Peter?
What, sir?
When you pulled me out. I have no memory of it.
Arrah, Barnabas.
I canny stop thinking about it. That I might as well have been dead. His voice trailed off. I’m wondering if that is what it was like for Matthew Peoples. Quick, like.
McDaid chugged on his cigarette and blew it out good and messy. He began to pull up his vest and revealed over his hip a scar with a star-shape. When I was fifteen I got gored by a dunty bull. Knocked me clean into another field. One minute I was awake hearing some vague shouting not wondering that all the blather was directed at me and then the next minute I wasn’t.Out like a lamp. When I came to I was in a kitchen. The great black in between, Barnabas, and I reckon that’s the way of it. One minute you’re here and the other you’re not and you won’t know nothing of it. That, at least, is what I hope.
Barnabas mussed the air with smoke. It’s strange all right. When they carried you to the kitchen you might as well have been dead for all you remember of it. The thing is, when you took me out of that fire, Peter, there was a minute there where I was a fucking ragdoll too. That’s what I canny stop thinking about. That I was half dead and now I am not but I did not know it. That I had no knowledge of it. I cannot decide if that should be a comfort. That I’ve had some experience of what dying might be like.
McDaid snorted smoke out his nose. Fuckin bog philosopher, he said. You weren’t a ragdoll. You were a heavy-arsed cunt that nearly broke me back and you were still breathing when I had ye. And you’re the same heavy-arsed cunt now, just look at ye. He winced on his fag and took a deep last drag and flicked it into the pit.
At the far side of the field the corpse of one cow remained and they let the horse wander as they walked towards it. The carcass lay as if dropped by the jaws of some darkling tide. McDaid looped the rope around the shanks and Barnabas went for the horse that stood hinged upon herself to nuzzle at her flanks. When they had dragged the last carcass into the pit each man took his shovel to the earth that sat in two high mounds either side of it. The dead animals all in a stinking limb sprawl that hurt the eyes to see it and Barnabas had to turn away, stare towards the trees, the swaying yellow of distant whin, a cloud shape over the hills a mutant triangular fish. He drove the shovel into the earth, sent the dark dust down on top of the animals.When the pit was filled and the ground heaped over, that lemon sun had swung low for the afternoon. McDaid stood over the pit smiling and began to make the sign of the cross.
In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti
.
Amen to that.
They began across the field to the horse and Barnabas spoke. Don’t you think it strange, Peter? That somebody someday will be lifting you about. In my case, Eskra. Washing my body. Dressing me for a funeral. Combing my hair. Putting me in a wooden box. Carting me about the place then on a carriage horse and me having no say in it. You know, he said, because of what you did, whenever it is my time to go, Eskra can hold me and wash me. That’s something I canny say for Matthew Peoples.
The men were silent. Barnabas looked up through the trees towards the tapered field and saw in his memory Matthew Peoples standing in it, the man’s big-boned shuffle. The slow blink of his eyelids. He began to roll another two cigarettes but McDaid put up his hand to say he’d had enough and Barnabas continued with just the one and smoked it. As he did so a blackbird swung down and hitched a ride on the horse. It paraded its amber beak as if it had dipped to drink in a Christmas orange and what it drank filled its eyes with rings of coloured juice. The watching carrion birds had scattered and Barnabas looked up and saw two rooks linger on the wall talking noisily till both of them agreed on some point of conversation and took off. The horse turned and the way the sun’s shadow
What, sir?
When you pulled me out. I have no memory of it.
Arrah, Barnabas.
I canny stop thinking about it. That I might as well have been dead. His voice trailed off. I’m wondering if that is what it was like for Matthew Peoples. Quick, like.
McDaid chugged on his cigarette and blew it out good and messy. He began to pull up his vest and revealed over his hip a scar with a star-shape. When I was fifteen I got gored by a dunty bull. Knocked me clean into another field. One minute I was awake hearing some vague shouting not wondering that all the blather was directed at me and then the next minute I wasn’t.Out like a lamp. When I came to I was in a kitchen. The great black in between, Barnabas, and I reckon that’s the way of it. One minute you’re here and the other you’re not and you won’t know nothing of it. That, at least, is what I hope.
Barnabas mussed the air with smoke. It’s strange all right. When they carried you to the kitchen you might as well have been dead for all you remember of it. The thing is, when you took me out of that fire, Peter, there was a minute there where I was a fucking ragdoll too. That’s what I canny stop thinking about. That I was half dead and now I am not but I did not know it. That I had no knowledge of it. I cannot decide if that should be a comfort. That I’ve had some experience of what dying might be like.
McDaid snorted smoke out his nose. Fuckin bog philosopher, he said. You weren’t a ragdoll. You were a heavy-arsed cunt that nearly broke me back and you were still breathing when I had ye. And you’re the same heavy-arsed cunt now, just look at ye. He winced on his fag and took a deep last drag and flicked it into the pit.
At the far side of the field the corpse of one cow remained and they let the horse wander as they walked towards it. The carcass lay as if dropped by the jaws of some darkling tide. McDaid looped the rope around the shanks and Barnabas went for the horse that stood hinged upon herself to nuzzle at her flanks. When they had dragged the last carcass into the pit each man took his shovel to the earth that sat in two high mounds either side of it. The dead animals all in a stinking limb sprawl that hurt the eyes to see it and Barnabas had to turn away, stare towards the trees, the swaying yellow of distant whin, a cloud shape over the hills a mutant triangular fish. He drove the shovel into the earth, sent the dark dust down on top of the animals.When the pit was filled and the ground heaped over, that lemon sun had swung low for the afternoon. McDaid stood over the pit smiling and began to make the sign of the cross.
In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti
.
Amen to that.
They began across the field to the horse and Barnabas spoke. Don’t you think it strange, Peter? That somebody someday will be lifting you about. In my case, Eskra. Washing my body. Dressing me for a funeral. Combing my hair. Putting me in a wooden box. Carting me about the place then on a carriage horse and me having no say in it. You know, he said, because of what you did, whenever it is my time to go, Eskra can hold me and wash me. That’s something I canny say for Matthew Peoples.
The men were silent. Barnabas looked up through the trees towards the tapered field and saw in his memory Matthew Peoples standing in it, the man’s big-boned shuffle. The slow blink of his eyelids. He began to roll another two cigarettes but McDaid put up his hand to say he’d had enough and Barnabas continued with just the one and smoked it. As he did so a blackbird swung down and hitched a ride on the horse. It paraded its amber beak as if it had dipped to drink in a Christmas orange and what it drank filled its eyes with rings of coloured juice. The watching carrion birds had scattered and Barnabas looked up and saw two rooks linger on the wall talking noisily till both of them agreed on some point of conversation and took off. The horse turned and the way the sun’s shadow
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