Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 130
March 7, 2019
An off-beat path...
I came up with an idea that I thought Brendan was pushing, to give more of a reason for him to end like he does...and it worked well until he pointed out it undercut the ending. I spent hours on it...and now am thinking I may cut it because he's right. Dammit. I hate it when this happens.
I really did think this path was Brendan's idea, but now I'm not so sure. And yet...it could be turned into something that works...hell, I don't know. I wrote it and now I'm trying to find ways to minimize or reverse the meaning of what I wrote. Drives me nuts.
I'm deliberately avoiding the news because it just pisses me off. I just learned Paul Manafort, who committed fraud to the tune of millions and worked with foreign governments against the US, got 47 months in prison. A woman who voted in 2016, but who wasn't eligible to vote, was sent to prison for 5 years. 60 months. Over a year longer than that motherfucking traitor, and he'll be in a minimum security prison known as Club Fed while she's doing time in a hard-assed prison in Texas.
I had someone ask me, once, why I constantly criticize the American system of justice in my books, and I tell them it's because it only works for the rich. They said I was overstating the situation. I'm going to find that little shit and ask him if he still feels that way after this.
My bet is, he will...
I really did think this path was Brendan's idea, but now I'm not so sure. And yet...it could be turned into something that works...hell, I don't know. I wrote it and now I'm trying to find ways to minimize or reverse the meaning of what I wrote. Drives me nuts.
I'm deliberately avoiding the news because it just pisses me off. I just learned Paul Manafort, who committed fraud to the tune of millions and worked with foreign governments against the US, got 47 months in prison. A woman who voted in 2016, but who wasn't eligible to vote, was sent to prison for 5 years. 60 months. Over a year longer than that motherfucking traitor, and he'll be in a minimum security prison known as Club Fed while she's doing time in a hard-assed prison in Texas.
I had someone ask me, once, why I constantly criticize the American system of justice in my books, and I tell them it's because it only works for the rich. They said I was overstating the situation. I'm going to find that little shit and ask him if he still feels that way after this.
My bet is, he will...
March 6, 2019
A bit more of APoS...
This is after Brendan's been taken to Houston after witnessing a bombing and collapsing into a catatonic state. He's living with his aunt and uncle adjacent to River Oaks.
-------------
It took me a week after that dinner to be able to even so much as climb the stairs without being exhausted, and days after that before I ventured from the house, and then it was only because Uncle Sean was working on his car. It had rained and the air was thick and wet, making it difficult to breathe, almost. I was lying in my bed, staring at the blank ceiling, drifting in my usual nothingness as I heard the motor chugging, outside, over and over and --
Josiah O’Shea’s Cortina wouldn’t start on damp mornings and he’d had near everyone he could think of check into it, at no small cost to himself, until he let me look into it and I found the problem and --
I rose from the bed and went to the window. Uncle Sean was at the Volvo, under the bonnet -- the hood, as it were. It was a dark blue PV444 and looked like it had the twin SU Carbs to it. A decent-looking car it was but in need of a wash and maybe attention paid to the rust spots developing between the passenger door and front wing. The interior wasn’t quite as good of shape but wasn’t beyond saving, and from here the motor looked fine. But when Uncle Sean get behind the wheel to turn the key, I could hear the car creak a little so it definitely needed lubrication and maybe a fresh set of dampers.
I stood there and watched Uncle Sean try to start the motor and it just chug along, working really hard to catch. Then he’d go back under the bonnet, unplug the spark wires and re-plug them and try again only to get nothing. Then he’d go back under the bonnet and undo other connections and redo them and try again. Over and over. It was comical, for he didn’t sit easy in that car.
I finally had enough of it and went downstairs and out the back door. The ground was still wet and sticky, and the air felt even more smothering without the house. I wore only my pyjama bottoms, still, no slippers even, so the soaked grass tickled my feet.
“Having troubles?” I asked.
He jumped and looked at me as if I were a madman, which I probably seemed to him. “Brendan, what you doin’ out here? You ain’t dressed.”
I didn’t care. “Would you care for me to look at it?” I said, motioning to the Volvo.
He shrugged. “Does this every time there’s a fog in the mornin’. Then in the afternoon, it starts up fine. But I need to get goin’ an’ this is the only car left.”
I looked around and saw two dry spots where two cars had been. “When’s Aunt Mari due back?”
“Dunno. Guess I’ll just grab a cab. Lookin’ at buyin’ this bar in up in The Heights and the owner’s due at one. I’ll get it towed into the shop, later.”
In answer, I leaned over the motor and checked the cables. They were on the old side, probably original. Same for the coil. I pulled at it without gripping the glove and it nearly separated. “Try starting it, again.”
He shrugged and sat behind the wheel and the car creaked; definitely needed lubing but maybe only a topping off on the dampers. I pushed both ends of the coil’s cable against their gloves...and the motor fired right up.
Uncle Sean bolted from the car, startled. “What’d you do?”
“You need a new coil,” I said. “It’s coming apart inside the glove, so you can’t see it. It’s not making the connection. Is there an auto supply shop nearby?”
“Up Shepherd. I can stop on the way.”
I nodded. “You might want to think about having all the cables replaced. They’re about due.”
“Damn, Brendan, where’d you learn that?”
“I’ve been at this since forever. Clocks, tellys and the like. Cars. Made money from it. Had a job.”
“Your mother never told us.”
“Why would she? She thinks me simple.”
“Didn’t you tell her what you were actually doin’?”
I nodded then headed back to the house, feeling vague and sleepy and actually hungry. Uncle Sean let me go.
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-------------
It took me a week after that dinner to be able to even so much as climb the stairs without being exhausted, and days after that before I ventured from the house, and then it was only because Uncle Sean was working on his car. It had rained and the air was thick and wet, making it difficult to breathe, almost. I was lying in my bed, staring at the blank ceiling, drifting in my usual nothingness as I heard the motor chugging, outside, over and over and --
Josiah O’Shea’s Cortina wouldn’t start on damp mornings and he’d had near everyone he could think of check into it, at no small cost to himself, until he let me look into it and I found the problem and --
I rose from the bed and went to the window. Uncle Sean was at the Volvo, under the bonnet -- the hood, as it were. It was a dark blue PV444 and looked like it had the twin SU Carbs to it. A decent-looking car it was but in need of a wash and maybe attention paid to the rust spots developing between the passenger door and front wing. The interior wasn’t quite as good of shape but wasn’t beyond saving, and from here the motor looked fine. But when Uncle Sean get behind the wheel to turn the key, I could hear the car creak a little so it definitely needed lubrication and maybe a fresh set of dampers.
I stood there and watched Uncle Sean try to start the motor and it just chug along, working really hard to catch. Then he’d go back under the bonnet, unplug the spark wires and re-plug them and try again only to get nothing. Then he’d go back under the bonnet and undo other connections and redo them and try again. Over and over. It was comical, for he didn’t sit easy in that car.
I finally had enough of it and went downstairs and out the back door. The ground was still wet and sticky, and the air felt even more smothering without the house. I wore only my pyjama bottoms, still, no slippers even, so the soaked grass tickled my feet.
“Having troubles?” I asked.
He jumped and looked at me as if I were a madman, which I probably seemed to him. “Brendan, what you doin’ out here? You ain’t dressed.”
I didn’t care. “Would you care for me to look at it?” I said, motioning to the Volvo.
He shrugged. “Does this every time there’s a fog in the mornin’. Then in the afternoon, it starts up fine. But I need to get goin’ an’ this is the only car left.”
I looked around and saw two dry spots where two cars had been. “When’s Aunt Mari due back?”
“Dunno. Guess I’ll just grab a cab. Lookin’ at buyin’ this bar in up in The Heights and the owner’s due at one. I’ll get it towed into the shop, later.”
In answer, I leaned over the motor and checked the cables. They were on the old side, probably original. Same for the coil. I pulled at it without gripping the glove and it nearly separated. “Try starting it, again.”
He shrugged and sat behind the wheel and the car creaked; definitely needed lubing but maybe only a topping off on the dampers. I pushed both ends of the coil’s cable against their gloves...and the motor fired right up.
