Read Online Cold Eye of Heaven, The by Christine Dwyer Hickey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christine Dwyer Hickey
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every now and then, somebody leaves, somebody new comes along. Here and there he recognizes, or thinks he recognizes, a figure from the past; the sound of a voice, a profile smeared in the light from the hall. Relatives of Slowey, work colleagues, pub friends, court acquaintances. He knows that each one, at some point in theevening, will turn to another one, and, after checking first that no member of the immediate family is within earshot, ask, âSo whatâs the story with Farley then?â
He turns away from the house and walks up the back lane. A soft light shows in the den, the cast of another light across the back garden from an upstairs window. He wonders where Slowey is laid out and if heâs lying on a bed or already in a coffin on top of a table. And he imagines the shape of him lying there like some sort of a chieftain; long and large and quiet at last, and he wonders too what suit heâll be wearing and if he makes for a handsome corpse.
Farley takes the Mass card out of his pocket, holds it in his hand for a moment, then corner down, sticks it like a flag into the top of the back garden hedge.
He opens his front door. The silence sucks him in. He heels the door shut, unrolls the dry-cleaned suit and hangs it on the end of the stairs. Then he turns on the light and comes back to the door to bolt himself into his house. He opens the Cleryâs bag and removes the resoled shoe, then picks up its match from the floor and turns the shoes upside down. The two soles are a completely different colour. The new with its bright tan colour, the old a dark worn grey. After all that trouble. After all that day.
In the dim light of the hall he stands at the table before the smug, surly telephone. His reflection hangs above it in a gilt-edged frame. An old man, in a dark mirror. At what point, he wonders, does it become about fear? Fear of being caught talking to yourself, of pissing in your trousers, of pretending to remember a name, a place, a face you once knew well. Fear of getting done over by everyone out there; junkies, taxi men, youngfellas, kids. Fear of your own face in the mirror.
A clatter comes from the kitchen and now, instead of thinking about fear, heâs feeling it. It tears through his heart then burns all the way out to the ends of his fingers and toes. His bladder. A burglar â he must have left the little window open again. He glances at the front door and wonders ifhe has time to unchain and unbolt his way out. But he finds now itâs no longer a question of time, itâs a question of movement. And he canât move at all. The skewer goes through his head again, deftly inserting itself in as if itâs testing a joint of meat. Then twists and pulls out again, leaving a halo of blinding scintilla around his head.
So this is it. Farley closes his eyes and waits. Another sound, like a voice. And yet not a voice. He opens his eyes. The sound again and this time he recognizes the coy, needy miaow of a cat. Around the door a fat black body appears. One paw stretches, then another. The cat gives him a deep green blink. Then he sashays into the hall and stops at his feet. Farley leans on the table and waits for his heart to resume beating. Slowly he stoops and lifts the cat up in his arms before painfully bringing himself back into a standing position. He feels warmth, strength, frailty, life. The cat miaows again. He hugs it closer to him, nuzzling his nose into its fur. His eyes fill up, his heart gives a little. âO Shifty,â he says.
The Party
April 2000
FARLEY HANGS HIS COAT on the rack, smoothes down his suit, settles the bag of presents heâs bought by the wall. First to arrive. It occurs to him that this could well be the first time heâs ever been completely alone, if not in the office, then certainly in this building. Even those times when heâd worked into the night or come back after the pub had closed because he couldnât bear the thoughts
He turns away from the house and walks up the back lane. A soft light shows in the den, the cast of another light across the back garden from an upstairs window. He wonders where Slowey is laid out and if heâs lying on a bed or already in a coffin on top of a table. And he imagines the shape of him lying there like some sort of a chieftain; long and large and quiet at last, and he wonders too what suit heâll be wearing and if he makes for a handsome corpse.
Farley takes the Mass card out of his pocket, holds it in his hand for a moment, then corner down, sticks it like a flag into the top of the back garden hedge.
He opens his front door. The silence sucks him in. He heels the door shut, unrolls the dry-cleaned suit and hangs it on the end of the stairs. Then he turns on the light and comes back to the door to bolt himself into his house. He opens the Cleryâs bag and removes the resoled shoe, then picks up its match from the floor and turns the shoes upside down. The two soles are a completely different colour. The new with its bright tan colour, the old a dark worn grey. After all that trouble. After all that day.
In the dim light of the hall he stands at the table before the smug, surly telephone. His reflection hangs above it in a gilt-edged frame. An old man, in a dark mirror. At what point, he wonders, does it become about fear? Fear of being caught talking to yourself, of pissing in your trousers, of pretending to remember a name, a place, a face you once knew well. Fear of getting done over by everyone out there; junkies, taxi men, youngfellas, kids. Fear of your own face in the mirror.
A clatter comes from the kitchen and now, instead of thinking about fear, heâs feeling it. It tears through his heart then burns all the way out to the ends of his fingers and toes. His bladder. A burglar â he must have left the little window open again. He glances at the front door and wonders ifhe has time to unchain and unbolt his way out. But he finds now itâs no longer a question of time, itâs a question of movement. And he canât move at all. The skewer goes through his head again, deftly inserting itself in as if itâs testing a joint of meat. Then twists and pulls out again, leaving a halo of blinding scintilla around his head.
So this is it. Farley closes his eyes and waits. Another sound, like a voice. And yet not a voice. He opens his eyes. The sound again and this time he recognizes the coy, needy miaow of a cat. Around the door a fat black body appears. One paw stretches, then another. The cat gives him a deep green blink. Then he sashays into the hall and stops at his feet. Farley leans on the table and waits for his heart to resume beating. Slowly he stoops and lifts the cat up in his arms before painfully bringing himself back into a standing position. He feels warmth, strength, frailty, life. The cat miaows again. He hugs it closer to him, nuzzling his nose into its fur. His eyes fill up, his heart gives a little. âO Shifty,â he says.
The Party
April 2000
FARLEY HANGS HIS COAT on the rack, smoothes down his suit, settles the bag of presents heâs bought by the wall. First to arrive. It occurs to him that this could well be the first time heâs ever been completely alone, if not in the office, then certainly in this building. Even those times when heâd worked into the night or come back after the pub had closed because he couldnât bear the thoughts
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