THE PHOENIX
'Yes, Ma. I'm well aware she's a great ratter, but so's a
ferret and they don't leave giblets on the doorstep.'
Ma wrung her
hands. 'I know you've never been fond of cats, son-'
'Fond?' I pointed to the sacks secured
with a double knot at the neck. 'Ma? The number of times that cat's shat in my
shoes!'
'Think of
the babbies, Ethan. Sure they never did a bit o' harm.'
'Didn't I
find one of them in the in the larder chewin' on the sausages?' I didn't want
to take the hard line with my ma, but needs must. Important day today. THE day
today. 'If-if I'm payin' the bills roun' here, they go ... or ... or I do.'
Ma cocked
her head, expression blank. Jesus, I think it's workin'.
' I'll not
be held to ransom by a young pup.' Her gaze drilled into the shiftin' sacks.
'And if you weren't in your twenties, son, I'd scalp your arse.' Ma let out one
of those pained, dramatic sighs. But as you say, you're keepin' me. Can't you
just give her to someone? I'll find
homes for the babbies.'
Three times
I'd tried to get rid of the fecker and three times it came back to our
lake-house with a feck-you-Ethan-McFarlane
litter in the barn. It wasn't our cat. It just turned up one day. I'd even
gone and borrowed Aidy Harte's ferret Clamp
to get rid of it. Found its white
tail and a pair of kidneys in the yard.
Sly, though,
keepin' the wee critters hidden. I'd only stumbled across them by havin' the
occasion to go into da's pottin' shed. Kittens is not all I found in there,
either. The couple of bottles of poteen had helped take the edge off McFarlane and Son, Solicitors shrinkin' to just
Ethan McFarlane.
'Ma.' I rubbed her arm, more bone
than flesh. She flinched, pinchin' her lips as she did when crossed. 'People
'round here have enough to worry about with kids to feed.'
Ma nodded
and moved to the door, stoppin' before she turned the handle. ' You'll be
fixin' your own tay the night and the marra.'
'But, Ma?' I
knew she'd go, but no tea? Below the belt for a growin' lad who didn't know his
arse from his elbow in the scullery.
'Aye. Big
man like yourself, payin' the bills, is big enough to fix his own tay. I'm
goin' to your Auntie Jean's for a coupla days.'
'But, Ma?' She
was gone. Poundin' up the stairs like a woman twice her weight carryin' a sack
of spuds.
*
Walkin' up the street, sacks over my shoulder, the bell from the
Shankhill church reminded the good
protestants of Lurgan that they'd be wanted this time tomorrow. My plan? A round the houses trip back to the lake
off Edward Street. Ma had to see me leave with the cats in the sacks.
Before I got
to McQuillan's Gentlemen's Outfitters, I juked in Marley's grocer's window. Doin'
the work of two men had sallowed my skin where it wasn't scarred and had scooped
hollows out of my cheeks. But over the past six months, my colour had returned.
I almost looked twenty-three.
I chose not to look in on Miss McQuillan;
Ailish, a fine young woman who saw beyond my smeared-on flesh. Others stared. I
handled it better now, knowin' that I wasn't alone. My face wasn't the worst. What
lay beneath my shirt, I'd once believed, was for my eyes only until the day I
died. A glimpse of Miss Ailish used to be the highlight of a trip up the street,
but her light had since been eclipsed by my new legal assistant. I'd needed
help, but female company more-so, and I didn't mind payin' for it.
But it felt
grand to be out. The air out here smelled
good. Fresh. I didn't think of the wrigglin' goin' on behind my back. I passed
The Wellington. Stale ale and tobacco hit my senses, triggerin' a memory. Me
and da knockin' back a pint o' the black stuff on a Friday afternoon. Why'd he have
to go an' die? But I knew why he let himself waste away to nothin'. I saw it in
his eyes when he looked at me. He only saw scars. Felt only guilt. Drank
himself to death.
'Ah, young
McFarlane!' A hand, clamped on my shoulder, slammed on the brakes. I couldn't mistake the weight of that hand.
'Mr Meaney.
H-how are you?'
'Not good.
Not good, thun.' Gums Meaney overtook
me with a shake of his head, casting his huge shadow over me. 'Our Geraldth
gone aff an' married a protethent gurl. NO THUN O' MINE-'
'Hadn't
heard, Mr Meaney.' BIG feckin' fat lie, the news had reached as far as Wicklow
in an hour. 'Real sorry 'bout that.' Sure half the town knew that Gerald and
Dinah were an item. Gums must've had his head up his arse for the past two
years.
'And you
know what tha' meanth?'
'Um.' I
tried not to look at the strainin' rope around his vast girth, holdin' his
trousers up. 'Not sure, sir.'
Mr Meaney eyed
me up and down. 'Wath-at, thun. Over yer back?'
'Kittens.
I'm headed to the lake.'