Uncle Sean bolted from the car, startled. “What’d you do?”
“You need a new coil,” I said. “It’s coming apart inside the glove, so you can’t see it. It’s not making the connection. Is there an auto supply shop nearby?”
“Up Shepherd. I can stop on the way.”
I nodded. “You might want to think about having all the cables replaced. They’re about due.”
“Damn, Brendan, where’d you learn that?”
“I’ve been at this since forever. Clocks, tellys and the like. Cars. Made money from it. Had a job.”
“Your mother never told us.”
“Why would she? She thinks me simple.”
“Didn’t you tell her what you were actually doin’?”
I nodded then headed back to the house, feeling vague and sleepy and actually hungry. Uncle Sean let me go.
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March 5, 2019
APoS develops...
I've been working over the outline for A Place of Safety and it's coming together. Everything in its proper place and knowing what is needed when and where. It's the how that keeps messing with me. How do I keep this from becoming a James Michener style of writing, where I cram the story with research because I've done so damn much of it? Same for Leon Uris. Dry, bland stories told about cardboard characters with no real meaning.
That's the fight I usually have with my writing -- how to make the characters real and alive and human and not boring. It takes a lot of digging and reworking on my part to do, and the only scripts or books I like that I wrote have characters in them who carry meaning beyond themselves. Even How To Rape A Straight Guy, probably the work that gets the most visceral reaction from people, is told by a man who's slowly coming to terms with the reality of his life and how he let it become that way...something he realizes too late to do him any good. I put all the sex in to keep people interested...or freaked out, depending on your bent. (Yeah, right.)
I tried to do that with Underground Guy, too, but don't know if I was successful, yet; I've received no feedback. Devlin is something of a monster who's built up a nice justification for his actions, lots of excuses, but it's not until he apologizes to one of his victims that he really opens himself up to becoming a different man.
I did have an interesting development, this evening, as I worked on APoS. Just as Brendan has given up hope, he saves someone. Not like getting in the way of a bullet or taking the blame in order to let another person get away. He just nudges them in a different direction that may...or may not...lead them to a better life. A life he wanted but now realizes was never meant to be, for him...because he refused to accept his world for what it was.
Hmm...that sounds rather pretentious. Oh, I dunno. Half of what I put into any sort of outline usually winds up not being used except in my head, so this may also go by the wayside. But you never really know till the job's done...and even then you can't be sure.
The art of writing may be learning to know when to stop.
That's the fight I usually have with my writing -- how to make the characters real and alive and human and not boring. It takes a lot of digging and reworking on my part to do, and the only scripts or books I like that I wrote have characters in them who carry meaning beyond themselves. Even How To Rape A Straight Guy, probably the work that gets the most visceral reaction from people, is told by a man who's slowly coming to terms with the reality of his life and how he let it become that way...something he realizes too late to do him any good. I put all the sex in to keep people interested...or freaked out, depending on your bent. (Yeah, right.)
I tried to do that with Underground Guy, too, but don't know if I was successful, yet; I've received no feedback. Devlin is something of a monster who's built up a nice justification for his actions, lots of excuses, but it's not until he apologizes to one of his victims that he really opens himself up to becoming a different man.
I did have an interesting development, this evening, as I worked on APoS. Just as Brendan has given up hope, he saves someone. Not like getting in the way of a bullet or taking the blame in order to let another person get away. He just nudges them in a different direction that may...or may not...lead them to a better life. A life he wanted but now realizes was never meant to be, for him...because he refused to accept his world for what it was.
Hmm...that sounds rather pretentious. Oh, I dunno. Half of what I put into any sort of outline usually winds up not being used except in my head, so this may also go by the wayside. But you never really know till the job's done...and even then you can't be sure.
The art of writing may be learning to know when to stop.
March 3, 2019
I be Instagraming now...
I joined Instagram and tried to fix it so I could post from my MacBook Pro, but the bastards won't let me. Has to be from my phone...which is irritating. The sneak-around offered via Google didn't work. But I've now got a way to add images to the site and plan to use it solely to push my writing. Guess we'll see how that goes. If anyone wants to check it out, my moniker is angerandanarchy.
I've made contact with a couple more people in Ireland to gain better knowledge of the society Brendan's part of...and they're real firecrackers. One shares my last name and is probably more liberal than I am, if that's possible. Apparently there are right wing racist scum in that country, as well, causing trouble and she's on it about them. She should prove interesting...
The bits of Brendan's interrogation I posted seemed a bit flat, to me. Almost academic. A step removed. Today while doing my ton of laundry I think I figured out why -- there's no real suspense. No wondering if he's going to talk or not...at least, not very well noted in what I've written. Brendan seems more to be focused on just staying alive while he's being waterboarded, but I wonder if he should be thinking he should say something to stop it. Anything to stop it.
I don't want this bit to be just horrifying; I want it gut-wrenching, and I don't think it's there, yet. Not sure what to do about that...except keep reminding myself that I'm still building up the context. I almost wonder if I should change who it is the British are trying to identify, regarding the car-bomb Brendan witnessed. I wonder...
God, I've got so much more to do on this book...
I've made contact with a couple more people in Ireland to gain better knowledge of the society Brendan's part of...and they're real firecrackers. One shares my last name and is probably more liberal than I am, if that's possible. Apparently there are right wing racist scum in that country, as well, causing trouble and she's on it about them. She should prove interesting...
The bits of Brendan's interrogation I posted seemed a bit flat, to me. Almost academic. A step removed. Today while doing my ton of laundry I think I figured out why -- there's no real suspense. No wondering if he's going to talk or not...at least, not very well noted in what I've written. Brendan seems more to be focused on just staying alive while he's being waterboarded, but I wonder if he should be thinking he should say something to stop it. Anything to stop it.
I don't want this bit to be just horrifying; I want it gut-wrenching, and I don't think it's there, yet. Not sure what to do about that...except keep reminding myself that I'm still building up the context. I almost wonder if I should change who it is the British are trying to identify, regarding the car-bomb Brendan witnessed. I wonder...
God, I've got so much more to do on this book...
March 2, 2019
Buffalo...
I have officially now lived in Buffalo for 9 years....and I still feel like a visitor here. This town will never be home to me, no matter how long I stay. It's not a bad place to live, and there are aspects of its history that are interesting, but my home is LA. After that -- London. After that -- San Antonio.
I live here because this is where I can make enough of a living to pay off my debts and still be able to help my youngest brother. I don't leave because I travel a great deal so don't have the length of stay needed to grow irritable enough to pull up roots and go. I remain because there is nothing interesting enough for me to do to take me away from my writing...and I have written a lot.
I've published 5 books, republished 4 more, written 6 screenplays and slowly advanced my work on APoS. I've been able to travel to Ireland on several occasions to do research, often as a tail-end part of a packing job in the UK, and I've been to cities and countries I never would have gone to on my own. But for all of this I feel like I'm merely treading water, not advancing.
I also feel somewhat isolated. I've always been the type who prefers being alone, but even the most solitary person needs human contact now and then, and I don't have there here...outside of the people I work with. I never have made friends easily, and there's no one I'm even remotely interested in becoming friends with in this part of the world. Too many upstate rednecks are everywhere.
I'm in a comfortable space, however. My apartment's small but well-situated, relatively speaking. Toronto's not far away, and Niagara Falls is a fun place to visit...on the Canadian side. I'm not really bugged by the winters, and my car's doing all right even as it begins to get rusty...not surprising since I've had it for 20 years. But I am in the early stages of feeling restless.
Thing is, I don't want to move unless it's to an area of Ireland where I can work on APoS as well as Darian's Point, Return to Darian's Point, the beginning of the Darian's Point trilogy, and even Wide New World, all set in Ireland. Would that be Galway? Someplace in County Donegal, like Letterkenny or Buncrana? Maybe live in Derry for a while? I don't know.
I'm just feeling restless...
