LAYERS

'Your man's back,' I say to Seamus,
'the onion.'
'Wit the name?'
'Himself,' I say,
'and if you'll put down that wrench,
'I think it's time to eat,
'I'm buying.'
There's a walk we take,
along by the alleys
with creeper over the walls.
He says nothing,
Seamus, but it's like prayer,
he doesn't do that either,
only listen.
He lets a hand stray,
touching the vine,
long dead bloodless sinews,
begun in a glasshouse
and now forever never escaping.
We reach the street,
see Ollie Fanteen, black as black
in his white shirt.
'Ollie,' Seamus calls out, 'he's buying.'
The Italian is where we go,
I'm buying but I'm not paying
if you follow,
there's nothing like spaghetti
when you're buying.
A carafe of house red appears,
and I pour myself a glass
of water, iced, for the company.
Minestrone comes,
and Seamus complains, 'Potaters,'
he says, 'it needs big fockin potaters.'
He won't be told.
But he sucks up spaghetti alright,
him and Ollie both,
double my plateful, I'm buying,
and on a diet.
We're the last table
this lunchtime;
it's the timing, sure,
there's reason we do what we do.
You don't have to be an onion
to make strange soup
but it helps.
Ice cream and coffee is ordered,
and waiting, Seamus says,
thoughtful, 'Did one a youse say grace?'
I reach into my pocket,
'Shaddap,' I say, 'and listen to this.'

RACE MEETING


It's all over. The crowds have dispersed, leaving behind the empties,
the rubbish piled high, stinking toilets, one abandoned shoe and three
lines turned to ghostly slime on my favourite mirror. Worth a lick. I
see on the TV it's a sorry mess at Cheltenham too, only they clean up
after the Queen Mother, old bitch didn't choke to death, again. Shame.
I said to the second Clancy, this morning, 'Missed your chances there,
Pat'. He's not speaking, it's his voice, but he agreed.

You don't know until it happens to you. I don't drink, for my health,
so it's always me the spare hand at the wheel, short order cook, hard
currency negotiator and general dogsbody for the Limerick crowd, with
Seamus and his Uncle Ralph Don't Ask, in reserve. Mrs. Seamus allowed
the pair of them to go this year, on the Wednesday, the day my fockin
horse kissed the ground came up to meet him. It couldn't lose, if you
listen to some people. TV Woo catered the evening at my place - she's
a diamond, I tell you, but she threw the box of tricks in at the door
and fucked off sharpish. She's from London, too. We're a colony. They
never missed us till we were gone. Patel was on the phone asking when
he can expect a visit. I ask Herself to look him up if I'm tied to my
desk. She says he pines. It was a fucking fatwa last time, when Aaron
pulled his second cousin twice removed and seduced her on the bedroom
carpet, she wouldn't undress. I think Seamus has a plan.

I made them all breakfast this morning, the works. My reputation. My
phone warbled. It was the other Clancy, would I be sure to scorch his
bacon. I wouldn't mind but he was on the toilet. So, it's all over. A
celebration. Your man was a Welshman, but any excuse. Still, as I pan
the camera, making sure I get the sinister green Transit in the scene,
I can't help wondering, about the shipment.

POND LIFE

It was a miserable damp morning. The sun backlit sodden trees. Birds
dribbled in the branches. A cat eyed the street through a window at
No. 52. At the top of the house Sheehy lay face down across his bed.
Beneath the window a dog with his legs in the air, sharp protrusion
pinkly pointing. Kids shouting woke him. He rolled over, staggered
over to the bed, nudged, until he heard a moan. Pointing, he came
closer. Sheehy opened one eye, 'Ah, Jesus, Charles,' he said,
closed the eye, moaned again, 'No,' he moaned, 'No.'

He got up, collected towels, glanced into the next room on his way to
the shower; there was a body on the sofa. When he came out of the shower
it was in his bedroom stealing his clothes. Sheehy said, 'Leave me a
clean shirt.' He went in to the sitting room, over to his desk, set just
so in the corner. Paper proliferated, plain, printed and palimpsest. A
humming PC lit up at his approach exposing a neat text, and he gazed at
it mystified. He reached up for a book, found a page, 'Yossarian,' he
whispered, 'Yossarian.' He sat down in despair. Just as he was about to
hold his head in his hands he felt a sinister presence behind him. A
sharp pain made him wince as he realized he hadn't fed the cat. Her
claws embedded in his shoulders, he went to the kitchen. The dog
Charles was already there, licking.

