Mayflies

by Andrew O'Hagan

It wasn’t a matter to fight over: some families are made up of strangers and nothing can change it.

‘It’s been my good fortune to share a story with him,’ I said, ‘and that’s all we’ll ever have. There’s no more. Earth is all the heaven we’ll ever know.’

‘Hey, Jimmy,’ he said, quite drunk. ‘It was magic seeing you. Remember the Gospel…’ ‘Right, come on, you,’ Fiona said. ‘Jimmy’s got his bed to go to.’ He turned to her with his finger raised and a sad look on his face, but his words were firm as they walked away. ‘Set your minds on things that are above,’ he said, ‘not on things that are on earth, for you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ.’ The town was quiet when they drove off and I stood on my own beside a lighted puddle, watching the snowflakes fall like ashes and melt on the water.

It used to be so natural, dancing. Because the music defined you and the heart was in step. Then it leaves you. Or does it? Saturday night changes and your body forgets the old compliance. You’re not part of it any more and your feet hesitate and your arms stay close to your sides. It’s there somewhere, the easy rhythm from other rooms and other occasions, and you’re half convinced it will soon come back. It’s not the moves – the moves are there – but your connection to the music has become nostalgic, so the body is responding not to a discovery but to an old, dear echo.

He was a friend to friendship itself and never expected people to be better than they were.

‘Punk was right about everything,’ he said. ‘About society, I mean. And about people. We are poor slaves in a constant state of co-exploitation.’

‘What does it mean that I got this?’ he asked. ‘Illness has no meaning,’ I said. ‘It’s just illness.’ ‘But it’s as if I did something terrible.’ ‘You did nothing, Tully. You are a human being. And that’s an unstable condition that ends badly for all of us.’

‘Go gently with people’s pain. It’s the same as yours.’

‘But it’s not worth it, is it?’ I said spontaneously. ‘Just for a story. You wouldn’t have chosen to live through all that just for a story.’ ‘The choice is not ours to make. The book is the book.’ He gestured to the packed shelves going all the way up to high windows. ‘And the people who write these things wish to keep the essence alive.’