catching up.
‘What gets me,’ I said sullensick, ‘is that all the time he was just using me.’
Jack laughed, a sound like the call of a preying night bird. ‘O, aye?’ he said.
‘Well, wasn’t he?’ I said, defiant.
‘Aye, I suppose he was.’
‘You know he was. He was planning it with you all along, from when we were in the pub at lunch time.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know all the details. But I knew the kind of thing it was likely to be.’
‘And you didn’t warn me.’
Jack said nothing; gazed at me in the moongloom.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘so he was your mate.’
‘And you were like a rabbit spelled by a fox. Even if I’d told you, you’d still have done what he wanted.’
He was right, I knew.
‘Maybe. But it was the way he used me that gets my gut.’
‘So he used you, Sunshine. What were you doing?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He used you, sure. But you must have been using him. And me an’all.’
Experience. It’s all experience
.
‘How do you know what I was doing?’
That bird of prey laugh again.
‘Because everybody is using everybody else all the time, kiddo. We’re all users. That’s what people
are
.’
Why did I laugh? For I did. And felt myself again. Almost refreshed, even if tired. Very tired.
‘You’re a cynic, Jack, you know that?’
‘I know I’m nowt of the sort. Now are you coming with me or not?’
It would have been another experience; but I could not. It was too much. Like everything else, it seems, you can have too much experience for one day.
‘No thanks, Jack, not tonight.’
‘I can promise you a good time.’
‘I’ll see you around, eh?’
‘I hope, bonny lad.’
‘What’ll you do now?’
‘Hang about Richmond for a day or two, just in case Robby . . . But he won’t. It’s done.’
‘And if it is?’
‘I’ll move on somewhere. Dunno where. Doesn’t matter. There’s always sommat wherever you go.’ That laugh again.
‘So long then.’
‘So long. Take care. Sunshine.’
He turned and walked away up the moonspeckled road, a slight figure in that chequered light, despite his bulk. His feet made no sound. He might have been a ghost.
When he was out of sight, I walked back down the lane towards the river and Robby’s car where I had left my pack. I thought of spending the night there, where we had sat earlier.
As I turned to go, there came from the Hodes’ house the sound of voices raised in argument. I could not make out what was being said, only the hard, brutal clash of anger. Nor could I distinguish son’s voice from father’s. They were as one sound, one voice, like a man battling against himself.
1 All right, all right, I admit it! I got this idea for telling my tale from
At Swim-Two-Birds
by Flann O’Brien (which I have been reading recently with, I might add, often puzzled pleasure). But then, to be fair, I expect he pinched it from somebody else. (Nothing is safe these days.) But from whom? James Joyce I’ll bet. I’ve discovered that almost all the interesting things contemporary writers do they get from his
Ulysses
. Which I have never managed to read beyond see here . (I’ve only tried twice, I confess. But Midge says everybody talks about
Ulysses
and how it is the greatest novel of the twentieth century but that few people have actually ever read it right through to the end. So I don’t feel
that
guilty. I’ve a few years left to try it again.) But working on the principle that there is nothing new in this world, where did Joyce get the idea from? I asked Midge. He said, ‘Good question. Probably from Duns Scotus, or one of those forgotten Jesuit theologians Joyce was brought up knowing about at his ghastly school. It sounds to me like the kind of way Jesuits would argue. But go and find out for yourself, lad. Why expect me to know and do all your work?’ Typical Midge!
THE LEAP
HOW TO SET this down? How to describe it? It happened to me, but not me. I was him, but not him. Haven’t you,
‘What gets me,’ I said sullensick, ‘is that all the time he was just using me.’
Jack laughed, a sound like the call of a preying night bird. ‘O, aye?’ he said.
‘Well, wasn’t he?’ I said, defiant.
‘Aye, I suppose he was.’
‘You know he was. He was planning it with you all along, from when we were in the pub at lunch time.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know all the details. But I knew the kind of thing it was likely to be.’
‘And you didn’t warn me.’
Jack said nothing; gazed at me in the moongloom.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘so he was your mate.’
‘And you were like a rabbit spelled by a fox. Even if I’d told you, you’d still have done what he wanted.’
He was right, I knew.
‘Maybe. But it was the way he used me that gets my gut.’
‘So he used you, Sunshine. What were you doing?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He used you, sure. But you must have been using him. And me an’all.’
Experience. It’s all experience
.
‘How do you know what I was doing?’
That bird of prey laugh again.
‘Because everybody is using everybody else all the time, kiddo. We’re all users. That’s what people
are
.’
Why did I laugh? For I did. And felt myself again. Almost refreshed, even if tired. Very tired.
‘You’re a cynic, Jack, you know that?’
‘I know I’m nowt of the sort. Now are you coming with me or not?’
It would have been another experience; but I could not. It was too much. Like everything else, it seems, you can have too much experience for one day.
‘No thanks, Jack, not tonight.’
‘I can promise you a good time.’
‘I’ll see you around, eh?’
‘I hope, bonny lad.’
‘What’ll you do now?’
‘Hang about Richmond for a day or two, just in case Robby . . . But he won’t. It’s done.’
‘And if it is?’
‘I’ll move on somewhere. Dunno where. Doesn’t matter. There’s always sommat wherever you go.’ That laugh again.
‘So long then.’
‘So long. Take care. Sunshine.’
He turned and walked away up the moonspeckled road, a slight figure in that chequered light, despite his bulk. His feet made no sound. He might have been a ghost.
When he was out of sight, I walked back down the lane towards the river and Robby’s car where I had left my pack. I thought of spending the night there, where we had sat earlier.
As I turned to go, there came from the Hodes’ house the sound of voices raised in argument. I could not make out what was being said, only the hard, brutal clash of anger. Nor could I distinguish son’s voice from father’s. They were as one sound, one voice, like a man battling against himself.
1 All right, all right, I admit it! I got this idea for telling my tale from
At Swim-Two-Birds
by Flann O’Brien (which I have been reading recently with, I might add, often puzzled pleasure). But then, to be fair, I expect he pinched it from somebody else. (Nothing is safe these days.) But from whom? James Joyce I’ll bet. I’ve discovered that almost all the interesting things contemporary writers do they get from his
Ulysses
. Which I have never managed to read beyond see here . (I’ve only tried twice, I confess. But Midge says everybody talks about
Ulysses
and how it is the greatest novel of the twentieth century but that few people have actually ever read it right through to the end. So I don’t feel
that
guilty. I’ve a few years left to try it again.) But working on the principle that there is nothing new in this world, where did Joyce get the idea from? I asked Midge. He said, ‘Good question. Probably from Duns Scotus, or one of those forgotten Jesuit theologians Joyce was brought up knowing about at his ghastly school. It sounds to me like the kind of way Jesuits would argue. But go and find out for yourself, lad. Why expect me to know and do all your work?’ Typical Midge!
THE LEAP
HOW TO SET this down? How to describe it? It happened to me, but not me. I was him, but not him. Haven’t you,
Similar Books
