The Gamal Read online

  Even after I had started school I was still going to see these doctors who were doing all sorts of special tests and experiments. In these experiments they realised that I wouldn’t do anything if I knew that someone wanted me to do it. Even if I wanted to do it myself I wouldn’t do it if I knew someone else like the doctors wanted me to do it. Not even the smallest thing. I wouldn’t even look at something they asked me to look at. I wouldn’t even say a single word that they wanted me to say.

  There was this one test that the mother told me about that they did. I was four and I really wanted more than anything else in the world a toy tractor that you could sit on and drive with pedals. So unknown to me my father bought me one of these. A real nice one. They’d it all planned. Himself and the doctor. So this one day when I went to the doctor for the tests what was inside in the doctor’s room only the tractor. Over beside the desk. Then the doctor explained to me that I could have the tractor if I just did one tiny thing for him first. All I had to do was look at a picture on the wall for one second. I wouldn’t do it so he gets the picture off the wall and tries to bring it down in front of me so I’d have to look at it. I knew what he was at so I closed my eyes and put my two hands over them. I wouldn’t take my hands away from my eyes for the whole session with the doctor. Three-quarters of an hour. Then my mother came to collect me and I still wouldn’t take my hands down and open my eyes. I didn’t open them until I was getting out of the car to go in home. And even then my mam says I opened one eye a tiny bit first to make sure the picture they wanted me to look at wasn’t around. Fuck the tractor. That’s what I said to my father. So that was my problem. I’d do anything in the world except what people wanted me to do. Then I started school and that all changed. Kind of.

  —But you’d better watch it, the father used to say.

  —The nail that sticks out gets hammered in.

  —The Japanese know their shit Charlie.

  My father knew from the word go though that I wasn’t interested.

  —Will you ever quit the fecking shit?

  —Get with the programme man for the love of Christ.

  He gave up on me then.

  A Man Apart

  So that lark was keeping all the experts off the streets and was keeping me from being expelled. At the end of the day I reckon they secretly knew that the real problem was that I didn’t give a fuck.

  They had my teachers reading about ODD so I was let away with murder. I was being praised left, right and centre. Any tiny bit of work at all that I decided to do next thing I was the best thing since sliced blah.

  —Well done Charlie.

  —Charlie that’s excellent.

  —Brilliant work Charlie.

  Anyhow the beginning and the end of it all was that I didn’t have to do work in school any more if I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t learn where the river Boyne was or which county was Antrim and which was Armagh. Or what the capital of Canada was. Or who came after Henry VIII. Or how the Irish made such a bollicks of fighting off the English for eight hundred years. Or what was the speed of sound. Or the Irish for cousin. Or how to spell pneumonia. All the useless shite that they try and squeeze into your head. I didn’t have to pay a single ounce of attention to any of it. But I had to be in a classroom somewhere until I was sixteen cos that was the law.

  So as long as I stayed half quiet and let the rest of them get on with learning shite I was free as the wind. Well as free as you can be, while sitting in a desk facing a blackboard. I was always sitting at the back of the classroom. When I was put up the front I created havoc. It never took teachers long to learn that ’twas best if I sat at the back. A man apart. That’s what my father calls me. ‘Get the salt there like a good man,’ he’d say. I’d get it then and he’d say, ‘You’re a man apart.’ Been saying it to me all my life, he has.

