Lay Down On Your Brain

 

There was no Noel anymore.  But there was Noel’s grandson.  He had the smile of a good man, but from the side you might catch something guarded in his demeanour, as though there was something under the goodness he didn’t want you to see – mostly, his manners were decent and though he didn’t know me by name he greeted me with warmth and pleasantry as I landed before his counter.  After ordering three sausage in batters, two large chips, and a portion of chicken wings, I fell back and waited on the ledge at the window.

The customer who was waiting for curry chips and cheese and chicken dippers and a spice burger was an older woman (she had a few years on the Berrills) that I had never seen about the place before – Earlship was small, but not so small you could identify with ease every single head that wandered about the place. 

And you heard about those perverts and the fire, I take it? she said to Noel’s grandson.

The oil sizzled like a chorus of pit vipers.      

Aye, said Noel’s grandson.  I live round there.  I could smell the smoke in the early hours.

The old woman began, Too bad they weren’t . . . before stopping herself in the nick of time.  The bitterness in her voice informed one and all she had something fairly egregious she wanted to get out of her. 

It’s too bad, Noel’s grandson said, the whole entire lot of it.

Of the four individuals present, nobody seemed to know me, except perhaps by face; if they had known I worked at The Martlet it is probable they would not have gone through with the Berrills rap they now went through with and they might have stayed away from the topic altogether.  Or maybe they’d have taken it to an even wilder place.  But the incest gags which followed were sufficiently wild.  Sure hadn’t I heard them all before – inbred this and inbred that and so on.  Now with a stronger foundation of malice behind them.

The divisions of the schoolyard might seem trivial in long retrospect but in fact in a town like this contentions hardly diminish and instead slowly intensify in aim and precision over the years until they spill out onto every shopfloor, park and pavement.  You could sing lovely songs about troubled waters all you wanted but it was just lip service in the end.  With this in mind, the general citizen of Earlship was inclined to go along with whatever the majority was inclined to go on about, as I did now, even knowing the scorn and opprobrium was directed at close friends or acquaintances.  The eruption of gossip in Noel’s, admittedly of an adult nature, took a rest when a young fellow of about ten or eleven came in looking for chips.  They might be a pack of bastards but at least they had the good sense to temper themselves for the children.  

When eventually I left Noel’s, with an order so drenched in vinegar (as requested, to be fair) that I could feel the chips sagging through the paper bag and into the outer plastic one, I felt I was returning to the schoolyard in my mind where everyone had a big axe to grind and were holding off for the right moment.  There weren’t many people out, about as many as you’d expect on a Sunday afternoon, but what ones there were appeared to be staring at me – I was uncertain of this, granted, as there was an effort on my part to avoid eye contact.  Perhaps the thick fume of my takeaway turned heads.  I know if I was walking past me, I’d notice the smell immediately and head straight on to Noel’s for satiation, but then I realised that even for myself the sausage in batter noise had been completely overwhelmed by other mysteries. 

Then behind me I heard a voice calling.  Couldn’t make out if they were saying a name so I didn’t turn.  It wasn’t a recognisable voice.  I kept walking, ignoring.  My nerves had me stuck.  The voice gained.  And footsteps behind me. 

Here! came the voice, within spitting distance.

Finally I turned and saw that it was Adam.  Distant cousin of the Berrills.  Their grocery-getter.  And recent buying-and-selling sergeant.  He was almost out of breath and evidently concerned about his relatives.

Where are they? he croaked.  Do you know where they are?

Adam.  I’m sorry . . .   

Are they okay?

Yes, they’re good – all considering.

I was just at the house.  The place is gutted.  So much destroyed.  

There was greater alarm showing in Adam’s face than what I’d seen from Phyllis in the morning.  His manner was more inquisitive and animated compared to her muted, paralysed response.

Who would do such a thing? he continued.  I knew something was going to happen to them sooner or later.  They’re a quare pair.  Where are they holding up?

A pause.  Even though I’d played down the potential of further attacks earlier, I wasn’t sure if I should tell anyone where Oran had run off to.  To grant them some goodwill and security.  That said, I recalled Phyllis telling me Adam had at one time been a lollipop man.  Nothing said goodness more than a lollipop man.  Or lady.  It was a profession that inspired trust. 

So I told him.

The Pompadour? he said. Is that place still open?

Abandoned for years.  But it transpired they had ways and means of getting in.

I can understand them being upset but that’s a bit of an overreaction, isn’t it?

There’s more than a little animosity going their way right now. 

True.  Well, Gilgan was well-loved.

Apparently so, I said.  I myself had no prior knowledge of him.

Oh, said Adam, remembering something suddenly.  He had a small knapsack over his shoulder.  He unzipped it and took out a book.  It was a longer-sized hardback, almost A4 in shape, ideal for a waiting room table and very thin in the way of pages.   It had this plummy-coloured cover which made it look like a leaflet someone might hand you in the same waiting room to advise you on some mental health issue or other, though it was exceptionally printed and bound for its particular fashion. 

Where did you get this?

A friend passed it on.

I didn’t know it had come out.  They were promoting it at the vigil yesterday.

I don’t think it’s in the shops yet but there’s a few going round the place.

Advance copies?

Yeah.        

 

A Sudden Lavender:  A Novel About Real Life As It Is Lived In The World

by Ernest J. Gilgan

 

Heavy, I said.  Heavy as in gravitas, if you know what I mean.  Can almost feel its content being laid down on my brain.  Just from one look at it.

I haven’t read it, said Adam.  I skimmed through and it looks okay.  None of those wee semicolon things.

Oh.  Does that make it better?

For me, I’d say, yeah.  Easier to follow, at the very least.  They always confuse me.  I don’t know why they are there.  You must know yourself from the newspaper.

I’m aware of semicolons.  They don’t bother me.  They’re a rare bird. 

I can’t stand them.  People don’t talk in semicolons, do they?  Anyway.  It feels more real.  So that’s one thing it has going for it.  I don’t read books much, in all honesty, but, you know, he was one of our own; it makes the words more interesting knowing they came from someone who’s slouched in the same sweat.

Well, that’s a more substantial reason for reading it than having no semicolons.  Let me know what it’s like when you’re done.  I hope it makes up for all the local suffering.    

Adam returned to downcast and popped the book back into his bag.

When will they go home, do you know?

I’m going to the Pompadour now with this food.  I’m hoping to persuade them back to the house.  Mainly Oran’s the problem.  He was pretty shaken by it.

Good man.  I’ll come around later and see if they’re back.  I’ve got something to be doing at the minute.  By the way, what’s your name again?  I always forget.

And I told him.

See you later, he said. 

Adam turned and walked off in the other direction and I continued towards the old cinema, my paranoia neutered from the encounter. For the time being.