The Gamal Read online

  Mother said Detective Crowley was fierce handsome back in the day. And how he used to be smartly turned out before his son got killed. Nowadays he looks like shit. There’s a lot of him to dress though, size of a mountain he is. A fat wobbly mountain. They say they made him detective because they couldn’t find a uniform to fit him any more. But of course he was a detective before he got fat. ’Course then someone would say that when Old Master Higgins got drunk below in the pub he said Crowley was the cleverest child he’d ever seen in forty years of teaching. That he’d begged his parents not to send him into the guards, that he’d be wasted in the guards. But the boy had an uncle a guard and that’s all he ever wanted to be. He wasn’t wasted in the guards anyhow.

  Just wasn’t clever enough to dress himself I suppose. He always wore a tie though. I’d say he had to. It looked like his mammy put it on him and he was after spending the last half hour trying to pull it off. They were the only house around that didn’t have a television, himself and the wife.

  —She do be reading books, my auntie said to my mother, with a face on her like she was after getting a smell of shit.

  —She’s deep, my mother said.

  —God help us, my auntie said.

  No wonder she’s a bit fucking mental if all she does is be reading books. I’d go mental if I read four pages of one. One thing Detective Crowley didn’t find in my room was books. He was in there one time looking around.

  Benign

  Adj. 1. kindly; having a kind and gentle disposition or appearance 2. favourable; mild or favourable in effect 3. harmless; neutral or harmless in its effect or influence 4. med. not life-threatening; not a threat to life or long-term health, especially by being non-cancerous [14thC. Via French bènigne from Latin benignus of uncertain origin: probably from, ultimately, bene gunus, literally ‘well born’, from bene ‘well’ + -genus ‘born’.]

  Detective Crowley was a benign sort of a fella. But he could’ve killed with the size of him. People didn’t have much good to say about his wife though.

  —Worst thing he ever done was marry that one anyhow. Fucking weirdo she is.

  —Yera that one is away with the fairies.

  —She had an uncle out in Macroom killed hisself you know. Pure sign of weak in a family. Pure sign of weak.

  Detective Crowley saw something nice in her anyhow.

  He spent a fair while trying to figure me out back along. He didn’t know if I was to be protected by him or if he needed to protect people from me. I could see him wondering in his eyes and he talking to me. What to make of me. He got it right anyhow, as it all turned out. After my wash I could hear himself and the father talking below.

  —Ah things have settled down a lot. He’s good really. Considering. Gets upset now and again. Goes walking like you know. Down to the river and stuff. We worry a lot.

  —’Course you do.

  —What he might do you know.

  —I’d say if he was going to, he’d have . . . you know by now.

  —Hopefully anyway isn’t it?

  —That said, you can’t ever be sure.

  —He seems to be getting on well with this Dr Quinn anyhow.

  —Isn’t that great.

  —He’d a rocky start with him now like. He’s after opening up a small bit now though like you know. You see he wouldn’t talk about all that happened like. Not even to Dr Quinn.

  —Really?

  —Ah but sure, that’s the kind he is. He was like that ever. Even as a child like, you know. Preferred to be away in his own world. Sinéad and James were the only people he’d ever talk to sure really like you know. And that doesn’t look like changing much.

  —But he’s still meeting Dr Quinn is he?

  —He is. Dr Quinn came up with a way to get him to ah . . . to get him to like . . . to . . . process things like you know . . . without having to let anyone in close to him like you know?

  —How so?

  —He has him like . . . so it seems anyway like, even though I don’t think even Dr Quinn has seen much of it like, but he’s writing his story like you know.

  —Dr Quinn is?

  —No no, Charlie. He’s after learning how to type and everything sure. Dr Quinn does it above in the hospital like. Runs kind of writing classes for like, the mental . . . like people with mental problems like you know. As a kind of therapy you see.

  —By God.

  —Seems to be after doing the trick for Charlie anyhow. ’Tis definitely bringing himself out of himself a bit.