  Old Master Higgins

  Met Dr Quinn today and he read my stuff so far. He wants me to introduce Old Master Higgins properly. Old Master Higgins was the teacher who I mentioned already who was made to retire early cos he cursed and the cursing was probably on account of his drinking. And I don’t think he was teaching what the government wanted him to teach. He used to still come in to the school now and again after he’d left to be telling us old stories about the parish long ago and the Greeks a zillion years ago. Another thing he said in the pub once was that what the people in the East are afraid of is us in the West boring them all to death with Powerpoint presentations. Master Coughlan took over from Old Master Higgins. They were different animals. I was sorry Old Master Higgins left cos he was interesting but I was glad he left too cos he suspected I was really clever and only pretending to be a dunce. I was weak once and I wrote the answers of a test on toilet paper cos he didn’t bother handing out paper to me cos he knew I wouldn’t do the test. Then he found the toilet paper on the ground and tried to say it was no other student’s handwriting so it had to be mine. I said no. When Master Coughlan was taking over after they got rid of Master Higgins he let Master Higgins say goodbye to us. Master Higgins tried to explain to Master Coughlan that I was clever and Master Coughlan patted him on the back and said, ‘Charlie? Charlie is a pure genius.’ The whole class starts laughing then and Master Higgins mutters away, ‘No actually he’s actually very bright. He just has social issues don’t you see,’ and Master Coughlan leading him out the door as if he was after causing a disturbance, ‘All the best now Master Higgins. Say bye to Master Higgins everybody.’

  —Bye Master Higgins, they all goes.

  I stopped acting up a good bit too when I realised they were going to put me on drugs to keep me from being bold long ago. Drugged up to the fucking gills I was a few times and I small. That’s when I stopped being very bold in school. I stayed quiet now as long as they didn’t make me do the stupid work that the other kids were doing. Anything was better than them tablets. Like the nightmare with the witches with green faces but it wasn’t no dream.

  Witches With Green Faces

  I used to have a nightmare about witches with green faces who had a hold of me in a shopping centre and wouldn’t let me go. And I could see my father and my mother and my sister but they couldn’t see me. And the worst thing was my voice wouldn’t work and I couldn’t call out to them.

  Friends

  I never had any real friends long ago. I didn’t want any. Friends have to be friendly. Sometimes I’ve no mind for being friendly. Except with Sinéad and James I suppose. They were the only ones I ever knew that it felt right always to be friendly to.

  Like People

  I started to like people a lot more, now that they were leaving me alone at the back of the class. Teachers, other students, everyone really. I used to love just sitting back having my noticings watching them all. Mental to be looking at them all and the heads on them pure wild.

  But really like I think the truth is that the father kind of missed me around the place. You see, after the thing that happened I did nothing for a long time. Nearly two years altogether isn’t it? I just was.

  But I got up then when I was ready and it had fuck all to do with music. I’d get up out of bed for a bit in the evening time. Maybe it was Dr Quinn’s anti-depressants that did the trick. But it wasn’t music. My father just shouted up if I wanted to go to the match now. What match I don’t know. Anyhow I said no. Still won’t stop him asking next time. I used to love going to the big matches for the shouting. I shouted every chance I got. It’s the only place I could do it and not get in trouble.

  —Move the fucking ball.

  —Come on lads wake up.

  —Mark up lads for fuck sake.

  —Lads will ye get into the game in the name of fuck.

  —Ref you’re a bollicks.

  —Ya blind fool ya.

  —Put on a blue jersey ref ya prick.

  Sometimes I wouldn’t watch the game at all. I watched the men beside me instead. And I’d try to tell by their faces when they were going to shout and I’d join in.

 
; —Come on ref in the name of fuck.

  I’d be cursing away like mad at the matches and no one only strangers took any notice. Most of the time anyhow. One time all right when it all went quiet I shouted,

  —Referee you’re only a big dirty knacker.

  And they all saying,

  —Ah Jesus Christ Charlie that’s a bit much.

  —Cop yourself on Charlie in the name of God, the man is doing his best.

  Some few would always mutter under their breath,

  —Bleddy gamallogue.

  —Fucking loolah.

  And some would be looking at each other and shaking their heads or throwing their eyes to heaven and saying,

  —God help us.

  That’s what people say when I do stupid things. Some nod their heads once with a sad disappointed look on them when they say it.

  —God help us.

  And they’d say it to describe the like of me too. If someone was describing me they’d say,

  —He’s a bit of a God help us.

  A God help us is another way of saying gamal. My name is Charlie but people call me the gam or the gamal. It’s from an Irish word. Gamalóg. Gamallogue in English. Don’t even know what exactly it means but I’ve a fair idea. Master Coughlan gave me that name after the famous relay. The name stuck. Not gamallogue. Just gam or gamal.

