he’s in a fat phase and bevvied and he’s headed for the last train at Central station and he bounces off every shop window—a staggering John—and he stumbles and falls into a doorway—Cripps department store—and the sky above the rooftops shows the woozy stars and he heaves and pukes and laughs like a dog as he wipes the sick away and weeps.
He opens his eyes.
The sky rolls out and moves.
He is left to his own private woes and the weaving of his miseries—he’s an expert. Cornelius discreetly averts as John looks out and away, across the islands and the bay, and the boat dips and rises, and the engine judders, and the knuckle of the holy mountain jabs at the sky and the tiny islands are thrown about in all directions. He picks up a piece of dark wood like a baton and turns it—the way it feels snug and murderous in his hand.
The priest, Cornelius says.
For killing the fishies.
Or anything else might come at you.
Everywhere he looks there is another island but not his. All are familiar but none just right—
Well? says Cornelius.
No.
—because maybe the rocks are thrown about wrong or the way a hill runs at the sky is off. They pass another island and he sees a fast blur against the grey of the rocks and the movement is a quickness, a shiver, a silvering of the blood: the hare. They move farther out and the wind comes harder and in whippety slaps and he tunes into the slow boom and drift. The boat draws a curve around the tip of an island and comes on an open stretch of water. Across the colours of the bay they move and the way that his mood has lifted—now he’s beaming and in tremendous good heart, it must have been the hare. He is coming close in.
This feels right.
But in the near distance another boat moves on the water, and draws closer, and there are dark figures in a blur, crouching.
I can see lenses.
Down, John.
He lies flat to the boards of the boat.
Fuckers. Stay down, John.
Cornelius works slowly to turn the boat—it drifts again.
Stay down.
He lies hardly breathing on the boards of the boat.
There’s only one thing for it.
Yeah?
We’ll have to go and see our friends on Achill.
———
Paranoia drifts in white smoke across the sky.
The boat moves.
And here’s Cornelius—
his back to the May sun,
his face dark in shade,
his voice hoarse with soft cajole.
We should have headed here in the first place, John. There are no two ways about it. The Amethyst Hotel would be the very best place for you to wait out the assault.
The fucking where?
The Amethyst, John. On Achill.
Amethyst again? What the fuck is the Amethyst?
Sweet Joe’s place.
Who the fuck is Sweet fucking Joe?
Now on Achill Island generally, John, you’ll find the people are mean-spirited and small-minded and very aggressive. Tough nuggety foreheads on them. Hard lines to their faces. Tight little mouths. But of course this is no surprise in the wide earthly world…
He spits.
…because they’ve been jawing rocks at the side of the fucken road since the Lord Jesus was a bare-arsed child. We’ll have nothing whatsoever to do with the Achill people, John. That’s a promise to you and faithful. But the people where we’re headed are not Achill by the blood. No indeed. They are your own kind.
The boards of the boat groan and sing.
The cliffs of Achill rise up ahead.
Paranoia races its squadron gulls.
Who exactly are these people, Cornelius?
The people, he says, who have taken over the Amethyst Hotel.
Something odd, something familiar—Amethyst?
———
Cornelius works the boat between the rocks. The motor cuts; the boat is tied off. He is helped from the boat by a great knuckly paw. Which makes him feel lady-like and fey and just shy the parasol. They come from the water and climb. They walk an old track hemmed in by singing hedges in the breeze. The feeling near and near-abouts is medieval. The growth everywhere is very fucking alive—it makes a sore pulsing in his throat. On Achill
He opens his eyes.
The sky rolls out and moves.
He is left to his own private woes and the weaving of his miseries—he’s an expert. Cornelius discreetly averts as John looks out and away, across the islands and the bay, and the boat dips and rises, and the engine judders, and the knuckle of the holy mountain jabs at the sky and the tiny islands are thrown about in all directions. He picks up a piece of dark wood like a baton and turns it—the way it feels snug and murderous in his hand.
The priest, Cornelius says.
For killing the fishies.
Or anything else might come at you.
Everywhere he looks there is another island but not his. All are familiar but none just right—
Well? says Cornelius.
No.
—because maybe the rocks are thrown about wrong or the way a hill runs at the sky is off. They pass another island and he sees a fast blur against the grey of the rocks and the movement is a quickness, a shiver, a silvering of the blood: the hare. They move farther out and the wind comes harder and in whippety slaps and he tunes into the slow boom and drift. The boat draws a curve around the tip of an island and comes on an open stretch of water. Across the colours of the bay they move and the way that his mood has lifted—now he’s beaming and in tremendous good heart, it must have been the hare. He is coming close in.
This feels right.
But in the near distance another boat moves on the water, and draws closer, and there are dark figures in a blur, crouching.
I can see lenses.
Down, John.
He lies flat to the boards of the boat.
Fuckers. Stay down, John.
Cornelius works slowly to turn the boat—it drifts again.
Stay down.
He lies hardly breathing on the boards of the boat.
There’s only one thing for it.
Yeah?
We’ll have to go and see our friends on Achill.
———
Paranoia drifts in white smoke across the sky.
The boat moves.
And here’s Cornelius—
his back to the May sun,
his face dark in shade,
his voice hoarse with soft cajole.
We should have headed here in the first place, John. There are no two ways about it. The Amethyst Hotel would be the very best place for you to wait out the assault.
The fucking where?
The Amethyst, John. On Achill.
Amethyst again? What the fuck is the Amethyst?
Sweet Joe’s place.
Who the fuck is Sweet fucking Joe?
Now on Achill Island generally, John, you’ll find the people are mean-spirited and small-minded and very aggressive. Tough nuggety foreheads on them. Hard lines to their faces. Tight little mouths. But of course this is no surprise in the wide earthly world…
He spits.
…because they’ve been jawing rocks at the side of the fucken road since the Lord Jesus was a bare-arsed child. We’ll have nothing whatsoever to do with the Achill people, John. That’s a promise to you and faithful. But the people where we’re headed are not Achill by the blood. No indeed. They are your own kind.
The boards of the boat groan and sing.
The cliffs of Achill rise up ahead.
Paranoia races its squadron gulls.
Who exactly are these people, Cornelius?
The people, he says, who have taken over the Amethyst Hotel.
Something odd, something familiar—Amethyst?
———
Cornelius works the boat between the rocks. The motor cuts; the boat is tied off. He is helped from the boat by a great knuckly paw. Which makes him feel lady-like and fey and just shy the parasol. They come from the water and climb. They walk an old track hemmed in by singing hedges in the breeze. The feeling near and near-abouts is medieval. The growth everywhere is very fucking alive—it makes a sore pulsing in his throat. On Achill
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