'Coffee's on,' Sheehy called.

The body appeared wearing his last ironed shirt. Sheehy carried in a
tray. Framed monochrome photographs of famous people from behind filled
the wall above the desk and in a glass fronted cabinet on one shelf a
collection of balls, miniature scoreboard fixed at 106 and 41, and sev-
eral gouged out blocks of chalk. On another shelf a jam of model motors
led by a green Defender mounting a white gloved policeman lying down 

on the job. The bottom shelf was stacked with magazines.

Charles came in, farted. Sheehy slung him out on his arse. 'Animal,' he
said. His brother sat drinking coffee, watching the dog in the garden.

'Shouldn't you give her a bell?'

'I don't think so, she never wants to speak to me, ever again.'

The phone rang.

'Hello? No, it's me, Michael, do you want ... ?' He listened. Hung up.
'She never wants to speak to you ever again,' he said, 'she's coming
over to see me and have a word.'

'She loves me,' Patrick said simply.

Michael went to the bedroom and dressed, returned, took Charles' lead
off its hook and stepped out through the open French doors. A blue car
drew up as they reached the gate. Michael gave the driver a kiss, 'You
all right?'

'All right?' She said, 'All right? How can I be all right when that ...
that ... '

'Bastard?'

'Selfish bastard doesn't ... doesn't ... I'm going to kill him ... this
is the last time.'

'Well, don't break any mugs, and mind my furniture.'

They left her to it and walked down the Sunday street. Not raining now,
the sun almost shone. Drying puddles reflected the tall houses and in
every third driveway a booted man washed a car. Kids biked about in
pairs, dogs exchanged smells, cats glared and round the corner came Mrs
Smallbone, back from mass, 'Risen from your sinful bed, Michael?'

'Good morning yourself.' Michael said.

The park was crowded with suburbanites pursuing leisure. There was a
round pond in the middle of a neat coppice. Fashionable fisher folk sat
on stools deploying expensive rods, thewhile ducks plopped into the
water from their conveniently located island hideaway. A man in green
bent to instruct a beautiful goldie and Charles sloped over and tried it
on with her, but no luck. The sun had burned off straggling clouds as
they walked over to the public tennis courts, where Larkin the skewbald
gazehound cross tried pissing on the wire fence.

"Every time," Michael thought. 'How are you Stan?'

'I never knew a dog so stupid.'

The dogs fell down together to rest while the two men stood in silence
as players ran around smiting mightily at balls. A blonde girl wearing
immaculate kit was thoroughly ogled. Her partner became more and more
annoyed as she trounced him. He had no style, no class, and no chance
after this and he knew it. She chased down a ball, crashed into the
fence in front of the onlookers, spraying sweat. She licked her lips
at them.

'Christ,' Stan said, 'Oh Christ, her legs ... they're ... they're ... '

'Glinting in the sunlight, a fine sheen of moisture accentuating the
muscles within, taut and hot to the touch?'

'Oh fuck me yes,' Stan said.

Larkin took another slash at the fence but no one cared any more.

 
'Later Stan,' Michael said.

When they got back to the house, the blue car was gone. There was a
note on his desk. He read it, screwed it up. In the kitchen he found
pizza and strawberry shortcake for lunch. He took the phone off the
hook, turned on the T.V. Brazil. The McLarens looked invincible, he
thought.

A BATRACHIAN AFFAIR.