  I never had the discipline to learn any sport properly. I’d just kick the ball as hard as I could any chance I’d get. And I didn’t care what direction I’d kick it in either. Usually I’d kick it out of the pitch altogether. And then they’d give out to whoever kicked the ball to me in the first place.

  —Charlie, Jesus Christ. Will you get away off the pitch. Get up on your tree in the name of God and stay up there ’til the bell goes. Jesus suffering Christ.

  That’d be Master Coughlan. Anyhow, that was the last bit of football coaching I ever got. And probably the best as well. That was the end of my footballing career. But ’twasn’t the end of my athletics days – even though that day wasn’t far off either.

  I was a fast fucker. When I say fast I mean fast. I mean beating the fastest by three or four yards in a sprint.

  Anyhow, weren’t the Cork County Sports coming up and Master Coughlan was in a right tizzy about them and the whiff of glory in his nostrils was putting an almighty spring in his step. The year before he threw any old team together the day before the races during lunchtime. But this year he was like a man possessed. Two months before the races he had us out training. Myself, James, his own young fella Gregory, and Dinky.

  I was the fastest by a long way. Then James was the next fastest by a long way as well. Greg and Dinky were the next fastest in the class, but they were fairly slow. Anyhow, Master Coughlan figured, rightly as it turned out, that between the four of us we had the winning of the first County Relay Final in the school’s history, no less. And who’d be triumphantly crossing the line for the school and for the parish, only Master Coughlan’s own son, Gregory.

  James started and was winning by a mile when he passed the baton to Dinky. Dinky held his own, fair play, and passed it to me. I took off and left them all wishing they were as fast as me. I was a mile ahead when I reached poor Gregory to pass the baton, only hadn’t I gone back to my bad old ways again.

  You see, I seen the whole school up on the stand going off their heads, standing on their seats and screaming their heads off. I seen Master Coughlan and he boxing the air and shouting. I felt like I was in danger of being the parish hero or something. Me, James, Dinky and Gregory doing it for the parish. We’d get a mention at Mass and everything. And our names would be on the Parish Bulletin. Maybe even the County Star. With a photo maybe even.

  So there I was ready to hand the baton on to poor Gregory and he standing there shitting himself afraid he’d fuck it all up and cause his father to kill himself.

  What I did next I swear on my mortified soul I had no control over. My outstretched arm wouldn’t hand over the fecking baton to poor Gregory. I jogged along with the poor fella and I seen the tormented confused frustrated look on his face. He’d make a grab for the baton and I’d raise it, he went up for it then and I lowered it. I just circled the poor lad’s hand with the baton until all the others had passed us out. And off he went, Paddy Last, and the tears rolling down his face and there were a few in his father’s eyes too.

  I know. I’m ashamed. Ashamed. Shamed. Ashamed. I’m not joking. I know. But I swear I had no control over my hand. My head was to blame. My heart would have given him the baton. My head was to blame.

  Anyhow, Master Coughlan shouted at the top of his voice,

  —What kind of a bleddy gamallogue are you to do that? and the spit and dribble coming out of his quivery lips and they as red as his face.

  I’m the gamal since.

  So anyhow. At the matches you have to gauge it right. You have to shout the right insults. At the right time. Otherwise you’ll be the odd one out. I don’t mind being the odd one out. I think I like it.

  —Ah ref you’re an awful fucking cunt.

  I bang doors. They all turn around in shock and then just look back at each other. God help us. And I burp loud. Only thing louder is me shouting afterwards,

  —’Scuse me.

  Gives people a right good fright again. Might let out another small burp then after I shout that. Wear my jumper back to front the odd time too. No one ever said it to me once. Sometimes I forget to wear socks. When I eat I hold my fork in my fist and I bring my head down to meet my fork. I try to carry more than I should and stuff falls. People see the crack of my ass when I pick stuff up. God help us. In Mass when people go up to receive the Body of Christ they go up the middle aisles and down the side aisles to avoid a jam. I get it wrong a lot and people have to get out of my way and I going against everyone. I spill my Lucozade on my chin and my chest sometimes in the pub. In funerals I say the wrong things. I say match things like,

  —Hard luck.

