Read Online Wandering in Exile by Peter Murphy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Murphy
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send them from Canada.”
And before Mrs. Flanagan could unravel her story, Jacinta continued. “Let’s just have one more and we can chat a bit more.”
*
*
*
Danny was down on his knees all right, as he clung to the sides of the toilet bowl and hurled his insides out.
“Are you okay?” Billie called from the bedroom.
They’d been making love with wild, boozy, abandon when Danny got dizzy. At first, she seemed to think he was trying something new and bounced along on top of him. But soon he began to groan and sweat and rushed off before he threw up on the pair of them.
Every time he mixed hash and beer, it got the better of him.
“I’m fine,” he managed when he finally stopped retching and rose to splash cold water on his face. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He looked up at his reflection. His face was white and his eyes were red and bleary, but at least the bathroom had stopped spinning. He was so relieved at that he didn’t notice Anto standing in the corner of the mirror.
Fine me arse. You look fucked to me.
Danny shook his befuddled head. He had often heard the echoes of Anto’s voice in his nightmares while he flayed around in a distorted reliving of the night they shot Scully and the night they buried the dog. And the night Anto and the driver got theirs, but he had never actually seen him. He splashed more water on his face and looked again.
I’m still here and you’re still fucked.
Danny wanted to argue but he thought better of it. It was one thing to be seeing and hearing things, but it was another to answer them. He knew he couldn’t be having the DTs—he hadn’t been drinking that much, but he had been hitting the hash pretty hard.
Maybe he was having flashbacks. He heard about people having them and they were always bad.
Or maybe it was like all the stuff his granny used to go on about—the wages of sin and all that. Since that night in the mountains, every time he got stoned, it all came bubbling back up. He remembered his terror and the smell when he shit himself in the booth of the car.
And he remembered the shots—two, and then two more.
He hadn’t actually seen them die but when he replayed it in his mind, he saw every detail. Both of them falling and twitching until the second shots made them calm and disturbed a far-off dog in the quiet of the night.
He was still riddled with guilt like, somehow, it was all his fault, and no matter how much he dismissed it as his Catholic upbringing, he could never wipe that smear off.
At various times, when he was young and foolish and deep in trouble, he tried making a personal deal with Jesus—that he’d pray to him as God and they would forget about all the Church stuff. But, when the heat was off, he forgot about all his pleading and got on with his life. They all did. It was how everybody dealt with all the shit in their lives.
Denial, he’d often argue with himself when he was drunk or high, was the opiate of the masses. That and the false hope of forgiveness. Otherwise, when we’d really look at life, we’d all go off and commit hari-kari, or something.
He splashed more cold water on his face and wiped it with a towel, but when he looked up, Anto was still there. Anto-fuckin-Flanagan had come back from the bowels of hell like his own personal devil.
He had to be hallucinating and tried pinching himself but it didn’t make Anto disappear; it only made him smile.
I’m real, Boyle, so you better get used to having me around.
“Danny? Is everything okay?” Billie was standing on the other side of the door. He could hear her breathing heavily. She liked to go a little crazy whenever they made love.
“I’m fine, love. I’ll be out in minute.”
Love? Ya didn’t tell me you were in love, Boyle. And what happened to the Fallon one you were seeing before?
“Danny let me in, please?”
“Just a minute. I just got a bit sick but I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Y’er the last of the great romantics, Boyle. That girl
And before Mrs. Flanagan could unravel her story, Jacinta continued. “Let’s just have one more and we can chat a bit more.”
*
*
*
Danny was down on his knees all right, as he clung to the sides of the toilet bowl and hurled his insides out.
“Are you okay?” Billie called from the bedroom.
They’d been making love with wild, boozy, abandon when Danny got dizzy. At first, she seemed to think he was trying something new and bounced along on top of him. But soon he began to groan and sweat and rushed off before he threw up on the pair of them.
Every time he mixed hash and beer, it got the better of him.
“I’m fine,” he managed when he finally stopped retching and rose to splash cold water on his face. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He looked up at his reflection. His face was white and his eyes were red and bleary, but at least the bathroom had stopped spinning. He was so relieved at that he didn’t notice Anto standing in the corner of the mirror.
Fine me arse. You look fucked to me.
Danny shook his befuddled head. He had often heard the echoes of Anto’s voice in his nightmares while he flayed around in a distorted reliving of the night they shot Scully and the night they buried the dog. And the night Anto and the driver got theirs, but he had never actually seen him. He splashed more water on his face and looked again.
I’m still here and you’re still fucked.
Danny wanted to argue but he thought better of it. It was one thing to be seeing and hearing things, but it was another to answer them. He knew he couldn’t be having the DTs—he hadn’t been drinking that much, but he had been hitting the hash pretty hard.
Maybe he was having flashbacks. He heard about people having them and they were always bad.
Or maybe it was like all the stuff his granny used to go on about—the wages of sin and all that. Since that night in the mountains, every time he got stoned, it all came bubbling back up. He remembered his terror and the smell when he shit himself in the booth of the car.
And he remembered the shots—two, and then two more.
He hadn’t actually seen them die but when he replayed it in his mind, he saw every detail. Both of them falling and twitching until the second shots made them calm and disturbed a far-off dog in the quiet of the night.
He was still riddled with guilt like, somehow, it was all his fault, and no matter how much he dismissed it as his Catholic upbringing, he could never wipe that smear off.
At various times, when he was young and foolish and deep in trouble, he tried making a personal deal with Jesus—that he’d pray to him as God and they would forget about all the Church stuff. But, when the heat was off, he forgot about all his pleading and got on with his life. They all did. It was how everybody dealt with all the shit in their lives.
Denial, he’d often argue with himself when he was drunk or high, was the opiate of the masses. That and the false hope of forgiveness. Otherwise, when we’d really look at life, we’d all go off and commit hari-kari, or something.
He splashed more cold water on his face and wiped it with a towel, but when he looked up, Anto was still there. Anto-fuckin-Flanagan had come back from the bowels of hell like his own personal devil.
He had to be hallucinating and tried pinching himself but it didn’t make Anto disappear; it only made him smile.
I’m real, Boyle, so you better get used to having me around.
“Danny? Is everything okay?” Billie was standing on the other side of the door. He could hear her breathing heavily. She liked to go a little crazy whenever they made love.
“I’m fine, love. I’ll be out in minute.”
Love? Ya didn’t tell me you were in love, Boyle. And what happened to the Fallon one you were seeing before?
“Danny let me in, please?”
“Just a minute. I just got a bit sick but I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Y’er the last of the great romantics, Boyle. That girl
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