Read Online Cold Skin by Steven Herrick - Free Book Online Page A

can’t put up with this much longer.
    The organ’s grinding on,
    putting my teeth on edge,
    and the wife is crying by the bucketful.
    If the rain crashes harder
    I won’t have to hear this singing.
    Paley’s weasled his way into the front pew,
    wiping his pudgy face with a white handkerchief.
    I remember him on Friday,
    drunk and backslapping,
    offering the shout.
    I was outside under the sarsaparilla vine,
    watching him buying friends at the bar,
    until the girls came along
    and I turned my attention to them.
    The town prays to a God
    who takes young girls
    and welcomes the killer into his church.
    Believing,
    it ain’t worth a pinch of dust.
    There’s a trick I learnt in the army,
    on the parade ground
    listening to the drill sergeant bellowing insults.
    I stand straight and stare forward,
    close my mind to everything,
    feel my breathing steady
    and try to sleep, with my eyes open.
    I spent long days at the base camp
    working on doing nothing but this.
    It’s probably the only good thing I learnt,
    along with how to roll smokes with one hand
    and how to hate someone
    and never show it.

Mr Butcher
    Sergeant Grainger is up the back
    looking for a sign, a weakness.
    I dare not turn around to see him.
    I stare straight ahead at the statue of Mary,
    her immaculate heart,
    and think of what to do.
    But what I can’t get out of my mind
    is the sight of blonde hair
    through my fingers.
    I tighten with the memory.
    Of course!
    There’s my answer.
    I’ll pay for a mother.
    My blonde friend must have a mother,
    or an aunt,
    anyone who’ll be Mrs Butcher
    if someone rings.
    Simple.
    A few pounds for answering a phone call.
    I hope mother is like daughter,
    willing to provide a service.
    Anything to get rid of Grainger.
    It’s a waste of my wage though.
    The money would be better spent
    on soft warm silken pleasurable things.

Sally
    As we follow the procession out of the church
    I want to hold Eddie’s hand
    but my dad is watching,
    so I walk quietly beside him.
    I hear his sharp intake of breath
    as we see the rain falling on Colleen’s coffin.
    Mr O’Connor and some miners
    load the coffin into the wagon
    for the short trip
    around the corner to the cemetery.
    We all follow in the rain.
    Eddie opens an umbrella
    and holds it over my head,
    and instead of saying thanks,
    I look at his downcast eyes
    and say,
    ‘I love you.’
    It just came out.
    I looked into his eyes and saw love.
    I thought I saw love,
    so I mouthed the words.
    The rain tumbles down
    as we reach the old iron gates and file through.
    Eddie’s worth more than anything to me.
    So I’m glad I said it.

Eddie
    It’s like the first time we kissed
    beside the river
    and I fled as fast as my feet could take me.
    Only now,
    I’m holding an umbrella
    in a line of people.
    There’s no escape.
    I focus on the hearse up ahead
    and think of Colleen
    being lowered into the ground.
    I’m afraid of hearing
    the thump of dirt on her coffin,
    and her mother wailing
    while Mr O’Connor struggles
    to hold himself steady.
    Sally’s words dance, uninvited,
    inside my head.
    I move the umbrella closer to Sally,
    so I can feel the drops of rain
    on my face,
    cooling my skin
    and rolling down my cheeks.
    I feel too much.
    Let the rain wash it away.

Mr Carter
    As the rain drenches us all
    I close my eyes for a minute
    and pray for my Grace
    to be with the young girl
    and to tell her of our thoughts,
    our sorrow,
    and to forgive us.
    The Lord sends these things
    to test our spirit,
    and while we can’t make sense
    or understand why,
    we must believe and accept.
    Mr O’Brien leans heavily on his cane
    beside the grave.
    As we all start to leave,
    I touch his arm and say,
    ‘Can I walk with you, Bob?’
    He was a watchmaker,
    before the war, before his injury.
    His workshop next to my office
    rang with chimes and gongs,
    and I marvelled at his dexterity,
    his long fingers tinkering
    with the crowded workings
    of all manner of clocks and watches.
    We slowly file out of