Brondesbury near his sister Kathleen’s. It was nearly six when he got there. He walked along the concrete path and up the two concrete steps and rang at the door.
Kathleen had just come in from work and her husband had just gone off to work. Before he went, he had told her that her brother Diarmit had been on the phone, on the scrounge too by the sound of it, no work, on the dole, and hadn’t they had enough of her family, for God’s sake? Kathleen didn’t know what to do. She was tired, she was pregnant, and they hadn’t got a spare room anyway. And everyone knew what Diarmit was, going to Mary for a fortnight and stopping three years. He had been funny ever since that bomb.
For all that, she meant to have him in, she meant to talk to him and explain. It was the sight of him and the stink of him that unnerved her. He looked as if he hadn’t had a wash for a month and he smelt of old vegetables. Dressed in dirty dark red, his face pale like clay, a carrier bag over one arm and the other hand stretched out towards her waving a paper, he frightened her so much that she stood there staring and quivering for a moment in silence. She smelled his smell and the heartburn she had came up and scalded her throat. She pushed the door and shut it in his face and leaned against it, breathing hard.
Diarmit knew she had not seen him because he did not exist anymore. He had had that feeling before, that he did not exist, after the bomb in Belfast. But since then he had recovered his being more or less consistently, only occasionally had he doubted that he was there. Now he knew for certain he had become invisible and inaudible, no one could see or hear him and it had been going on at that level ever since the morning when he went hunting round Sainsbury’s for the butchery department. They had tried to take away his existence so that they wouldn’t have to give him a job, and they had succeeded if Kathleen couldn’t see him, if his own sister didn’t know him.
And now, as once previously, he was aware of how large the things of the world were. He felt very small. Most people, even children, were much bigger than him, buses and cars were enormous, seeking to mow him down, roaring at him, as he crossed Kilburn High Road. It was useless to attempt to go back by train. The man would not hear him ask for a ticket, even supposing he were tall enough to reach the ticket window. He would walk. Though it was a long way, six or seven miles, on this fine sunny evening he would walk. He felt the hard sharp edges of his knives through the green plastic and they comforted him. With them he would defend himself if the big people, not seeing or hearing him, tried to trample him underfoot.
Up in his room, Conal Moore’s room, he felt safer. He was like an insect, safe in its cranny in the wall but in peril when it has to run across the floor. An insect can sting feet with the knives in its belly. Diarmit held the Harrods bag close against him as he climbed the stairs.
Two people came running down from the top, laughing, making a noise. He flattened himself against the wall so that they should not bowl him over and sweep him down as they passed. Inside the room it was better. He made a pot of tea, he slept. But after that he began to feel besieged and threatened. He felt that his life was in danger; what ego he still had, which he knew he had but which the others, the Conal Moores and the supermarket people, discounted, that was in danger. During the day he was aware that the house emptied, it was a hive only by night. He went down listening outside doors for sounds of life within. It was entirely silent but for music coming from behind one door.
The Dalmatian and the mongrel collie ran about the green, scavenging from litter bins. They looked very large to Diarmit even from this distance. Next to Mount Pleasant Hall they were pulling down a row of old houses and the air was yellow and thick with plaster dust. Next they would pull this one
Kathleen had just come in from work and her husband had just gone off to work. Before he went, he had told her that her brother Diarmit had been on the phone, on the scrounge too by the sound of it, no work, on the dole, and hadn’t they had enough of her family, for God’s sake? Kathleen didn’t know what to do. She was tired, she was pregnant, and they hadn’t got a spare room anyway. And everyone knew what Diarmit was, going to Mary for a fortnight and stopping three years. He had been funny ever since that bomb.
For all that, she meant to have him in, she meant to talk to him and explain. It was the sight of him and the stink of him that unnerved her. He looked as if he hadn’t had a wash for a month and he smelt of old vegetables. Dressed in dirty dark red, his face pale like clay, a carrier bag over one arm and the other hand stretched out towards her waving a paper, he frightened her so much that she stood there staring and quivering for a moment in silence. She smelled his smell and the heartburn she had came up and scalded her throat. She pushed the door and shut it in his face and leaned against it, breathing hard.
Diarmit knew she had not seen him because he did not exist anymore. He had had that feeling before, that he did not exist, after the bomb in Belfast. But since then he had recovered his being more or less consistently, only occasionally had he doubted that he was there. Now he knew for certain he had become invisible and inaudible, no one could see or hear him and it had been going on at that level ever since the morning when he went hunting round Sainsbury’s for the butchery department. They had tried to take away his existence so that they wouldn’t have to give him a job, and they had succeeded if Kathleen couldn’t see him, if his own sister didn’t know him.
And now, as once previously, he was aware of how large the things of the world were. He felt very small. Most people, even children, were much bigger than him, buses and cars were enormous, seeking to mow him down, roaring at him, as he crossed Kilburn High Road. It was useless to attempt to go back by train. The man would not hear him ask for a ticket, even supposing he were tall enough to reach the ticket window. He would walk. Though it was a long way, six or seven miles, on this fine sunny evening he would walk. He felt the hard sharp edges of his knives through the green plastic and they comforted him. With them he would defend himself if the big people, not seeing or hearing him, tried to trample him underfoot.
Up in his room, Conal Moore’s room, he felt safer. He was like an insect, safe in its cranny in the wall but in peril when it has to run across the floor. An insect can sting feet with the knives in its belly. Diarmit held the Harrods bag close against him as he climbed the stairs.
Two people came running down from the top, laughing, making a noise. He flattened himself against the wall so that they should not bowl him over and sweep him down as they passed. Inside the room it was better. He made a pot of tea, he slept. But after that he began to feel besieged and threatened. He felt that his life was in danger; what ego he still had, which he knew he had but which the others, the Conal Moores and the supermarket people, discounted, that was in danger. During the day he was aware that the house emptied, it was a hive only by night. He went down listening outside doors for sounds of life within. It was entirely silent but for music coming from behind one door.
The Dalmatian and the mongrel collie ran about the green, scavenging from litter bins. They looked very large to Diarmit even from this distance. Next to Mount Pleasant Hall they were pulling down a row of old houses and the air was yellow and thick with plaster dust. Next they would pull this one
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