I live here because this is where I can make enough of a living to pay off my debts and still be able to help my youngest brother. I don't leave because I travel a great deal so don't have the length of stay needed to grow irritable enough to pull up roots and go. I remain because there is nothing interesting enough for me to do to take me away from my writing...and I have written a lot.
I've published 5 books, republished 4 more, written 6 screenplays and slowly advanced my work on APoS. I've been able to travel to Ireland on several occasions to do research, often as a tail-end part of a packing job in the UK, and I've been to cities and countries I never would have gone to on my own. But for all of this I feel like I'm merely treading water, not advancing.
I also feel somewhat isolated. I've always been the type who prefers being alone, but even the most solitary person needs human contact now and then, and I don't have there here...outside of the people I work with. I never have made friends easily, and there's no one I'm even remotely interested in becoming friends with in this part of the world. Too many upstate rednecks are everywhere.
I'm in a comfortable space, however. My apartment's small but well-situated, relatively speaking. Toronto's not far away, and Niagara Falls is a fun place to visit...on the Canadian side. I'm not really bugged by the winters, and my car's doing all right even as it begins to get rusty...not surprising since I've had it for 20 years. But I am in the early stages of feeling restless.
Thing is, I don't want to move unless it's to an area of Ireland where I can work on APoS as well as Darian's Point, Return to Darian's Point, the beginning of the Darian's Point trilogy, and even Wide New World, all set in Ireland. Would that be Galway? Someplace in County Donegal, like Letterkenny or Buncrana? Maybe live in Derry for a while? I don't know.
I'm just feeling restless...
February 28, 2019
Long week but some work done. This is Brendan's arrest in...
Long week but some work done. This is Brendan's arrest in 1981, in Derry, that takes him to Castlereagh to be interrogated. He knows it's going to happen soon because he was almost lifted the evening before but managed to talk his way out of it. It's the middle of the hunger strikes, with two men having starved themselves to death in political protest, and he's staying in the home of neighbors of his mother, watching their children, after sending word to his old mate, Colm, for help.
----------
Early the morning of the next day, I was in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea with Daria, and she was handling it in a very proper manner, too. Across from us sat their toddler, Sean, fascinated with us to the point of total silence, as was the feral cat sitting at the back door waiting for his morning milk. Why Caera gave it to him was beyond me; he was hardly a beauty nor had he a genial temperament, but it was money out of her pocket, not mine.
“White or dark?” Daira asked with deep seriousness. She was exceedingly pleased I’d stopped pacing to join her.
“White, please.”
“Milk first or after?”
“After,” I replied.
“Sweet?” she continued in the same manner as she poured.
“Lightly so,” I smiled.
She put in half a teaspoon. Less than I was used to, but I was finally so enjoying the innocence of the moment, I didn’t care. I’d begun to feel confident because it was long past 4 am, when the Paras or RUC would come busting in to arrest you, if they were interested. They liked to cause as much disruption as possible. Now it was just becoming light out and I was still here, wearing naught but my sturdiest jeans and a flannel shirt, socks on but no shoes, yet, and playing homemaker with a girl who so reminded me of Mairead, you’d have thought we’d gone back in time.
Christ, the times I’d quietly let Mairead feed me tea made from bags well-used, already, and bits of toasted bread to act as biscuits, even after Ma had done with dinner and we’d, yet again, had not quite enough to fill us. How old would I have been? Three? Four? And already just as aware as Sean of the limitations of the adults in the world.
I think then’s when I got to where I preferred my tea light and on the weak side. Aunt Mari’d told me when she finally got some down me, not long after I’d come over, it’d been strong enough to set off a bout of diarrhea in me. She’d made it weak from that point on, and I’d absently sip it, myself, holding it like it was gold. I remember none of it, but it sounded true.
Daria offered me neatly-toasted bread with butter and jam off a chipped plate -- my, but weren’t we doing better, now? -- and I took half a piece so she and Sean could enjoy the three left. Then I sipped, and the tea was strong enough to pull out your teeth if it so chose, but a taste of the jam settled it on my tongue. It was just us there; Jimmy was off to his job and Caera had run down two doors to fetch an egg for breakfast. Marc and Lorinda, her youngest, were still a-bed and I thought it well they be let sleep. As for me, I was just hoping I could be fed before Colm arrived.
I’d no idea what would happen with me after this point, but then I’d never had much of a plan for my life. Just work and marry and grow some wains of my own and treat them better than Da and Ma had treated theirs. True, it wasn’t a very ambitious goal for myself, but it had pleased me to aim for it. To just accept that I was never the type who’d cure cancer or write great books or even stand for office. When Father Jack and I had been talking, he’d said more than once I was not living up to my potential, as though it were my duty to become better than I wanted to be. Such ideas made little sense to me and seemed at odds with the notion of self-determination we all supposedly have. Apparently that was only if you did what those who considered themselves your betters felt you should do. And so my focus on my own path, with disregard for the opinions of people like Father Jack, had set me into the little box of weakling and coward. And I hadn’t cared, for if things had not gone so horribly wrong with Joanna, one day I’d have asked her to marry me...and live with me in a whole new world away from these biting, clawing, vicious animals who claimed to be men. And I saw nothing wrong with that being all there was to me.
I absently touched the tattoo of her name. I’d done nothing like it for Vangie, for fear that would jinx us. And look at what good that did.
I sighed, finally accepting the reality that there is no corner of the world safe from the howling mad dogs of self-righteousness. And people with dreams like mine were little more than meat for them to gnaw upon and feed to the just-as-vicious young they were breeding and --
Pounding on the door jolted me. Sean jumped, terrified, but Daria instantly turned to him and said, “Now Sean, don’t be such a baby. It’s just the Paras come looking and they’ll be gone again, shortly.”
Sean huffed and looked at me with accusation, and it cut into me. A child of seven comforting a child of three, and both knowing what a knock at the door meant. That was not right. That was perfect evil. And all because of me. So I smiled at them, in comfort, and quickly rose.
“It’s all right,” I said, grinning to hide the sinking of my heart. “I’ll answer it.”
As I strode down the hall to the door, another pounding began so I called, “Hold on, hold on,” in my best twang. That voice would give the Haggertys at least a little cover against knowing who I truly was.
I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his rifle butt, and I slipped into to Todd’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I’s comin’!”
I thought for a second he was going to shift the butt to my head, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before.
“Are you Jeremy Landau?” he said, another true Brit.
“That’s me.”
“Let me see your passport.”
Already a crowd was growing and this was giving off the feel of ugliness, with the hate in their eyes, so I handed it over without hesitation, knowing that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. I knew Jeremy was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would step back long enough to find out what was going on. As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Sean, I hoped they could stick to the story they’d put in place for if ever the day came that I was found out. So right now my one concern was for minimizing the Haggertys’ troubles.
“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so -- ”
“No need. You’ll come with us.”
“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home, so I gotta wait till she gets back and -- ”
“What’s this?” It was herself bolting from the house two doors down, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?”
“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin’ up -- ”
“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!”
“By the saints,” someone added, “he’s American?!”
“The fuckin’ English!”
More women and children were coming out, and I began to wonder if this was another method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue and dare them to raise their weapons. But this time even a quick look at their weapons showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Ma’s, for the riots of the last two weeks had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully.
So I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right? Don’t want no trouble here.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a commander or captain or just a top sergeant -- but at least he was smart enough to look around at the noisy seething crowd, hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to the closest of two Saracens and said, “In here,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.”
I was about to ask if I could get my boots but the look in his eyes warned me not to do a damned thing more but what he’d asked, so I let two of them lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem, and the first one opened the rear door as three others kept close watch on me and the rest made for the second Saracen, the women still calling all of God’s curses down on them. But as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof top to slowly, slowly curl downward, downward, downward, spinning like it weighed nothing as it whispered closer and closer and I gasped and turned away from it because I thought it might hit me but instead saw it slam onto the bonnet of the Saracen behind me and ricochet into the chest of a Para that was keeping watch on me. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode and the once-growing crowd of women burst apart like petals falling off an open rose and scrambled back to their homes, dragging their children behind them as more stones came pelting down on the Brits.