It was a warm Autumn morning
As I wandered so carefree
Wading among the lilies
Of the pond when suddenly
I heard a voice, well, more
Of a croak really, and there
Cross legged on a flower, was
A tiny but beautiful princess,
'You got any linctus, pal?'
She said clutching her neck.
'That's some neck you got,'
I said, 'Talking to me when
'I'm wandering carefree here.'
'Listen,' she said, throwing
A glance over her shoulder,
'I'm really a gorgeous green
'Frog under all this tinsel.'
'Go on,' I said, 'Prove it.'
'Ya hafta kiss me first bigboy,'
She said, winking one huge eye.
Well, how many times have I
Heard that before, I sighed.
Still, she was kinda cute
For a midget and I puckered
Up, 'Close your eyes now.'
There was a fizzlepopping
Crackling snappling sound
And when I opened my eyes
She was gone, disappeared.
Boy, was I pissed, so near
And yet so far, I thought,
Imagining the sauce, but
It was all too late and I
Turned to go, when suddenly,
In the distance hopping
Away on long juicy legs,
I saw her, gorgeous green
Frog, 'Wait,' I cried out,
'Wait. Can't we be friends?'
Her voice came back so tender,
'Knee deep,' she said, 'Knee deep.'
And as I waded through the pond
I knew, dammit, she was right.

READING 


I spent all afternoon reading
In the rattan chair
With the arm rests that pull out.
No good for arms
But the fatter part of an open book
Angles there neatly
When you pause
To look out of the window.
I tempted the cat
With my warm corduroy lap
But he ignored me.
Sure it will never end
Our feud over her
Until one of us is dead
And it's him
I have my money on.
Whenever I went to the kitchen
To fill up with coffee
He sprang an eye
But he never moved else.
Well fuck him.
I sleep with her behind locked doors
And he can kiss my arse.
The November light began to fade.
In the skeleton trees
I could see birds arranging themselves
And I put away my book
The room in that glooming shadow
Artificial light spoils.
I stepped out
To "the stilly air of eventide"
And heard echoic rumbling
Familiar sound
Of the incoming Concorde
And there it was
Like a flat swan flying
In and out of cloud.
The telephone rang just then
And as I went back in
I could see his tail twitching
Brushing against the glass
Of my tropical aquarium.
It must be so uncomfortable for him
Lying on the hard surface
But it has the best view in the room.
I said we'd had a good day
Reading together
And yes I would meet her
At the Chantecler
And yes I had remembered to feed him.
Sure I said
He's looking at me now.

GIRL WITH UZI

I remember Ruth
Half of her was fat half was meat.
She liked Sundays
And in those days I was fast on my feet.
In and out of Mass
And running home with the papers
Couldn't wait to ink her arse.
We'd read the news all over the bed.
I knew she was going
Her eyes sad like that girl in the painting.
Often enough she called me
Made it easier to bear the waiting.
Out and about all day
I came home to find her farewell note.
She didn't know what to think.
The spare key glinted on the table.
I wanted to know
Why she chose to go to war.
She did her time
No one would have asked for more.
She knew my other friends at a distance.
Semites kill each other
And I thought it best in the circumstance
To keep them apart.
I never saw her again
But I found out why she went to fight.
It was written.
All my friends say she had a right.

THE MURDER FLAT

They were a quiet couple, the Palmers. If you saw them in the car park or in the lobby, they’d nod and hurry along, Mrs Palmer meek behind her husband, shopping clinking. He was average. Everything about him was average. She was ordinary. Nothing about her attracted a second glance. Although, sometimes, as she padded meekly behind Mr Palmer, you might notice a tightening of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes, and if you let yourself look down you might see her neat fists curled rigid, unpainted nails digging into palms. 

One evening, waiting for the lift with them, pleasantries exchanged, when it came I ushered them in ahead of me, my floor below theirs. As I moved forward to exit I happened to look in the mirror on one side of the lift and I saw Mrs Palmer staring with intense hatred, no other word to describe it, at her husband's back.

I couldn't speak. I waved and gave them a nod and a smile, neighbourly. 'Bloody hell,' I thought, 'That was scary.' I'd never seen a mark on Mrs Palmer, nothing to suggest physical abuse, but now I began to think about the way they must be in private. I was up at three that night down a rabbithole when I heard a heavy crunching sound. Couple of hours later the ambulance left. He had died in a sweaty, stinking stupor on top of her, we learned. Took her an hour to free herself, she said, and to call the emergency services. They had found him with his face buried in her pillow. The jury took ten minutes to send her home.