Antilogical Elements

 

Indeed I woke up stunned with a dozen or more guilts on my conscience, from those born of trivial violations I’d forgotten over the years to those lately caused and requiring urgent attention.  And now I had a break-in to lug around with me.  Chief of all these pressing worries was the situation I’d landed myself in with Oran.  His anger the night before stayed on the mind and had me flat on my back most of the day in a grey and ugly state, medicating myself with the easy listening likes of Tom Jones and The Carpenters.  Hours later I found the pluck in me to go round to the house and see how things were, though I made sure to wait until dark to reduce the chance of being noticed by anyone (there was still the matter of what happened in the pub to contend with). 

 

My heart was beating fast when I knocked on the door of Isolde Terrace, the tremors I was experiencing no doubt compounded by a continuing wham of withdrawal. 

‘You’ve a cheek coming back here,’ said Oran, when he answered.  I didn’t know what to say.  It was the face of a divine authority blocking the doors of the redeemed, and him wearing a scowl and smelly bathrobe.  All the same, the impediment lasted mere seconds for he quickly turned and walked back into the house leaving the door wide for me to go in, giving me some hope that a pardon was on the cards.

 

As I entered, I could hear the clack-clacking of Phyllis’ word processor upstairs and this gave me reason to be cheerful.  That she had found the muse again.  And was back working on her play maybe.   

 

Oran was already in his armchair by the time I made it to the sitting room.  The TV was off for a change, and he revealed he’d been in the middle of reading a book (The Psychology of Moral Behaviour) – it seemed he’d landed on it when sitting down and being too lazy to stand up again he worked on wresting it out from under his colossal load.

‘You’re looking shipshape there,’ he said to me, knowingly.

‘I had a rough night.’

‘She told me all about it.  Dopey.  But I suppose we should appreciate the gesture, even a cack-minded one like that.  There was no need to commit grand larceny.  Especially now.  Seeing as the buyer was onto me again this very morning.’

‘The buyer?’

‘The man from Dunshaughlin who was after the stag.  He’ll be here on Monday for it.’

‘Jesus, that’s a bit of luck.’

‘He said he’d been out of the country for some time and that’s why he’d neglected to follow up with us.  Out of the country for a while says well-off to me.’

‘Sure.  Same price?’

‘Well, he agreed to the asking, but I said we could discuss those things after he’s had a look at it.’   

‘You must be over the moon.’

‘Not really.’  He rubbed his fat head and sighed.  ‘I wish none of this had ever happened.  Of course not the fire.  And the predicament that’s put us in.  But everything before that too.  I wish I hadn’t written those bloody articles at all now.  Who would have thought a wee goof would bring the sky down on us?  Everything a shambles.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I told him, reassuringly.  The Scouring Tout was . . . worthwhile.  By my reckoning.’

‘Worthwhile how?  It was wholesale drivel.’

‘An enriching kind of drivel.’

‘Enriching?  You’re having a laugh.  As I was when concocting it.  That was my only reason.  There’s not even a scrap of serious work in my repertoire.  It has all been for the cheap laugh.  For loving the gimmick.  Did I just say repertoire?  Perish the bloody thought.  I did it all for a laugh.  And nobody did.’

‘They weren’t to get it.  Not everyone is going to get it.  It’s unfortunate they didn’t.  They should have.  Perhaps it says something about our times.’

‘To hell with the times.’

 

Both of us became an alliance of miseryguts for the rest of the evening.  Which wasn’t unusual.

 

The week passed drearily in The Martlet.  I was still not on speaking terms with Caitríona even though I could clearly remember her intervening when her husband went on the attack.  However, I was less lucid about my own behavioural extremities – was hazier on events leading up to the incident in the beer garden.  Which meant I had probably sinned greatly.  (I would later recall implying incest between Rita Gilgan and her deceased brother – definitely a villainous measure on my end, equalling the universal vilification of the Berrills; but for now, ignorance was welcomed).

 

I didn’t see much of Lavery over those days.  He went in and out of his office without looking at me.  Then again, he didn’t much heed anyone at all.  His gloom and discomfort augmented my own. 

 

By Wednesday, we were almost set to go with the new edition when suddenly Lavery appeared at my desk.  He was holding a single page in one hand, a reader’s letter, and in the other the open envelope which had presumably carried it.  He didn’t look pleased.  But he didn’t appear cross either. 

‘Read this,’ he said, handing me the letter.

I took it and started to read.  The typeface was familiar to me.  And the paper too.  Similar to sheets I’d once given to Oran to clean his bum.

 

Sir,

We are all aware of the great loss this town has recently suffered.  For my own part, I attended the remarkable vigil organised last month for young Ernest Gilgan, to pay my own personal respects, and was as unsettled as everyone else by the disruption which occurred that evening.   Although the boy’s passing is most disheartening, I submit that we must not resort to savagery in our collective grief.  There is no bringing the lad back, sadly, and I believe that his brilliance may also be understood in the daring of his last enterprise.  I have yet to read A Sudden Lavender myself, but I trust that the young man had talent on the strength of the review given to us by Ms. Boyle some weeks back.  Moreover, it is clear his ambition and imagination was immense judging by the inspiration he drew from the Tout’s articles.  His passion sent him to the edges of the world.  Alas, he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, and this is another reason why I would implore my fellow readers to reconsider their assumptions regarding the validity of the Tout’s writings.  I will admit I too was critical of the Tout’s hand in the lad’s misadventure, despite being initially amused by the extent of his nonsense.  But I have since re-evaluated my position and now believe the existence of a land spilling over with ink – Pmurehia – is as conceivable as the correlation between human destiny and the stars – a possible world, at the very least, notwithstanding its antilogical elements.  And, I would add, if the place does in fact exist, I’d suggest we are all fortunate to be far, far away from it.  By the Scouring one’s accounts, it appears to be a rather disreputable place, where racists and simpletons are allowed to flourish, and given free rein to voice their noxious ideas; if what our disesteemed reporter says is true, it is a country which would not survive if it were unable to print all manner of junk.  This is not to say young Gilgan held prejudiced beliefs himself.  He saw an opportunity to expand his horizons and pursued it, and I am certain that if he had made it there, he would have done what he needed to do, and quickly packed his bags.  If I was a young buck with literary aspirations, I might be tempted by the place too.

 

In closing, I would like to share with you my disappointment regarding your implementation of redundancies in recent weeks, not to mention, in tandem, the paper’s overall diminishment in size and general quality. Now, far be it from me to tell you how to do your business, especially in these economically fatigued times, but between yourself and myself, I would move to hire them all back at once, lest your whole talent pool do a Gilgan and set off for Pmurehia to sign up with the racists. 

 

Best,

B. Bluster

 

‘Are you going to publish it?’ I asked.

‘You better believe I am.’