And on me.
I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the Saracens to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire, and I cried out, “They got real bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then. That’s when the Brit commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.”
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the comical anger in his face. He punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, yet still I laughed. It was insane -- the chaos a few rocks can bring and the stupidity of the anger these bastards dared show against those they occupied and futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Ma was dead and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see it, and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it.
I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “Ya stupid bloody bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”
----------
Early the morning of the next day, I was in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea with Daria, and she was handling it in a very proper manner, too. Across from us sat their toddler, Sean, fascinated with us to the point of total silence, as was the feral cat sitting at the back door waiting for his morning milk. Why Caera gave it to him was beyond me; he was hardly a beauty nor had he a genial temperament, but it was money out of her pocket, not mine.
“White or dark?” Daira asked with deep seriousness. She was exceedingly pleased I’d stopped pacing to join her.
“White, please.”
“Milk first or after?”
“After,” I replied.
“Sweet?” she continued in the same manner as she poured.
“Lightly so,” I smiled.
She put in half a teaspoon. Less than I was used to, but I was finally so enjoying the innocence of the moment, I didn’t care. I’d begun to feel confident because it was long past 4 am, when the Paras or RUC would come busting in to arrest you, if they were interested. They liked to cause as much disruption as possible. Now it was just becoming light out and I was still here, wearing naught but my sturdiest jeans and a flannel shirt, socks on but no shoes, yet, and playing homemaker with a girl who so reminded me of Mairead, you’d have thought we’d gone back in time.
Christ, the times I’d quietly let Mairead feed me tea made from bags well-used, already, and bits of toasted bread to act as biscuits, even after Ma had done with dinner and we’d, yet again, had not quite enough to fill us. How old would I have been? Three? Four? And already just as aware as Sean of the limitations of the adults in the world.
I think then’s when I got to where I preferred my tea light and on the weak side. Aunt Mari’d told me when she finally got some down me, not long after I’d come over, it’d been strong enough to set off a bout of diarrhea in me. She’d made it weak from that point on, and I’d absently sip it, myself, holding it like it was gold. I remember none of it, but it sounded true.
Daria offered me neatly-toasted bread with butter and jam off a chipped plate -- my, but weren’t we doing better, now? -- and I took half a piece so she and Sean could enjoy the three left. Then I sipped, and the tea was strong enough to pull out your teeth if it so chose, but a taste of the jam settled it on my tongue. It was just us there; Jimmy was off to his job and Caera had run down two doors to fetch an egg for breakfast. Marc and Lorinda, her youngest, were still a-bed and I thought it well they be let sleep. As for me, I was just hoping I could be fed before Colm arrived.
I’d no idea what would happen with me after this point, but then I’d never had much of a plan for my life. Just work and marry and grow some wains of my own and treat them better than Da and Ma had treated theirs. True, it wasn’t a very ambitious goal for myself, but it had pleased me to aim for it. To just accept that I was never the type who’d cure cancer or write great books or even stand for office. When Father Jack and I had been talking, he’d said more than once I was not living up to my potential, as though it were my duty to become better than I wanted to be. Such ideas made little sense to me and seemed at odds with the notion of self-determination we all supposedly have. Apparently that was only if you did what those who considered themselves your betters felt you should do. And so my focus on my own path, with disregard for the opinions of people like Father Jack, had set me into the little box of weakling and coward. And I hadn’t cared, for if things had not gone so horribly wrong with Joanna, one day I’d have asked her to marry me...and live with me in a whole new world away from these biting, clawing, vicious animals who claimed to be men. And I saw nothing wrong with that being all there was to me.
I absently touched the tattoo of her name. I’d done nothing like it for Vangie, for fear that would jinx us. And look at what good that did.
I sighed, finally accepting the reality that there is no corner of the world safe from the howling mad dogs of self-righteousness. And people with dreams like mine were little more than meat for them to gnaw upon and feed to the just-as-vicious young they were breeding and --
Pounding on the door jolted me. Sean jumped, terrified, but Daria instantly turned to him and said, “Now Sean, don’t be such a baby. It’s just the Paras come looking and they’ll be gone again, shortly.”
Sean huffed and looked at me with accusation, and it cut into me. A child of seven comforting a child of three, and both knowing what a knock at the door meant. That was not right. That was perfect evil. And all because of me. So I smiled at them, in comfort, and quickly rose.
“It’s all right,” I said, grinning to hide the sinking of my heart. “I’ll answer it.”
As I strode down the hall to the door, another pounding began so I called, “Hold on, hold on,” in my best twang. That voice would give the Haggertys at least a little cover against knowing who I truly was.
I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his rifle butt, and I slipped into to Todd’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I’s comin’!”
I thought for a second he was going to shift the butt to my head, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before.
“Are you Jeremy Landau?” he said, another true Brit.
“That’s me.”
“Let me see your passport.”
Already a crowd was growing and this was giving off the feel of ugliness, with the hate in their eyes, so I handed it over without hesitation, knowing that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. I knew Jeremy was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would step back long enough to find out what was going on. As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Sean, I hoped they could stick to the story they’d put in place for if ever the day came that I was found out. So right now my one concern was for minimizing the Haggertys’ troubles.
“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so -- ”
“No need. You’ll come with us.”
“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home, so I gotta wait till she gets back and -- ”
“What’s this?” It was herself bolting from the house two doors down, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?”
“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin’ up -- ”
“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!”
“By the saints,” someone added, “he’s American?!”
“The fuckin’ English!”
More women and children were coming out, and I began to wonder if this was another method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue and dare them to raise their weapons. But this time even a quick look at their weapons showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Ma’s, for the riots of the last two weeks had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully.
So I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right? Don’t want no trouble here.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a commander or captain or just a top sergeant -- but at least he was smart enough to look around at the noisy seething crowd, hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to the closest of two Saracens and said, “In here,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.”
I was about to ask if I could get my boots but the look in his eyes warned me not to do a damned thing more but what he’d asked, so I let two of them lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem, and the first one opened the rear door as three others kept close watch on me and the rest made for the second Saracen, the women still calling all of God’s curses down on them. But as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof top to slowly, slowly curl downward, downward, downward, spinning like it weighed nothing as it whispered closer and closer and I gasped and turned away from it because I thought it might hit me but instead saw it slam onto the bonnet of the Saracen behind me and ricochet into the chest of a Para that was keeping watch on me. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode and the once-growing crowd of women burst apart like petals falling off an open rose and scrambled back to their homes, dragging their children behind them as more stones came pelting down on the Brits.
And on me.
I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the Saracens to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire, and I cried out, “They got real bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then. That’s when the Brit commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.”
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the comical anger in his face. He punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, yet still I laughed. It was insane -- the chaos a few rocks can bring and the stupidity of the anger these bastards dared show against those they occupied and futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Ma was dead and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see it, and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it.
I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “Ya stupid bloody bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”
February 27, 2019
Shots of London but none of Reading...
I had neither the time nor interest in looking around Reading, even though we'd pass Reading Gaol en route from the hotel to the house where we were packing. I was beat by the end of the day and had no way to get around except by bus, so...no touristy stuff done...
I did take these photos during my ramble through London last Saturday. I was in short-sleeves and going no place in particular...just the general direction of the Thames.
First pass was The British Library, right by St. Pancras. I once hand-carried an original manuscript of music by Hayden to them from New York, one meant to be played for George III. I got to go into the bowels of the building and see how many people they had doing cataloguing and cleaning and helping prepare for events to show off the manuscripts.
Then I passed Holborn Underground station, which figures in Underground Guy. It's where Liam Hanlon is kidnapped to be murdered, and when Devlin sees him on video just prior to it all, knowing what's about to happen to the man, it causes him to collapse into a form of hysteria that becomes an epiphany...
Then I took the underground to St. Paul's, which closed to visitors 5 minutes before I got there. It's a majestic building but what was really great about it was this...
...Harry Potter fans doing a light reenactment by the main doors.