  —Jesus, that’s great altogether.

  —Now don’t get me wrong now like. There’s still times when he takes to the cot and he mightn’t get out of bed for the bones of a week. Sometimes you can hear him typing in the middle of the night. A lot of the time, nothing though. Might go for a walk before dawn and then he’d disappear back to bed when the rest of us are up and about. But Christ he’s a million times better than he was a year ago like you know. Million times better.

  —Is he working any bit?

  —No. Dr Quinn doesn’t think he’s ready yet but I think ’twould be the best thing for him to be honest. Even a day picking spuds or something.

  —I suppose the doctors know best.

  —I suppose they do. He’s probably washed up now I’d say. Will I give him a shout?

  —Ah sure do, ’twould be nice to say bye to him.

  The father shouted up for me. He didn’t really need to. I was sitting at the top of the stairs listening to them. I went back into my room to answer.

  —Yeah?

  —Come down.

  —Ha?

  —Come down.

  —Ha? For what?

  —Come down and thank Detective Crowley for sorting you out today and giving you the lift home.

  —Ha?

  —Come down.

  I went down.

  —All cleaned up Charlie?

  —Yeah.

  —Good man, good man. Your father tells me you’re doing great anyway.

  —Yeah.

  —And you’re doing a bit of writing are you?

  —Yeah.

  —That’s great. And you’re up and about a bit now and stuff.

  —Yeah.

  The father goes then,

  —Listen, I’m going to make a cup of tea. You’ll have a cup?

  —I will.

  —Charlie you’ll have some too will you?

  —Yeah.

  Out went the father.

  —Your father tells me you’re getting on great with Dr Quinn.

  —Yeah.

  —You’re writing about all the stuff you’ve been through are you?

  —Yeah . . . small bits only.

  —Still . . . I think it’s a great idea . . . You still have hard days your father tells me. Is it an dubh?

  —Yeah . . . I suppose.

  —Are you on tablets?

  —Yeah. Father keeps them. Leaves a dose out for me like.

  —I met Frank Deasy in court the other day.

  Frank Deasy is my lawyer. He helped me during the trial.

  —He was asking about you.

  —Yeah.

  —He’s very busy since the case. Says he’s a lot busier . . . after being on the telly and all. You know the way fellas are.

  —Yeah.

  —Like to feel important. Having a lawyer that was on the telly and all. You know . . .

  —Yeah.

  —It’s good to see you again Charlie. I think about how you’re doing a lot. You went through a lot.

  —Yeah.

  —Yeah.

  We sat there and listened to the sound of my father fighting with the kitchen over a few cups of tea.

  Then Detective Crowley said,

  —My wife you know . . . Veronica . . . she’s not well. Gone back again she is.

  —Yeah.

  —She’s not reading or anything these days.

  —Yeah.

  —I think maybe for her sake we should have left Ballyronan long a
go. Away from the house. Away from where he was knocked down. Just away. It’s like she can’t let go. Or forget.

  —Yeah. Dr Quinn maybe could help.

  —Won’t see him.

  —Yeah.

  —I try to cheer her up. Put on the radio like. Bit of pop music. Open the curtains. Say all the nice things we could be doing. She just lies there and stares into space. Ignores me. Sometimes all right she’ll tell me to, ‘Fuck off’, but most of the time it’s like she doesn’t even hear me.

  —Yeah.

  —What could I do Charlie? Have you anything you could suggest to help her get out of it?

  —No.

  —OK.

  —Sad music maybe. Slow, sad music might speak to her more.

  —Jesus Christ . . . are you sure?

  —No. But maybe . . . Yeah . . . make her feel not so alone maybe.

  —Christ. She does love the music. Think I might try it. Do you think it will work?

  —No. Not for a long time nothing’ll work.

  The father came in then with a tray of tea and biscuits. They talked about the football team and the budget and saying how they’ll always take care of the big noises with all the money anyhow, whatever about the ordinary man on the street.

  Words

  That’s eight hundred and sixty-two words. That’s me done for today.