'Ach, thun,
yer not? Here let uth have a gander.' Him bein' built like an outhouse and a lifelong client of the business,
you don't argue with Gums. I whipped the sack over my shoulder and undid the knots.
He peered in. 'Ach, juth look at them wee fuckerth.' The big man gave the
kittens a toothless grin and sniffed. 'Go an. Let uth have one of 'em. Our
Mary'th alwayth goin' on about gettin' a cat. An' wi' our Gerald runnin' off, a
wee kitten'd cheer her up no end.'
'Only if
you're sure.' I couldn't help but match his toothless smile, huggin' my lips to
my teeth. 'Which one do you think your Mary'd like, sir?'
'Ach, yer a
good 'un. Tha' white one with the grey on ith head 'ill do rightly. '
I
fished the wee fecker out of the sack, struggled like I'd lit a match under it,
teeth like needles. 'There you go, Mr Meaney.'
Gums took
the air-scramblin' kitten in his huge hands and kissed its wee head. Before
tuckin' it inside his shirt, he gave me an odd look.
'Thun. I wanna
cut our Gerald outta the will.' He shook his head. 'No thun o' mine ... anyway,
I'll be in ta thee ya in the week.'
'No problem,
Mr Meaney.' I retied the sack. One down, two to go. All goin' accordin' to
plan. 'Send my best to Mary, now, won't you?'
'That I will,
thun, good luck.'
Lucky Liam.
Gums' second son and soon to be heir of half of Donachloney. We'd gone to
school together. My fingers found the pocked skin on my neck and traced down to
my shirt collar. The grafts from my back to my front took so long to fuse, I'd
missed most of my last year in school. I didn't talk much about back then,
before the burns and the screams in the dark.
As I crossed
the road towards Windsor Avenue, a hand rose above the surge of bodies headed
in my direction. A Bowler hat appeared. Beneath it, Jimmy Harte's gappy smile.
'Hullo,
there, Jimmy. How're you keepin?'
Jimmy
touched his bowler hat and hung a walkin' stick in the crook of his arm. He
motioned to the entrance of Sprott's butcher's and I followed him inside where
Mr Sprott was attackin' a side of pork with a cleaver. Jimmy walked perfectly
well without the stick, but he liked to dress dapper. 'All good, Ethan. You've got a bit o' colour back.'
I shook his hand,
feelin' the cool gold band of his weddin' ring as we both gently squeezed.
'Must be all this good weather, sir.'
The
gleam in the 'oul fella's eye told me that his Dimpna's lips had been flappin' faster
than a sewin' machine in a hanky factory. 'And where are you headed on this
fine mornin'?'
'Down to the
lake, sir.' Almost on cue, a mewl escaped from behind me and Mr Sprott looked
up from his butcherin' with a scowl.
'Ah. I see. You're
takin' the long way round for the exercise?'
'Somethin'
like that, sir.'
Jimmy
unhooked his stick and re-arranged his perfectly knotted dickie-bow. 'And, um,
how's our Rosanna gettin' on over at
your place? All I've had from her in six months is 'fine'.'
My guts
tumbled and I swallowed hard. Rosanna, my assistant
in more way than one. I still found it hard to say her name aloud, frightened
that when I did, it would lose its enchantment, break her spell. 'Our adopted
gypsy girl', the Harte's called her. They didn't know her like I did. 'Dunno
how I managed without her, Jimmy. Not a loose sheet of paper in sight.' Plenty
of ink and needles, though.
'Thought as
much. Be sure that's reflected in her pay packet, now.' The 'oul fella
chuckled.' Will you be needin' the Austin Seven in the mornin'?'
I kicked at
the sawdust on the floor. Jimmy had bought my da's car. He didn't drive, so I collected
my ma and his women from mass, and took them out for a bite.
'W-was
thinkin' of a wee jaunt out to Hillsborough, if it suits your good lady and
Rosanna, sir. Ma won't be joinin' us.'
'Not ill, I
hope?'
'No, sir.
Just visitin' her sister.'
'Motor'll
need a wash and polish before you take her out. I'll see you the marra.'
'Aye, Jimmy.
Bright and early.'
Jimmy tipped
his hat and winked. 'Thanks, son. Oh, and tell our Rosanna not to forget the
sugar.' He didn't see the colour burn on my cheeks.
The cat's
not out of the bag, is it? Rosanna had signed an oath of silence in her own
blood. Her idea, not mine.
Mr Sprott
asked, 'Did my ears mistake me, young McFarlane?'
'Sorry, sir?'
'I spotted a rat in the yard this mornin'.
Cats in thon sack?'
*
Two down, one to go.
Ghost Town Windsor Avenue. The final leg
of my journey. One half of the street immersed in shade, the other in sunshine,
brought Rosanna to mind. Now, she really did stop traffic. The right side of
her face was the colour of a cup of strong tea, and the left? Detailed with intricate
swirls of black ink, twisting from forehead to chin. 'My history and my future',
she told me, inked onto her skin by her mother. Every curve told a story.