I then got thoroughly lost and wound up having to grab a cab so I could find my way to The Shard. I planned to go to the observation deck to look around, but the line was so long and slow I knew I wouldn't be up there till after sunset so just walked away to connect with the Thames and stroll down to Tower Bridge, cross it...and just sit and think.
This guy, however, wound up catching my eye and I spent more time watching him and listening to his Italian than contemplating my own place in life. I believe that's now referred to as a SQUIRREL moment for a dog...
And I'm the ultimate dumb mutt when it comes to cute guys...
I did take these photos during my ramble through London last Saturday. I was in short-sleeves and going no place in particular...just the general direction of the Thames.
First pass was The British Library, right by St. Pancras. I once hand-carried an original manuscript of music by Hayden to them from New York, one meant to be played for George III. I got to go into the bowels of the building and see how many people they had doing cataloguing and cleaning and helping prepare for events to show off the manuscripts.
Then I passed Holborn Underground station, which figures in Underground Guy. It's where Liam Hanlon is kidnapped to be murdered, and when Devlin sees him on video just prior to it all, knowing what's about to happen to the man, it causes him to collapse into a form of hysteria that becomes an epiphany...
Then I took the underground to St. Paul's, which closed to visitors 5 minutes before I got there. It's a majestic building but what was really great about it was this...
...Harry Potter fans doing a light reenactment by the main doors.
I then got thoroughly lost and wound up having to grab a cab so I could find my way to The Shard. I planned to go to the observation deck to look around, but the line was so long and slow I knew I wouldn't be up there till after sunset so just walked away to connect with the Thames and stroll down to Tower Bridge, cross it...and just sit and think.
This guy, however, wound up catching my eye and I spent more time watching him and listening to his Italian than contemplating my own place in life. I believe that's now referred to as a SQUIRREL moment for a dog...And I'm the ultimate dumb mutt when it comes to cute guys...
February 26, 2019
Back from the dead...
I was in England for a week so my head was nowhere near being able to think about posting. I figured I'd do it once I returned and was watching the Oscars...but the wind and ice storm had damaged the power in my building so I had no cable, no internet, a barely functioning stove, and the elevators didn't work. I had lights in my place but not in the hall, and had to lug my suitcase and backpack up three flights of stairs.
I almost stayed overnight in Toronto because it was so windy and there are three tall bridges I have to cross to get back to the US. But it was also possible Monday would be worse due to ice, since it was going to be well below freezing, and they needed me at the office to help with the onslaught of paperwork for the NY Book Fair.
So I came...and missed seeing the Oscars and had to eat out. Everything's up and running, again, meaning I'm somewhat back to normal, but it's taking me a bit of time to readjust and rest up from this job. It was brutally tiring.
In four days an associate and I packed 7000 +/- books about humor that had been donated to a university. Half were downstairs in a narrow British semi-detached home's sitting room; half were upstairs in a bedroom the size of my bathroom. There were dozens of plastic bins lying around the house, so my helper used them to ferry the books to me and I wrapped and packed, nonstop.
My work space was a small shed behind the house that had once been filled with junk but was cleaned out, just not cleaned up. The place was about 12x6 feet, cold and damp, but dry enough considering it rained the first day. The walls were the British form of sheetrock and the floor wooden slats. Its one window was covered in dust and mold and had a desk set up under it to work on. Of course, my nose went nuts. I had to pop double-doses of Claritin to get by...and I'm still coming down off it.
Most of the books were just so-so paperbacks and ragged hardcovers dealing with humor in mainly European and American countries in various languages, all laden with years worth of dust and neglect. But mixed in were were some amazingly nice ones dealing with Jerry Lewis, Mr. Bean, Monty Python, Asterix and Obelix, Aristophanes, dozens of British comedians I'd sort-of heard of, a full range of Punch story books and a number of books by Stephen Frey and Hugh Laurie. Damn they looked young, once.
What's odd is, the woman who was getting rid of the books reminded me of Stephen Frye. Very nice and dotty in that British way, a former prosecutor who now advocated on behalf of people who'd been arrested for various petty offenses. She's pro-Brexit so we didn't discuss that. Fortunately, my helper was anti- so we agreed to just sigh and wonder at the stupidity of people cutting off their noses to spite their faces. But she did make a good cup of tea.
I worked in the warehouse, on Friday, getting the boxes ready to ship, then spent Saturday wandering around London and finally sitting on the Thames at dusk just to think.
I love London. After LA, it's the one place where I'd want to live, again. It's changing, massively, but some areas are still the same and the city's depth of history would ensure it never grew boring. But it's becoming a rich man's town, like New York, San Francisco and LA are becoming. Prices shooting skyward for rents and transportation and simple food.
I read a couple of books on the flights -- John Grisham's Camino Beach, which was surprisingly bland and insipid, and Gerard Bannon's Undercover, which was well-written and fast-paced if a little over the top at times. But his made the return trip go fast.
I'm still catching up with myself and my apartment and the crap I brought back. I used the excuse of no elevator to put off laundry and cleaning; ain't got that excuse anymore. I guess I'll get back to APoS this weekend.
My head's still feeling just a bit too squirrelly to focus on it, now.
I almost stayed overnight in Toronto because it was so windy and there are three tall bridges I have to cross to get back to the US. But it was also possible Monday would be worse due to ice, since it was going to be well below freezing, and they needed me at the office to help with the onslaught of paperwork for the NY Book Fair.
So I came...and missed seeing the Oscars and had to eat out. Everything's up and running, again, meaning I'm somewhat back to normal, but it's taking me a bit of time to readjust and rest up from this job. It was brutally tiring.
In four days an associate and I packed 7000 +/- books about humor that had been donated to a university. Half were downstairs in a narrow British semi-detached home's sitting room; half were upstairs in a bedroom the size of my bathroom. There were dozens of plastic bins lying around the house, so my helper used them to ferry the books to me and I wrapped and packed, nonstop.
My work space was a small shed behind the house that had once been filled with junk but was cleaned out, just not cleaned up. The place was about 12x6 feet, cold and damp, but dry enough considering it rained the first day. The walls were the British form of sheetrock and the floor wooden slats. Its one window was covered in dust and mold and had a desk set up under it to work on. Of course, my nose went nuts. I had to pop double-doses of Claritin to get by...and I'm still coming down off it.
Most of the books were just so-so paperbacks and ragged hardcovers dealing with humor in mainly European and American countries in various languages, all laden with years worth of dust and neglect. But mixed in were were some amazingly nice ones dealing with Jerry Lewis, Mr. Bean, Monty Python, Asterix and Obelix, Aristophanes, dozens of British comedians I'd sort-of heard of, a full range of Punch story books and a number of books by Stephen Frey and Hugh Laurie. Damn they looked young, once.
What's odd is, the woman who was getting rid of the books reminded me of Stephen Frye. Very nice and dotty in that British way, a former prosecutor who now advocated on behalf of people who'd been arrested for various petty offenses. She's pro-Brexit so we didn't discuss that. Fortunately, my helper was anti- so we agreed to just sigh and wonder at the stupidity of people cutting off their noses to spite their faces. But she did make a good cup of tea.
I worked in the warehouse, on Friday, getting the boxes ready to ship, then spent Saturday wandering around London and finally sitting on the Thames at dusk just to think.I love London. After LA, it's the one place where I'd want to live, again. It's changing, massively, but some areas are still the same and the city's depth of history would ensure it never grew boring. But it's becoming a rich man's town, like New York, San Francisco and LA are becoming. Prices shooting skyward for rents and transportation and simple food.
I read a couple of books on the flights -- John Grisham's Camino Beach, which was surprisingly bland and insipid, and Gerard Bannon's Undercover, which was well-written and fast-paced if a little over the top at times. But his made the return trip go fast.
I'm still catching up with myself and my apartment and the crap I brought back. I used the excuse of no elevator to put off laundry and cleaning; ain't got that excuse anymore. I guess I'll get back to APoS this weekend.
My head's still feeling just a bit too squirrelly to focus on it, now.
February 16, 2019
A bit more of Brendan till I return...
