think they'll ever show respect to you again? They'll despise you from now till the day you die, for showing weakness above all to one of them!

On the day of the ‘boiling water', what happened was I had been following Mukti — more or less for the whole morning, in fact. Now, at close of evening, I found myself concealed behind the sundial, under cover of some bushes, eyeing him closely as he led his visitor in the direction of the prefab, where they held the group sessions, specifically for alcoholics.

I was feeling very cold — icy, to tell the truth — as I observed them chatting, ever so warmly, and smiling. What seemed so strange was that the feeling in its essence was so
close to the one I remembered from long ago in Cullymore. After I'd discovered the letter of betrayal. The crumpled envelope I'd found in Dolores's handbag. Dolores Mc-Causland and I had established a liaison of some significance at the beginning of summer in 1969, after a number of meetings in the Mayflower Ballroom. She was a woman some years older than myself, and her presence in Cullymore had literally electrified the town. The truth was that they had never seen anything like her before. An entirely different kind of Protestant, with her peroxide hair and figure-hugging dresses. They said she looked the ‘spit' of Ruby Murray, a Northern Irish singer who'd been very successful some years previously. And whose songs she had declared a particular affection for, actually singing them in public from time to time. She was attracted to me, she said, because someone had told her I was a Protestant. I'm not, I told her, and did the best I could — but she wouldn't permit herself to be convinced. I heard you have associations with quality, she said — and laughed.

— We all stick together, she chuckled mischievously the first night I met her, because we're different to them! They can get themselves in such a tizzy about silly things, can't they, the Catholics? Like a little slap and tickle, for instance. Or a girl's fondness for a nice cheeky dress. They won't even allow the
News of the World
Into the house! Kiddies, really, I sometimes think. They're so predictable but lovable in so many ways. They can have such fun with their singing, you know, and their drinking! Love them Fenians — bless 'em, or hate 'em — one way or another, you can't be without them!

But I'm really not a Protestant, I continued to insist to her. Meaning that part of me would, regrettably, remain for ever Carberry. And that was just about as Catholic as you could get. The inebriate, treacherous, unreliable rascal.

— I don't care what you say, she said, I can tell. The way you dress, even the way you walk. Yes, you're every inch the gentleman, she insisted, and that's why I shall christen you my own
Mr Wonderful.

I really became fond of Dolores McCausland, the lovely ‘Dolly'. Each weekend now I took her to the Mayflower and we would enjoy a drink most evenings in the Good Times. She liked the Beatles but preferred Peggy Lee.

— That's because she sings little songs about you, you see, she laughed, puckering her nose as she sipped her drink, crooning:

— Why this feeling? Why this glow? Why the thrill when you say hello? Mr Wonderful, I love you!

Whenever we had a disagreement she told me she didn't like me looking at her in that way.

— Don't do that, Mr Wonderful, she implored.

— I thought you liked Protestants, isn't that what you said?

— Not like that. Not all Protestants are cold and hard.

— The indifferent grey heart of Henry Thornton. What other kind of Protestant is there?

— Please don't shout, she said, it upsets me, I told you, when you look at me that way.

— OK, baby! I won't, after all it's the sixties and we're supposed to be ‘real gone', in ‘kooksville', having fun. So let's put on the Troggs, OK? Yeah —
Waaahld thang
It's the new world, baby, roll over, Henry Thornton!

The light on the terrace was beginning to fail but the visitor and Mukti were still out front. When I looked again, though, they had disappeared around the side of the building. I followed them. They took a left turn past the prefab, indicating they intended to avail themselves of the available short cut, past the car park and then in through the kitchens. There was an open slatted door on rollers at the side of the building and through it came wafting the stultifying smell of pulped, boiling cauliflower.

The psychiatrist climbed up on to the concrete ledge and assisted his visitor, the two of them laughing as he climbed up and was hauled inside. I craned my neck but couldn't properly make out what they were saying.

There were some sacks of potatoes stacked up near the boiler, with two huge metal bins stuffed to the brim with soggy broken eggs, potato skins and other damp refuse. I slipped inside and didn't make a sound, crouching down out of sight behind the sacks. The two men had paused and were chatting amicably to the kitchen porter. Although I still couldn't hear them clearly I got the impression that the subject under discussion was football. Which surprised me a little — I hadn't been aware of Mukti's interest in sport of any kind.

Clouds of steam were rising in great big warm puffs from an assortment of gleaming cooking vessels arranged on the
hob, obscuring the clergyman's face as he good-humouredly tilted backwards, rocking back and forth, nodding away there, on his heels. Whatever Mukti was saying to the porter it was clearly amusing. Perhaps he was telling him about his clever little plan — how he had taken over my case himself, and was making great progress, getting all the news about Marcus Otoyo. He doesn't even realise he's telling me, poor old McCool, he was probably saying. But I thought no more about it. I had had it up to here, thinking about Indians. The whole disgusting farce had been exposed and that was all I needed to know.

Mukti was all ears now, leaning forward, hanging on his visitor's every word. The puffs of steam dissipated, at long last providing me with a much clearer view. The clergyman had turned around, and I could see him now plainly in his charcoal-grey suit. Poor old Mukti — as I say, he had assumed it was some grudge I was harbouring towards Canon Burgess and perhaps the Catholic Church in general that had prompted me, conveniently providing my motivation. Which was utter nonsense, of course, as I have said. Visitors just didn't figure in the equation.

At long last they concluded their conversation and were preparing to say goodbye. Dr Mukti was waving as his visitor smiled and turned on his heel. Some chips were boiling in a tank, sunk deep in oil, with the handle of a wire basket protruding over the edge. It was convenient for me that the visitor's departure had been temporarily suspended, what with the psychiatrist somehow having caught his foot
in the spars of a pallet as his companion patiently and bemusedly assisted him. They were much too preoccupied with this to notice anything when I finally emerged from my place of concealment and walked right up to them, swinging the wire basket in a wide arc — bringing it forward, even if I say so myself, in an extremely precise, almost perfectly judged movement. But, unfortunately, missing both Mukti and his companion completely with the result that one of the kitchen maids managed to skid on the discharged liquid, falling forward awkwardly, and somehow in the process managing to knock over a vat of boiling water, just as the so-called priest was trying to manoeuvre himself backwards. The scream that followed — it really was appalling.