  —No fault.

  —Did your best.

  My grand-uncle died when he was a hundred and two and I said to his son,

  —It was a terrible shock, and the whole place starts laughing mad.

  I don’t talk much but when I do I talk loud and I say the wrong thing. I’m a pity, God help us.

  Dr Quinn was kind of annoying today asking about girls. Once I was about fourteen and realised I liked girls so much I knew I was in an awful stupid situation. I knew I’d no chance of ever being with a nice girl where people knew me. Or where they thought they knew me. That’s when I realised that I’d be doing a disappearing act out of Ballyronan at some stage in the future. Up and out to fuck. I’d been acting the gam for my whole life. I suppose I started caring even less what people thought of me once I realised that I’d be leaving for ever when I grew up. And sure that only made me worse. But he kept asking me about Sinéad,

  —As far as I can make out Charlie, Sinéad was practically the only girl you ever spoke to as a teenager.

  I just shrugged my shoulders. How fascinated he was by this. I’d say he didn’t even get to talk to one girl when he was a teenager. Fucking eyes on him waiting for me to say something. Then he goes,

  —What do you think of that Charlie? Looking back on your teenage years now. What do you think of how you were as a teenager?

  I just shrugged my shoulders again.

  —Do you think you missed out on having normal relationships Charlie? Do you think you missed out?

  I just goes,

  —Yeah. I suppose.

  He went asking me about how I was sleeping then and the usual stuff about my tablets and my dry mouth. I think I’ve done enough words for today. Holy shit I’ve done two thousand, one hundred and thirty-two. That’ll make up for me doing nothing yesterday or the day before. Another couple of thousand before I see Dr Quinn next week will keep him happy.

  I didn’t write anything yesterday but I did over two thousand the day before anyhow. Had to have a big wash there earlier. I se
en a rabbit in the middle of the road that was after being hit by a car. Was still alive. Panting he was. Easier for it to be dead. Hobbling off it was but I caught up with it and I smashed his head with a rock. Bang bang. Blood and brains splattered all over me. Wiped my face with my hands and my sleeve to take the blood off. Thought it was gone but then I could feel my skin harden and get all tight. And the smell of it and the taste of it all irony and butchery. On I goes and next thing Detective Crowley passes me on the road and stops and reverses and asks me how I am and I say fine and he says,

  —Is that blood Charlie?

  —Yeah.

  —What’s it from?

  —A rabbit.

  —Are you sure?

  —Yeah.

  —What did you do to it?

  He made me hop in to the car and I’d to tell him where the rabbit was and he drove there to check that the rabbit existed. Took a minute to find it cos I was after kicking it over to the ditch. He stood over it and looked at the rabbit and looked at me and looked at the rabbit again. Then he dropped me home. Washed and washed and washed but it never went away. Have to be careful you don’t get spattered with blood. There’s a lot more blood behind skin than you’d think. ’Course when I was finished my washing Detective Crowley was still hanging around downstairs.

  Detective Crowley was a disaster. A thick-looking fucker if ever you seen one. Big fat cabbage and bacon head up on him. He was on the missing list one time twenty odd years ago. He’d told his wife he was at a detectives’ conference for a couple of nights up the country. She contacted his colleagues after she’d been called to the hospital because she couldn’t contact him. She found out then that there was no conference. When Detective Crowley rang home later that evening from the so-called conference, his sister-in-law told him the news. That the whole country was looking for him. That his wife needed him. That their four-year-old son had been knocked down. That they couldn’t save him in Cork University Hospital.

  That was years ago now. First funeral I remember. He was in school with us in Ballyronan. In junior infants class. His hair was dark brown. His coffin was white. He was five I suppose. Shane, his name was. They didn’t have any other kids. Detective Crowley’s wife was never the same. They say he never fooled around on her again. Not that it mattered much to her now I suppose. My mother says she died with her son and her marriage. Still Detective Crowley and herself stayed together. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to kick him out. Maybe she still loved him. Anyhow they were still together twenty odd years later.