The slaps had kept me from getting a good breath in, so I quickly choked on the water. I fought to move my head -- to shake off the cloth -- but his mates kept me immobile and all I could do was swallow more and more of it and let it fill my lungs and my head felt ready to explode from the terror and my heart pounded like I was going mad and I tried to kick but couldn’t and my hands wouldn’t fucking move to let me push back up from under this hell and it kept on and on and on and on and I was sure I was dying and --
The cloth was whipped away, again. Terrence took me by the hair, again, and this time yanked me half off the table to face the floor and I vomited water into that other empty pail. It spewed from my nose as well as my mouth and I’d even swear came out my ears, there was so much of it. Then he shoved me back onto the table, even as I kept heaving and choking, and asked me questions that made no sense -- like he was speaking another language and I fought to get away from him but he kept yammering at me and asking me things and all I could do was shake my head until suddenly, suddenly I heard him saying, oh so gently, “I have to wonder, Brendan, are you really that fuckin’ stupid a bugger? We can end this, right now. All in exchange for one word, just one -- the name of one man who’s responsible for God knows how many deaths. You’d be doing mankind a favor by ending his reign of terror, Brendan. You’re a good lad. You want to go to your mum’s wake. And her funeral. You want all this terror to end. Help me end it, Brendan. Be the good lad I know you are.”
To be honest, I couldn’t have spoken then if I’d wanted to. That I was able to even understand him was a minor miracle to me. I was still retching from the water sloshing about in my lungs. I was coughing from my throat being so raw. I was freezing from the cold air blasting in. My nose was screaming from the sudden influx of foreign liquids -- not just water but acid from my stomach and God knows what else from within me. I was half afraid I was about to lose control of my bowels and I was shaking from the effort to just keep from screaming in fear.
“What’s your answer, Brendan?” The question was so tender, I almost wept. Jesus Christ, but this man was truly a devil.
I looked away from him. My head was snapped back into position and the cloth laid over and I began to scream and scream and from someplace distant I heard laughter as the water began pouring and smothered me and filled me and I kicked and fought and choked and swallowed more and more and my heart shrieked in anger and terror and my legs flailed --
And then everything stopped. And I felt myself drifting away from it all. Peaceful and sad. And I knew I was dying. I’d got my wish. I was dying and it wasn’t so horrible, drowning like this, no, not horrible at all as darkness whispered up and gently enveloped me in her beauty and grace and --
Shattering noise woke me. Like a car wreck or something, shredding metal and screeching to a halt against some banister. I had no idea where I was. Could I be at home on the floor behind the couch? I’d wondered if I could hide there, at times. Had I drifted to sleep and been dreaming it all? But I was on the sponge rubber mattress. And my clothes still wet, cold air blasting in, my hands and feet freezing. My heart still pounded. A dull throb in my head made it difficult to think. My lungs ached horribly. Sharp pains exploded from my wrists and ankles if I tried to move. I looked at them. The shackles were gone but my skin was rubbed raw from me fighting against them. And then I understood -- it was no dream, and I wasn’t dead.
I felt nothing about it. Not one emotion even approached my heart. It was just, “I’m still here.”
I lay flat on my back and slowly me mind rejoined me life. The light still burned in the ceiling, like an unforgiving sun, blistering through me eyes even when me lids was shut. Between the blades in me back was a sharp throb whispering over me spine. My thoughts -- what thoughts I had -- none seemed to be mine. Me voice seemed to be another’s. Had I begun to talk? Was I speaking even now? I had no idea. I still could not make sense of where or how or even who I was at the moment. The four walls around me looked not at all familiar. The cold wet foam under me behaved like a carpet hovering above the world.
I felt like it took hours for me to regain actual consciousness. True awareness. The throbbing in my head never ceased during this time, but did slowly become less demanding. I never stopped shivering, but it seemed to be more from the cold than anything more. Three more times the screeching crashing noise went past me door -- past my door. The one way out. The one way to look for anyone to come who did not come because no one knew where I was, of that I was sure. Even I was not sure of where I was -- except I was. I was. I knew. I knew.
A slat in the door snapped open and an eye bulged in to look about the room -- then it pulled back and happily cried, “He’s back!”
I assumed he meant me. Had I been somewhere and was not remembering? That would not be polite, not if I’d been with company. It’s poor manners not to recall going places with people you know...or even those you don’t.
The door opened and a man entered, followed by two more just like him. Triplets. I smiled and think I laughed. I might not have. I don’t recall.
The first triplet nodded, smiling. “That’s good,” he said. “You’re proud of yourself.”
Then he kicked me. The brisk sharpness of it jolted me and everything crashed back into my mind. Castlereagh. The Saracen. Tailored. Terrence. The water. The neverending fucking water.
It was Terrence who kicked me. He leaned in and snarled, “Think about everything we did, today, Brendan, and how we’ll begin it all again, tomorrow. You’ll speak to me. You’ll talk to me. I swear by God before the day is through, you’ll think me your bloody father confessor, you fuckin’ will.”
Then he rose and gave me another kick in the back before he and his twins left.
More of this tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And I felt nothing. It was like I was saying to myself, “I think I’ll have the chicken fried steak every day this week and the next.” It meant absolutely nothing.
Except...
My stomach boiled. And my cough returned. And I felt tears sting my eyes. I rolled over and my face pressed into the rough sponge, and I noticed my tears disappearing into it -- and suddenly I knew -- I wouldn’t have to keep going. I knew how to end it, now. I knew what to do.
I made myself reach under the block of sponge and pull off a good chunk of it. My whole body ached from the exertion, but crushing it into my hand made me feel powerful, once more. Put me back in control of my destiny.
The next time they came, I’d have that sponge in my mouth. And I’d wait till they poured the water over me, again, and I’d swallow it and it would soak in the water and expand and choke me and I’d be dead before they figured out how to keep me alive. They’d get nothing from me, not even enjoyment -- they’d get nothing except my death. The bastards’d get only my death.
---------------
This is the last bit from the two previous days. It's taken a lot out of me...and I won't have much time to write while in Reading, so...later.
The cloth was whipped away, again. Terrence took me by the hair, again, and this time yanked me half off the table to face the floor and I vomited water into that other empty pail. It spewed from my nose as well as my mouth and I’d even swear came out my ears, there was so much of it. Then he shoved me back onto the table, even as I kept heaving and choking, and asked me questions that made no sense -- like he was speaking another language and I fought to get away from him but he kept yammering at me and asking me things and all I could do was shake my head until suddenly, suddenly I heard him saying, oh so gently, “I have to wonder, Brendan, are you really that fuckin’ stupid a bugger? We can end this, right now. All in exchange for one word, just one -- the name of one man who’s responsible for God knows how many deaths. You’d be doing mankind a favor by ending his reign of terror, Brendan. You’re a good lad. You want to go to your mum’s wake. And her funeral. You want all this terror to end. Help me end it, Brendan. Be the good lad I know you are.”
To be honest, I couldn’t have spoken then if I’d wanted to. That I was able to even understand him was a minor miracle to me. I was still retching from the water sloshing about in my lungs. I was coughing from my throat being so raw. I was freezing from the cold air blasting in. My nose was screaming from the sudden influx of foreign liquids -- not just water but acid from my stomach and God knows what else from within me. I was half afraid I was about to lose control of my bowels and I was shaking from the effort to just keep from screaming in fear.
“What’s your answer, Brendan?” The question was so tender, I almost wept. Jesus Christ, but this man was truly a devil.