  Piss

  I’m just in from a piss. Listened to the mother and father from the top of the stairs for a bit. They were below in the kitchen. Heard him saying to the mother that he’s not too sure about Dr Quinn and if all his old writing therapy is only a load of old mickey mouse codswallop. The mother says,

  —I dunno.

  And I could see her shrugging her shoulders even though I couldn’t see her.

  The father always just looks at me sometimes for a few seconds then goes back reading the paper or watching television. Seen him do that a million times out the corner of my eye. The mother understands me better cos she doesn’t be trying to understand me. The mother takes me as I am. And as I’m not isn’t it?

  ’Course the mother’s big secret is that she can’t read. She even fooled my father who was married to her before he realised that she used only be pretending to be reading her women’s magazines or that she was reading the subtitles of the foreign films he took her to. I seen pictures of my mother when she was young. She was very pretty and she looks like she could definitely read and didn’t look like a thick. She doesn’t even know that I know she can’t read. I used to watch her face all expressions and shock when she was reading my letters home long ago for being bold in school.

  —Charlie. I’m surprised at you Charlie.

  Even though the last thing she was was surprised.

  —Wait ’til your father sees this. Won’t be one bit happy Charlie.

  She calls in to me sometimes when I’m writing. She knocks on the door and says can she come in and then when she’s in it’s clear as air that she has nothing to say and forgot to even think of something all the way up the stairs. Then she’ll just say a blandness like,

  —Have you washing?

  —No.

  —How are you feeling?

  —Grand.

  —Anyway come down if you want a snack or something. How’s the writing going?

  —Grand.

  I’m not being mean. I’m fond of her but she calls in to me about ten times a day and her loneliness makes me feel sad about her and about the world isn’t it? Remember one time on a school tour to Dublin I bought her a cheap Aretha Franklin tape. She made such a fuss over it I never got her anything ever again. It meant too much to her and that made me realise what an awful useless cunt I am.

  I could say more about my family but it’s not really part of the story. I’ve an older sister too and she’s normal. She’s married. When she heard I was writing the story for a book she said,

  —You better not have me in it anyhow, Cha, or I’ll break your face.

  She calls me Cha. She moved away out of Ballyronan and I think it was cos of me cos I’m an embarrassment. She does love me but my existence mortifies her. She’s a lot older than me. I was an accident. A bad accident. I was carnage. She calls a lot, my sister does. Her husband does be away a lot with work. She used to come up to my room when I was in the coma but awake.

  —I really hope you’re going to be OK Cha. Isn’t the same without you around. Even if you never say anything.

  She used to rub my head softly sometimes when she came up. She’s kind of busy now though. She has one little girl of two and she’s pregnant now again I think. Emily is her little girl. My niece.

  The Story

  I’m having difficulty figuring out how to start my story. Or where to start. Dr Quinn was on about characters and character development and plot and climax and all this. If the characters are the people, well I’m one. And I’m the narrator also. Then there’s Sinéad. Then there’s James. I’ll mention others along the way, but that’s the main three anyhow. The story is mainly about people. And the things they do to each other.

  Music

  Sometimes music used to get me so I had to stop whatever I was doing. Sometimes it was the words as well but most often it was just the music. Or the music and words together maybe too. I washed a whole car one time in the garage cos of a song. It wasn’t even what the boss had asked me to do. He asked me to stack the gas cylinders but there was a song coming out of a car at the petrol pumps that I couldn’t stop listening to and he explaining what he wanted me to do.

  —Whose fucking car is that?

  —Ha?

  —What are you washing that fucking car for? Who owns it?

  —You.

  —I do not. That’s a customer’s fucking car. It’s not for sale. Leave it alone. I told you to stack up them fucking gas cylinders. Jesus Christ.

  The song I could hear at the petrol pumps was a Neil Young song and I told Sinéad and James about it and they learned it. This is the words of it. It’s nice not to have to come up with all the words for my book anyhow. A thousand a day is torture.

