Microphones

It used to be that I’d only visit Isolde Terrace for a film on a Friday evening.  But I’d started going round on Mondays too, and on Wednesdays and Saturdays, sometimes on a Tuesday.  Once on a Sunday.  Now Friday had returned no longer brandishing its earlier prestige.  It felt like it could have been a Saturday.  Though not on this occasion a Sunday.  Or a Monday.  Or any of the other days.  For if it was any of those I’d have work to be getting up for in the morning.  A tranquil feeling had come over me and as a consequence there was the fearless guzzling of red wine. 

 

‘So what will happen to the stag now?’ I asked as The Fortune Cookie came to an end.

‘It’s up for sale again,’ said Oran.  ‘I’m sure someone will dish out.  Given the stature of the canvas, it should fetch more than most everything we have left.  And it looks like we’ll be selling all of that stuff too.  The damage to that kitchen is going to mangle us financially.  The more prized vestiges were all but destroyed.  All we have left is . . . well, as you can see for yourself, the few DVDs and books there.  Which we won’t get much for.’

‘What do you think the stag would go for?’

‘If someone bites, we could get in the high hundreds for it.  If someone bites hard, we might get as much as two thousand, but that would all depend on the want and wealth of the buyer.’

A thought occurred to me.  Initially, in jest.

            ‘I could always steal that Montescu in Lavery’s office if you want.   You know, the one of the martlet.’

‘Catch yourself on.’

I’d said it in a joking manner as it was plainly a humorous notion.  But underneath, it did not appear far from the realms of possibility.  Although I hadn’t robbed a single thing for quite some time, it was not a tendency I had axed with prejudice from my character.  You might have called me gifted in that regard back in the day if you were of the mind to respect people that went about that business.

‘You said it yourself.  Hoaxing’s in the blood.  And stealing.  Well, it’s all the same, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s not the same.’

‘I mean, it wouldn’t be too hard to find a replacement.  A fake of the fake.  I’m sure there’s plenty of paintings of martlets out there.  And I’m pretty sure Lavery wouldn’t know the difference.’

‘The Montescu is not a fake.  It’s an original Montescu.  Or so you’d have me believe.’

‘By original . . . I take it you mean, a fake.  A fake Montescu.’

‘There was no real Montescu to begin with.  There can be no fake of something which was not real to begin with.  I’ve been injured in the past in the producing of duplicates.  My father had once in his possession a handwritten letter to William Gladstone from Charles Parnell in which the great nationalist leader spoke honestly of his carnal achievements.  It was a document which bore importance in saying something about our nation’s history, and was deeply personal to the old man, for didn’t he look up to Parnell as a man and a lover.  I took it into school one day to show it off to my classmates, a foolish decision in hindsight.  Nobody cared.  They didn’t care much for the affairs of Parnell in Sixth Class.  Of course, one of those bastards got hold of this precious keepsake and turned it into a paper aeroplane which was intercepted by Brother Cronin who ripped the thing to pieces in front of us and threw it in the bin, no inkling at all as to the value of the parchment he was destroying.   

In the following days, I went to great pains to forge it so as the father would never find out.  Sellotape or glue wouldn’t do.  When Brother Cronin ripped something, he made sure it went to shreds, so I had to recreate the whole thing, using the bits I was able to retrieve from the dustbin.  Every waking minute I was in my room with every pen at my disposal, carefully reconstructing the document, the penmanship, even the shade and texture of the paper.   I did such a good job he never knew.  Over the years, I had the desire to tell him what I’d done.  When he was lying on his deathbed, I was on the verge of telling him.  But kept putting it off.  Then he died without ever knowing it was a replica.  Really I wanted him to know.  I wanted him to know that I could be that brilliant.  That his son could achieve such wonders.  But there was also the fear he’d just box the head off me.  You know.’

            ‘Where’s that letter now?’

            ‘We sold it years ago to some government or other.  Not sure which.’

 

Phyllis extracted more joy from the Billy Wilder films than Oran or I.  We were too clinical in our enjoyment, nodding appreciatively at every wisecrack and marvelling at the storylines post-viewing.  Phyllis on the other hand always came out of watching one as though she’d taken a drug with a big smile on her face and the urge to act saucily.  This meant she would often start teasing me about my relationship status as though she was a character played by Walter Matthau.