I looked away from him. My head was snapped back into position and the cloth laid over and I began to scream and scream and from someplace distant I heard laughter as the water began pouring and smothered me and filled me and I kicked and fought and choked and swallowed more and more and my heart shrieked in anger and terror and my legs flailed --
And then everything stopped. And I felt myself drifting away from it all. Peaceful and sad. And I knew I was dying. I’d got my wish. I was dying and it wasn’t so horrible, drowning like this, no, not horrible at all as darkness whispered up and gently enveloped me in her beauty and grace and --
Shattering noise woke me. Like a car wreck or something, shredding metal and screeching to a halt against some banister. I had no idea where I was. Could I be at home on the floor behind the couch? I’d wondered if I could hide there, at times. Had I drifted to sleep and been dreaming it all? But I was on the sponge rubber mattress. And my clothes still wet, cold air blasting in, my hands and feet freezing. My heart still pounded. A dull throb in my head made it difficult to think. My lungs ached horribly. Sharp pains exploded from my wrists and ankles if I tried to move. I looked at them. The shackles were gone but my skin was rubbed raw from me fighting against them. And then I understood -- it was no dream, and I wasn’t dead.
I felt nothing about it. Not one emotion even approached my heart. It was just, “I’m still here.”
I lay flat on my back and slowly me mind rejoined me life. The light still burned in the ceiling, like an unforgiving sun, blistering through me eyes even when me lids was shut. Between the blades in me back was a sharp throb whispering over me spine. My thoughts -- what thoughts I had -- none seemed to be mine. Me voice seemed to be another’s. Had I begun to talk? Was I speaking even now? I had no idea. I still could not make sense of where or how or even who I was at the moment. The four walls around me looked not at all familiar. The cold wet foam under me behaved like a carpet hovering above the world.
I felt like it took hours for me to regain actual consciousness. True awareness. The throbbing in my head never ceased during this time, but did slowly become less demanding. I never stopped shivering, but it seemed to be more from the cold than anything more. Three more times the screeching crashing noise went past me door -- past my door. The one way out. The one way to look for anyone to come who did not come because no one knew where I was, of that I was sure. Even I was not sure of where I was -- except I was. I was. I knew. I knew.
A slat in the door snapped open and an eye bulged in to look about the room -- then it pulled back and happily cried, “He’s back!”
I assumed he meant me. Had I been somewhere and was not remembering? That would not be polite, not if I’d been with company. It’s poor manners not to recall going places with people you know...or even those you don’t.
The door opened and a man entered, followed by two more just like him. Triplets. I smiled and think I laughed. I might not have. I don’t recall.
The first triplet nodded, smiling. “That’s good,” he said. “You’re proud of yourself.”
Then he kicked me. The brisk sharpness of it jolted me and everything crashed back into my mind. Castlereagh. The Saracen. Tailored. Terrence. The water. The neverending fucking water.
It was Terrence who kicked me. He leaned in and snarled, “Think about everything we did, today, Brendan, and how we’ll begin it all again, tomorrow. You’ll speak to me. You’ll talk to me. I swear by God before the day is through, you’ll think me your bloody father confessor, you fuckin’ will.”
Then he rose and gave me another kick in the back before he and his twins left.
More of this tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And I felt nothing. It was like I was saying to myself, “I think I’ll have the chicken fried steak every day this week and the next.” It meant absolutely nothing.
Except...
My stomach boiled. And my cough returned. And I felt tears sting my eyes. I rolled over and my face pressed into the rough sponge, and I noticed my tears disappearing into it -- and suddenly I knew -- I wouldn’t have to keep going. I knew how to end it, now. I knew what to do.
I made myself reach under the block of sponge and pull off a good chunk of it. My whole body ached from the exertion, but crushing it into my hand made me feel powerful, once more. Put me back in control of my destiny.
The next time they came, I’d have that sponge in my mouth. And I’d wait till they poured the water over me, again, and I’d swallow it and it would soak in the water and expand and choke me and I’d be dead before they figured out how to keep me alive. They’d get nothing from me, not even enjoyment -- they’d get nothing except my death. The bastards’d get only my death.
---------------
This is the last bit from the two previous days. It's taken a lot out of me...and I won't have much time to write while in Reading, so...later.
February 15, 2019
Continuing from yesterday's post...
“Sorry to hear about your mother, Brendan,” said Terrance. “Looks like our information was a bit behind the curve. But then there’s that American phrase, Shit happens, even to us, sometimes. So -- the wake’s about to get started. And the funeral’s set for day after tomorrow. I know you’re a good boy, Brendan, and you won’t want to miss any of that, so why not just answer a few questions and let us send you on your way? Right?”
I just cast a glance at the cameras in the upper corners. They hadn’t moved. He noticed.
“Don’t rely on them for anything. They’re ours -- but you’re a smart lad, ain’t you? You already know that. Funny -- but it’s the smart ones who crack the easiest. They think because they’re smart, they can outfox us. But they can’t.” Christ, did they all use the same playbook for their interrogations? “We can keep at this for as long as we want. So show me you really are smart, Brendan. Answer one question. Who was the other lad at that bombing with you and your brother?”
Colm, sprang to mind but I didn’t say it. So they really did want that one bit of information. Even after eight years. Why? Why did it still matter? Of course, I had no answer, so I just sighed and looked at the floor. The clean linoleum looked even cleaner than before, which for some reason unsettled me. Then Terrence took my chin and forced me to look at him.
“Didn’t you hear me? Who was the other man with you and your friend? Who was it set the bomb that blew up your girl friend? We know he didn’t act on his own; he hadn’t the nerve for it. Another man was seen with you both. Who was he? First name’s all we want. We can take it from there.” He waited then added, “Was it Barry Quinn?”
I’d no idea who that was, and I think it showed in my face. He nodded.
“Eugene Heaney?”
Danny’s uncle? That man was no more capable of murder than Daria. Christ, I’d though HE was aimed for the priesthood, with his ways. What the devil did they think they were saying? Just nonsense to confuse me? Not even Paidrig would have responded to something so obvious.
Terrence kept up with more names, not one of which made any sense in regards to what he was asking, each time gripping my chin a bit harder till finally his nails were digging into my skin -- and he shoved me back hard enough to make the chair tip and let me fall to the floor. I landed hard on my side, jamming my shoulder and wrist against the belt and crying out, despite myself. His mates picked me up and set me back in the chair, without a thought.
That bastard cough came back and I felt my stomach quiver, but I did not look back at Terrence as he bent over to face me.
“Brendan, this is stupid. All we need is one name. One name and you can walk out of here. Go to your mother’s wake. And her funeral. You’re a good boy, Brendan; you’d want to do that. All good boys want to do that.” I still would not look at him. “Are you afraid PIRA or INLA will find out you talked to us? Is that why you’re so quiet?”
Truth is, I hadn’t thought about that as a complication. But I had heard that they would make people even suspected of informing disappear, and no one thought for a second they’d just been banished from Ireland. So were there any indication I’d become a grass for the Brits, I’d probably follow suit -- straight into a grave. Meaning whether I spoke or didn’t, the ending would be the same.
“We can protect you, you know,” Terrence kept on with. “We can fix it so they don’t know you spoke to us. Or we can blame another person. We got more than enough informants in the six counties. Blaming one of them’d be no trouble. ‘Fact, it’d be worth it to get the bastard who helped you murder five people.”
Five people? I thought four had been killed at Joanna’s father’s place. No -- wait -- he’s spouting wrong information to get you to talk. He’s all but saying, Correct me; show me you’re smarter than me; talk. This was stupid. He and Tailored had already used this trick on me, so why be so obvious in using it, again? I just sighed and closed my eyes and --
SMACK! He slapped me off the chair! I landed on my stomach and grunted in pain. I gasped in air and my gut heaved from the sudden crush against the floor. His mates just grabbed me under my shoulders and sat me back in place.
“You’re going to talk to me, Brendan,” Terrence snarled, his voice deep and angry.
I felt blood trail from my nose, and had the sense he’d reopened the cut on my face from the commander’s pistol. I coughed, but this time from the pain in my gut and not from fear. I was too filled with adrenalin to now be afraid of him. Now I was ready to fight for my survival...or even for my death.
I think Terrence sensed this change in me. He stepped back and nodded, then he said in a voice that was too, too calm, “That was a stupid bloody thing for me to do, wasn’t it? You Irish knock each other around all the time, so you probably like that sort of thing. Well, your mates with the RUC already tried this and got bollocks, so I’m not wasting my time with it.”