  Did you notice that there was nothing there instead of the words of the Neil Young song ‘Out On The Weekend’? I’ll explain why there was nothing there now.

  I wanted to include the words of songs but Dr Quinn was talking to his lawyer friends and they said I’d have to pay the people who made up the songs millions to put the words of them in my book. That’s a disaster and I’ll tell you why it’s a disaster now. It’s important that you know the world of Sinéad and James in order to understand my story. And the world of Sinéad and James isn’t just bridges and rivers and a castle and houses and roads and fields and rooms and places and people. It’s songs too. Songs were part of their world just as much as anything else or maybe more than anything else. And I can’t just draw a picture of a song and I can’t just describe the words of them and I can’t play them to you so that means you have to do it yourself.

  And you might say the words aren’t important. Well they are. Sinéad and James learned how to make songs from words. They carved and moulded them into verses and choruses. Sinéad scribbled the words of songs she loved everywhere. The backs of schoolbooks and her pencil case and her copies and her journals cos she had journals and she learned the form you see. The forms of songs and the form of songs. Practised it and learned it.

  I’ll mention the name of the songs cos the names of songs are free but you’ll have to get the words of them yourself and write them in. I’ll leave a space blank for you to do it like I did with Neil Young. And do it in neat handwriting so it doesn’t look shit. I put in lines and all for you. And listen to the songs too. You’ll like listening to them but writing in the words will be a pain in the hole but the words are important too cos they were a fairly big part of the brains of Sinéad and James cos most singing needs words. And any other sounds people sing are words too. Important words that don’t mean anything except a feeling in you. But some songs I won’t have to leave blank cos they�
�re Sinéad and James’ songs and they wouldn’t take money off me for using them. Other famous songs I might be able to put in cos the people who wrote them are dead ages and money only bores the dead.

  It Happened

  It’s an awful story and it’s a true story. It’s a sad story and it might make you cross and it might make you sad and it happened and there’s people in it. And some of them are dead people now.

  Time

  Time is cruel.

  Pissed Off

  Sometimes people piss you off. You can either let it piss you off or not isn’t it?

  God

  Most people believe in God. I never did, God help me.

  Protagonist

  I dunno who the protagonist is. Me or Sinéad I suppose. Or James maybe. I meant to ask Dr Quinn if there’s an antagonist and protagonist in stories that are true, but I forgot. He writes for a hobby. Actually enjoys it like. Said I should write down the story. That it would be therapeutic. He runs writing workshops once a week in the nuthouse in Cork. Said I could come along if I wanted. I said no. Bad enough to be hanging around with loonies. But this crew would be nerds on top of that. Anyhow I’m not doing this for therapy I’m doing it for money. Hope to God it’ll make me some. I need to get out of here.

  Dr Quinn showed me some writing today from a fella in his writing class that he thought was good. This star pupil kept using the word as. As he looked at me from across the table, as the steam rose from the coffee, as he spoke about this good writer fella he had in his class, as he blinked every few seconds, as he spoke, as I listened, as he handed me this piece of writing that he thought was really very, very good, as he sat back down as the chair swivelled slightly, as he spoke to me again about the having to pay for the words of songs I wanted to put in my book situation, as he shook his head and said I should just forget about the song lyrics as he explained that people would find it boring reading song lyrics as I looked out the window and tried to imagine the kind of fucking cunts that wouldn’t want to read the words of the songs that Sinéad and James loved and learned from, as the sun broke through the clouds and found a bit of the redbrick hospital wall that was the best thing about the miserable view from his window, as I thought of all the other depressed headwrecked patients of Dr Quinn who had to look out at that miserable view and try to feel good about themselves and the lives they have, as I breathed and continued to think different thoughts as Dr Quinn tried to make me think other thoughts, as I just nodded and looked out the window and continued with my own thoughts about the way things were as the sun fucked off again as Dr Quinn stared at me waiting for me to respond to what I hadn’t listened to, as I said,