Rosanna had a traced a finger-tip over a dot of ink on her forehead. 'This is
my great-grandmother, Anselina. The first in my line with the gift in inks.'
People
stared at Rosanna, too. They didn't see the workmanship in every scroll and
swirl on her skin. Where I saw a thing of rare beauty, they saw only
disfigurement. Her reply? 'We fall in love with the soul, not the face.' And where
they were repelled, I was drawn like an opposin' pole.
It hadn't
taken me long to realise that she could help me in another way. Tellin' her my
story would serve a dual purpose. I fed her gift; my scars would become a thing
of beauty.
From Fairly's
sweetshop down the avenue, wafted the scent of smoked cherry tobacco. What a
smell. Sweet, fruity. For a split second, I saw my da, stumblin' in drunk,
kickin' over the oil lamp and flames lickin' at his feet. But I was able to cut
the vision short and keep the past at bay.
'Cinder-ella,
dressed in ye-lla, went up-stairs to see her fe-lla.' A group of girls skipped in a gateway. 'How many kisses
did she get? One...two...three..'
A block of
sunlight sliced through the gloom inside the sweetshop. Mr Fairly perched on a high
stool behind the counter, pipe wedged between his teeth.
'Fine day
out there, son?' He ogled like the best of 'em. The pipe didn't budge.
I filled my
lungs with the sweet smoke and exhaled, unfazed by his searchin' eyes. 'It sure
is, Mr Fairly.'
'Now, what
can I get you?'
'Quarter of
Clove Rock, please.' Rosanna's favourite. She'd suck on it as she worked her
magic - needle-tip clinkin' on the glass ink-pot every so often. I'd lose
myself tryin' to follow the labyrinths on her face whilst she embedded ink into
my grafted flesh. The nearness of her, a trace of Evenin' in Paris, her cotton
blouse on my chest, the warm skin beneath; took me to heaven's door. 'Stop your fidgeting,' she'd say, 'and carry on
with the story.' I'd promised not to look at her work until my story was done. I
kept my word.
Mr Fairly clattered
sweets onto the scale. 'Anything else I can get you, now?'
'A bottle of
brown lemonade.'
'Help
yourself, son.' Fairly took a long draw on his pipe, belchin' smoke out of the
side of his mouth. 'Corona's on the top shelf.'
I dropped
the sacks to reach up and one of the bleeters let rip.
Mr Fairly
was on his feet, pipe in hand. 'Hells Bells! What crater's in that bag?'
'Unwanted
kitten, just.'
He tucked
the pipe back in position. 'Sounds like a blimmin'
banshee!'
'A banshee
headed for the lake. What do I owe you, sir?'
'Comes to
the princely sum of sixpence. Thruppence if you throw in the kitten.
Grand-daughter turns seven the marra, that'll save me a packet.'
'Deal,
Mr Fairly.' I handed him the sack and a thruppenny bit. 'Non-returnable.'
Mission accomplished. Almost.
*
The lake
came into view. Beyond it, our lake-house. To the left, my fishin' pontoon
stretched across the water. Rosanna waited there. I swung the remainin' sack to
the ground and opened it. 'Go on, cat. Only five lives left, mind.' It skulked
off, no doubt to find more shoes, or a willin' tomcat.
'Mr
McFarlane.' Rosanna called as I trotted up.
'Miss
Kinkaide.'
She picked
up her battered little work-box; within it, needles finer than an eyelash and
inks across the colour spectrum. 'You're late.'
'Wee job to
do first?'
'Successful?'
'She always leaves whenever I threaten to
drown the cat.' I snatched her hand. 'Now let's finish this.'
Today my
story and my transformation would be complete. In ma's full-length mirror, the
new me would be unveiled.
'But you
wouldn't, Ethan? Drown the kittens?'
'Wanna bet?'
*
'... and I woke up in the burns unit. My da never forgave
himself.' The sting of Rosanna's needle under my skin had long since stopped. Her
warm tears splashed onto my chest.
*
I heard my ma's mirror scrape across her bedroom floor.
'OK.'
I opened my eyes.
Spannin' from
my shoulder-tips to my chest, I saw the spread wings of a phoenix as it rose
from the ashes beneath, its plumage alive with colour and its proud head
restin' in the well of my neck. On the left wing, just over my heart, hung a
small yellow orb, ornately etched on one side. It felt warm to the touch and
pulsed with every beat.
'You s-said
the ink might not take?'
'I know. I
wasn't sure, Ethan. Scar tissue's an unpredictable medium. Like painting on
cling-film.'
'And every
line here, tells my story?'
Rosanna
nodded. 'It does.'
I stroked
the little orb. 'So what does this signify?'
She smiled. 'Where
else would I be in your story?'
My current novel The Tattooist, set in 1950s / 1960s Lurgan is loosely based on this short story. It is still a work in progress, but if this is your thing, watch this space!