 

‘Tell me,’ she said, smirking.  ‘Are you of that other persuasion?’

‘I am not,’ I said.  ‘A boring old hetero only.  If that’s what you mean.’

‘That may be, but you’re no breeder either.’

‘I have no childer.  If that’s what you mean.’

‘That’s what I mean.  Neither do I.  I’m no breeder either, I’m truly pleased to say.  I understand.  This town isn’t exactly crawling with studs and honeys.’

‘It’s crawling though,’ said Oran.

‘For sure.  Though that’s beside the point.  There aren’t many attractive people around here.  I can see why you haven’t found the right one.’

‘There’ve been a few over the years.  But more misses than hits.  These days, mostly misses.  Or Missuses.’

‘Like whom?  You didn’t shag that woman that works with you.’

‘Caitríona?  No.’

‘Good.  If we were anywhere else I might advise you to push on with the affair.  But in this town walls have ears.  And mouths are microphones.’

‘True,’ I said.  ‘She was the one who gave us away in the end.  Couldn’t keep her mouth shut.’

‘Gave us away?’ asked Oran.

‘I .....’ 

And there I had to stop myself and think for a second or two.  Had I not told Oran and Phyllis about how Caitríona Colreavy had sunk our ship and that it was I who had unmoored it?  An uncomfortable silence and sobering of eyes followed.  Ah, but what a dipshit!  And sharp pins in the gut for knowing I’d done wrong. 

‘I get it,’ said Phyllis.  ‘You blabbed, basically.’

I curved my head with abashment. 

‘So your great beak is the cause of all this,’ said Oran, coldly.  ‘All so you could impress some young one who wouldn’t go near you if you were a millionaire.’

‘Well, she might if he was a millionaire, let’s not be hasty,’ said Phyllis, with a placating tone.

‘I let it slip one day,’ I said.  ‘I didn’t think she would say anything, to be fair.’ 

‘I didn’t think you would end up being so . . . untrustworthy.’

I felt a little put out by Oran saying this after his total commitment to – and celebration of – hoaxing.

‘There’s some hypocrisy in that,’ I said, quietly.

Oran snorted.  ‘How so?’

‘I know your game by now,’ I said.  ‘I’ve been a confidant of sorts for yonks.  All night you’ve been blathering on about your own untrustworthiness.  Also, why are you getting the hump all of a sudden?  Wasn’t it part of your plan all along to be discovered?  What of your need to impress the old man?’

‘As I said once, I sought to impress him, yes.  But not if it got me a box on the jaw.  And certainly not if it got me fuckin house burnt down.’

His language might have been strong but his mood seemed still.  He took one of those deep, retiring breaths and said, ‘Get out of my sight, will you.’  He didn’t shout.  There was no anger rising.  His manner of saying it was hard and emotionless and vexing in the extreme.  I got up in a huff from my seat. 

‘Right you are then,’ I said. 

I looked around for anything I had when really all I ever had to leave with was my coat, now crumpled up beneath me as usual.  I never hung it up anywhere for some reason.  Though there was ample space for me to engage in such etiquette – hooks, hangers, the banister – I always had it over the arm of the seat I was on, or resting warm under my asshole.  I could never bring myself to hang it up anywhere.  It was always as though I was just popping in for a minute.  Not staying for two to three hours – which was the usual duration of my stay in their house.

Although Phyllis wasn’t as visibly bothered as Oran by my admission, she was at the very least displeased.  As I was leaving, she walked into the kitchen, and didn’t say Goodbye. 

 

Even if I wasn’t myself seething as I walked the streets, there’d be seething going on anyway.  There was always that feeling in the air during the evening-time.  Especially in these days of resentment and grief.  You knew somebody was out there seething.  It was obvious on many of the faces.  And even if no heads were about to be observed seething, you could still sense somebody was in the act of doing it somewhere.  If someone saw me now, they would be able to see and clearly say Yes, that man is absolutely seething.  I wasn’t aware if anyone could see me because I was seething too excessively to notice.  So excessively, in fact, that I missed my stop.  Arriving on Tristan Terrace with a head full of redness and riot, my protracted march proceeded, growing in its intensity, and I unknowingly walked right past my own home.  I kept walking up the town until the pub.