Let All The Rain Rain

Sullivan moved forward with an unsteady gait; think of those first uncertain steps one takes after hopping out of bed in the morning.  When the wraith at Moloney’s side was viewable in the starlight, Sullivan stopped, but instead of expressing shock merely veered his head curiously.

            He came alive?

            If that’s what you want to call it, answered Moloney.  Come here to me – what did you say just there?

            Oh, that, yes, well, if you wouldn’t mind killing me, please, with your shooting iron, I would appreciate it.

            You’re not serious, are you?

            Oh, I am, said Sullivan.  I’ve been on the ice too long, protected behind those flowery walls, and all the time pining to go under.  I’m a long way from Cavan and consequence.

            What has gotten into you?

            It was already in me. 

            And you an affable fellow – more so than them others.  Why would you want yourself dead?

            I’ve hid it so long but everything isn’t all it’s cracked up to be out here.  Abby knows.  Everything is about well-meaningness, well-mindedness.  But some things you can’t de-thing.

            That senator puts a lot of people round the bend but I wouldn’t top myself because of him.                                                                                                                                                          

           Mr  Elder did his best.  I have no argy-bargy with him.  Even so I can’t say his lectures on the mind have helped much.  I was on the verge of topping myself before our first encounter.  When you’ve fallen in the world, heart burnt to all fuck, brain soaked and boiled to nil, it’s not uncommon the urge to stop the lights.  I would have done so long ago were it not for the fear of God.  He doesn’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.    

            I had you for a drunk alright as soon as I clapped eyes on you, if I’m honest.

            I reek of it still.  Can’t wash it off.  That old viper.  The wee girl did her best.  Abby.  She tried.  I tell you, the new generation doesn’t need scoundrels like me hanging around.  I still want one.  Can you believe that?  A drink.  Even now. 

            You’re not alone there.

            No getting over it.  Alcolism, you know.

            I know.  I’ve heard about it.  But that’s a cult too, isn’t it?

            What do you mean?  No, no, alcolism’s not a cult.  It’s an addiction. 

            My mistake.  I heard it on vine there was a whole brainwashing business going on around it.  They won’t be stealing any pints from me, I can tell you that.  So that’s what he was trying to do in there.  Relieve you of your right to a drop?  An almighty cure from the labs of human goodness.

            Didn’t cure a thing.  His aim I believe is to cure us of other things, none of which are things that ever mattered to me.  I never heard the word Ego until I came here.  I’d rather leave the world not knowing it but it’s in there now.  I do wish I’d been cured of the alcolism though.  I take it you’ve no hang-ups with the drink yourself.

            Not at all.  Full control of the faculties here. 

            Well, I’ve failed in all my appeals to faculty.  It’s a short road to wickedness, so it is.

            There’s not a one of us doesn’t come from wicked stock, pal.  The entire bloody gang of us.  At which point, Moloney shot a look at the bog man and he added: Stretching right back to this wiry fella here, I’m sure.

            It’s the height of all wickedness the sins hanging under my name, muttered Sullivan, so pathetic you’d think he was appearing on the stand in a play on the subject of GUILT written by a generally ignored playwright, planned out and rehearsed, but eventually never directed by Harold Pinter. 

A nearby flute sounded off, bravely.  An owl somewhere in the wood.  The first of nature’s night-denizens to be heard since Moloney left the house.  The bog man appeared to hear it too, for it stirred; the movement did not extend to the limbs, but there was a long shudder along its body like giant crawly things were moving under its withered skin, slowly. 

Neither Moloney nor Sullivan noticed these stirrings since both were momentarily intrigued by the hooting owl. 

Then Moloney looked down at the Silver Pigeon on his arm and said, I’d be more than happy to shoot your head off, pal, but...it wasn’t me you wronged.  If you can provide a valid reason, we might be able to solve this issue.

            I was one to get dipsomanic and let all the rain rain.  You go into a rage, you know.  Can’t help it.  Torture it is.  I can’t hide it.  Though I tried.  I did.  But I can’t be bothered with it anymore. 

            Out with it, man.  You’re giving me a migraine.  What sins hang under your name?

            I battered them, didn’t I? Sullivan said.  The woman.  And the boy.

            Moloney stood back, bridling quietly. 

            Tears began to flow out of Sullivan’s eyes, and there was a little sparkle in every bead.  Was it the last of the electricity in his system leaving?

            A wave of understanding came over Moloney and he groaned:  How did you batter them?

            How?  I can’t remember.  All that I have stored are their faces.  Their cries.  I was out of my mind.

            Sullivan dipped his head, that same dip of the head Abby was used to seeing sometimes during their chats in the kitchen. And now this gesture of anguish was for Moloney to consider.  He saw in Sullivan what he saw in Hilda yesterday.  Just before his effort to put her down.  Agony, resignation.  And he wondered if putting the man out of his misery was the right thing to do.  Couple that with rising anger out of knowing that here was another like the Oul Lad – a man predisposed to brutalising his own kin.  But did he deserve a blast through the head?  Like the Oul Lad deserved that crack with the hoe.  The act of bloody murder wasn’t beneath Moloney.  It was just about on the level.  Yet could he be sure if it was right?  Since everything beneath him was now showing up above. 

Ah, get on with the nation-saving will you, he thought, you’re no woolly mulligan!

Hilda landed at Sullivan’s feet and began sniffing around at his shoes, a pair of old pampooties the man had been wearing since the day he left the house.  The last day he’d seen the wife and son.  Two years?  Three? 

            It’s a bit late for a pig to be out, isn’t it? Sullivan said.

            You never know with this one, said Moloney.

Image: Wikimedia Commons