He nodded to his mates and they yanked me up to lay me atop the table as he stepped out of the room. My head hung over one end, and my calves hung over the other. My ankle shackles were attached to the table in some way, so I had little range in which to move my legs.
Terrence came back in, a moment later, followed by the guards carrying two empty tubs and some pails of water. One tub was set on the floor, under my head, and the pails lined against the nearest wall. Then the guards left. I’d no idea what this devil was planning, but I knew it wouldn’t be good, not from the evil kindliness in his eyes.
“All right, Brendan,” he said in a voice as gentle and soothing as the devil’s, “I’ll give you one more chance. Who was the man with you and your mate? The man who helped you set the bomb that killed so many people? What was his name? All I need is his Christian name. I can find out everything else I want from that. So just tell me -- what’s his first name?”
I looked at the ceiling, beginning to shake, again. And I coughed. He nodded.
“Well,” he sighed, “we’ve had a lot of success in loosening tongues with this method, and no fucking poofter from the Red Cross need even know.”
He lay a thick cloth over my face so I couldn’t see. I heard a pail being lifted and felt his mates hold me down by my shoulders, each one also pressing against the side of my head to keep me from moving. Then water began spilling into the cloth.
I had no idea what the fuck they were doing. The water choked me and I swallowed some -- and in truth it felt good on my throat -- but it kept coming and coming and coming and I couldn’t gulp it down and it went up my nose and into my lungs and I began to cough and fought to breathe and panic seized my heart as the water overwhelmed me like I was sinking under it and I roared and began to fight like a madman -- and then the cloth was gone and I was choking and coughing and gasping in air and my head was fit to burst from the sudden piercing pain in it and Terrence grabbed me by the hair and slapped me two, three, four times to force me to focus on him and I could barely understand him as he snarled, “That was just a taste of it, Brendan. I can do this for hours and days. So give me his name.”
I gulped in more air, deep and fast -- and I spit at him. I fuckin’ spit at him. I don’t know which of us was more surprised at me doing it, but he roared and slapped me another four or five times then jammed my head back and fitted the cloth over my face and began pouring the water onto it, again.
I just cast a glance at the cameras in the upper corners. They hadn’t moved. He noticed.
“Don’t rely on them for anything. They’re ours -- but you’re a smart lad, ain’t you? You already know that. Funny -- but it’s the smart ones who crack the easiest. They think because they’re smart, they can outfox us. But they can’t.” Christ, did they all use the same playbook for their interrogations? “We can keep at this for as long as we want. So show me you really are smart, Brendan. Answer one question. Who was the other lad at that bombing with you and your brother?”
Colm, sprang to mind but I didn’t say it. So they really did want that one bit of information. Even after eight years. Why? Why did it still matter? Of course, I had no answer, so I just sighed and looked at the floor. The clean linoleum looked even cleaner than before, which for some reason unsettled me. Then Terrence took my chin and forced me to look at him.
“Didn’t you hear me? Who was the other man with you and your friend? Who was it set the bomb that blew up your girl friend? We know he didn’t act on his own; he hadn’t the nerve for it. Another man was seen with you both. Who was he? First name’s all we want. We can take it from there.” He waited then added, “Was it Barry Quinn?”
I’d no idea who that was, and I think it showed in my face. He nodded.
“Eugene Heaney?”
Danny’s uncle? That man was no more capable of murder than Daria. Christ, I’d though HE was aimed for the priesthood, with his ways. What the devil did they think they were saying? Just nonsense to confuse me? Not even Paidrig would have responded to something so obvious.
Terrence kept up with more names, not one of which made any sense in regards to what he was asking, each time gripping my chin a bit harder till finally his nails were digging into my skin -- and he shoved me back hard enough to make the chair tip and let me fall to the floor. I landed hard on my side, jamming my shoulder and wrist against the belt and crying out, despite myself. His mates picked me up and set me back in the chair, without a thought.
That bastard cough came back and I felt my stomach quiver, but I did not look back at Terrence as he bent over to face me.
“Brendan, this is stupid. All we need is one name. One name and you can walk out of here. Go to your mother’s wake. And her funeral. You’re a good boy, Brendan; you’d want to do that. All good boys want to do that.” I still would not look at him. “Are you afraid PIRA or INLA will find out you talked to us? Is that why you’re so quiet?”
Truth is, I hadn’t thought about that as a complication. But I had heard that they would make people even suspected of informing disappear, and no one thought for a second they’d just been banished from Ireland. So were there any indication I’d become a grass for the Brits, I’d probably follow suit -- straight into a grave. Meaning whether I spoke or didn’t, the ending would be the same.
“We can protect you, you know,” Terrence kept on with. “We can fix it so they don’t know you spoke to us. Or we can blame another person. We got more than enough informants in the six counties. Blaming one of them’d be no trouble. ‘Fact, it’d be worth it to get the bastard who helped you murder five people.”
Five people? I thought four had been killed at Joanna’s father’s place. No -- wait -- he’s spouting wrong information to get you to talk. He’s all but saying, Correct me; show me you’re smarter than me; talk. This was stupid. He and Tailored had already used this trick on me, so why be so obvious in using it, again? I just sighed and closed my eyes and --
SMACK! He slapped me off the chair! I landed on my stomach and grunted in pain. I gasped in air and my gut heaved from the sudden crush against the floor. His mates just grabbed me under my shoulders and sat me back in place.
“You’re going to talk to me, Brendan,” Terrence snarled, his voice deep and angry.
I felt blood trail from my nose, and had the sense he’d reopened the cut on my face from the commander’s pistol. I coughed, but this time from the pain in my gut and not from fear. I was too filled with adrenalin to now be afraid of him. Now I was ready to fight for my survival...or even for my death.
I think Terrence sensed this change in me. He stepped back and nodded, then he said in a voice that was too, too calm, “That was a stupid bloody thing for me to do, wasn’t it? You Irish knock each other around all the time, so you probably like that sort of thing. Well, your mates with the RUC already tried this and got bollocks, so I’m not wasting my time with it.”
He nodded to his mates and they yanked me up to lay me atop the table as he stepped out of the room. My head hung over one end, and my calves hung over the other. My ankle shackles were attached to the table in some way, so I had little range in which to move my legs.
Terrence came back in, a moment later, followed by the guards carrying two empty tubs and some pails of water. One tub was set on the floor, under my head, and the pails lined against the nearest wall. Then the guards left. I’d no idea what this devil was planning, but I knew it wouldn’t be good, not from the evil kindliness in his eyes.
“All right, Brendan,” he said in a voice as gentle and soothing as the devil’s, “I’ll give you one more chance. Who was the man with you and your mate? The man who helped you set the bomb that killed so many people? What was his name? All I need is his Christian name. I can find out everything else I want from that. So just tell me -- what’s his first name?”
I looked at the ceiling, beginning to shake, again. And I coughed. He nodded.
“Well,” he sighed, “we’ve had a lot of success in loosening tongues with this method, and no fucking poofter from the Red Cross need even know.”
He lay a thick cloth over my face so I couldn’t see. I heard a pail being lifted and felt his mates hold me down by my shoulders, each one also pressing against the side of my head to keep me from moving. Then water began spilling into the cloth.
I had no idea what the fuck they were doing. The water choked me and I swallowed some -- and in truth it felt good on my throat -- but it kept coming and coming and coming and I couldn’t gulp it down and it went up my nose and into my lungs and I began to cough and fought to breathe and panic seized my heart as the water overwhelmed me like I was sinking under it and I roared and began to fight like a madman -- and then the cloth was gone and I was choking and coughing and gasping in air and my head was fit to burst from the sudden piercing pain in it and Terrence grabbed me by the hair and slapped me two, three, four times to force me to focus on him and I could barely understand him as he snarled, “That was just a taste of it, Brendan. I can do this for hours and days. So give me his name.”
I gulped in more air, deep and fast -- and I spit at him. I fuckin’ spit at him. I don’t know which of us was more surprised at me doing it, but he roared and slapped me another four or five times then jammed my head back and fitted the cloth over my face and began pouring the water onto it, again.
