having finished the thing.
An irrational impulse impelled me to telephone Catherine, who was living in Rathfarnham now, to tell her about the horrific
article. It was as though I felt it might elevate me in her eyes.
I became embarrassed then when I reflected on that thought, just standing blankly there on the landing, abstractedly clutching
the Bakelite receiver.
I had a few drinks that Sunday, then went back to the bedsit when my money ran out. I'll never forget that day as long as
I live. All I remember is standing there on the landing sensing instantly that something was wrong. The sodden smell began
filling up my nostrils - the familiar choking odour of Olson's book The Heart's Enchantment. I dropped the keys and froze to the marrow when I heard his voice, the softest of whispers. I turned then and saw him, his
heavy frame suffused with a pallid spectral light, standing there smoking in the embrasure of the window, staring blankly
out across the city. He lowered the cigarette slowly and faced me, his lip curling with unmistakable disdain.
—You were going to phone her, weren't you? he sneered.
Then he did the oddest thing: smiled in a warm and affectionate way, as he opened his hand, revealing a small bar of chocolate.
He extended his hand, offering it to me.
—I always like to bring a bar, he whispered mockingly, snapping off a square. Pushing it between his lips as he said:
—You've made a big mistake, Redmond. You just don't realise yet how big.
A few pieces of silver tinfoil fluttered to the floor as he drew in his breath and sucked his teeth in a parody of regret.
—It really is lovely, Redmond. You ought to have had some. You will though, you will one day.
I couldn't bear it. I wanted him to go. I was even prepared to abjectly plead:
—Please, Ned!
But when I looked again, he was gone and it was as though he had never been there. There was nothing but the curtain, blowing
ever so gently.
Just wavering there in the gentle night breeze, as the last faint wisps of the smoke wafted out into the moonlight, breaking
up somewhere across the night city sky.
Whenever I'm walking by the canal, I'll often think of that night and just how debilitating, how emotionally draining it had
been. It had affected me so deeply, not just for days afterwards but weeks, as I reproached myself constantly for my humiliating
lack of resolve. The words 'Please, Ned!' returned to plague me - despite the fact that the occurrence was nothing more than
a manifestation of my internal difficulties. I vowed never to return to that bedsit. I left without giving any notification,
abandoning most of my possessions, apart from my 'folklore' papers regarding Ned.
I was fortunate enough to find a cheap place in a gentlemen's hostel, some miles away, across the river in Drumcondra. I know
it seems rash but I never regretted it. It allowed me some space and some time in which to think. In retrospect, I think it
was wise. Essential, even. There was nothing else I could realistically have done.
It's nothing to worry about, I'd persuade myself, such irrational perceptions are common, even predictable, in times of emotional
turmoil. I'd persuade myself: It's just a symptom.
I couldn't afford for it to be anything else.
My lodgings as it turned out were streets ahead of the place in Portobello - bright and airy and, in fact, considerably cheaper.
It was inconceivable to me that my previously highly strung state could possibly persist in surroundings which were so unthreatening
and congenial and suited to my needs. That was how it, unquestionably, seemed. At last, I felt, I'd made a worthwhile decision.
Which is why, some nights later, I could have cried when I awoke with a start. The smell was in the room again - the very
same damp and sickening smell. He raised the stogie slowly to his lips, standing there watching me at the end of the bed.
—Red, he whispered, I've come to ask you something. Do
An irrational impulse impelled me to telephone Catherine, who was living in Rathfarnham now, to tell her about the horrific
article. It was as though I felt it might elevate me in her eyes.
I became embarrassed then when I reflected on that thought, just standing blankly there on the landing, abstractedly clutching
the Bakelite receiver.
I had a few drinks that Sunday, then went back to the bedsit when my money ran out. I'll never forget that day as long as
I live. All I remember is standing there on the landing sensing instantly that something was wrong. The sodden smell began
filling up my nostrils - the familiar choking odour of Olson's book The Heart's Enchantment. I dropped the keys and froze to the marrow when I heard his voice, the softest of whispers. I turned then and saw him, his
heavy frame suffused with a pallid spectral light, standing there smoking in the embrasure of the window, staring blankly
out across the city. He lowered the cigarette slowly and faced me, his lip curling with unmistakable disdain.
—You were going to phone her, weren't you? he sneered.
Then he did the oddest thing: smiled in a warm and affectionate way, as he opened his hand, revealing a small bar of chocolate.
He extended his hand, offering it to me.
—I always like to bring a bar, he whispered mockingly, snapping off a square. Pushing it between his lips as he said:
—You've made a big mistake, Redmond. You just don't realise yet how big.
A few pieces of silver tinfoil fluttered to the floor as he drew in his breath and sucked his teeth in a parody of regret.
—It really is lovely, Redmond. You ought to have had some. You will though, you will one day.
I couldn't bear it. I wanted him to go. I was even prepared to abjectly plead:
—Please, Ned!
But when I looked again, he was gone and it was as though he had never been there. There was nothing but the curtain, blowing
ever so gently.
Just wavering there in the gentle night breeze, as the last faint wisps of the smoke wafted out into the moonlight, breaking
up somewhere across the night city sky.
Whenever I'm walking by the canal, I'll often think of that night and just how debilitating, how emotionally draining it had
been. It had affected me so deeply, not just for days afterwards but weeks, as I reproached myself constantly for my humiliating
lack of resolve. The words 'Please, Ned!' returned to plague me - despite the fact that the occurrence was nothing more than
a manifestation of my internal difficulties. I vowed never to return to that bedsit. I left without giving any notification,
abandoning most of my possessions, apart from my 'folklore' papers regarding Ned.
I was fortunate enough to find a cheap place in a gentlemen's hostel, some miles away, across the river in Drumcondra. I know
it seems rash but I never regretted it. It allowed me some space and some time in which to think. In retrospect, I think it
was wise. Essential, even. There was nothing else I could realistically have done.
It's nothing to worry about, I'd persuade myself, such irrational perceptions are common, even predictable, in times of emotional
turmoil. I'd persuade myself: It's just a symptom.
I couldn't afford for it to be anything else.
My lodgings as it turned out were streets ahead of the place in Portobello - bright and airy and, in fact, considerably cheaper.
It was inconceivable to me that my previously highly strung state could possibly persist in surroundings which were so unthreatening
and congenial and suited to my needs. That was how it, unquestionably, seemed. At last, I felt, I'd made a worthwhile decision.
Which is why, some nights later, I could have cried when I awoke with a start. The smell was in the room again - the very
same damp and sickening smell. He raised the stogie slowly to his lips, standing there watching me at the end of the bed.
—Red, he whispered, I've come to ask you something. Do
Similar Books
Shaman
Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Midnight in Berlin
James MacManus
The Clan MacDougall Series
Suzan Tisdale
Long Shot
Cindy Jefferies
When Lightning Strikes
Brenda Novak
Thirst for Love
Yukio Mishima
Last Day on Earth
David Vann
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men
Snorri Kristjansson
The Diabolical Conspiracy
Bryan Smith
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr)
Michael Fowler