John the Revelator by Peter Murphy

as if I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to see.
    â€˜Later,’ was all he’d say.
    Â 
    A harvest moon rose in the mackerel sky as I walked home, alcohol buzzing in my head like background radiation.
    My mother was sat at the kitchen table. Before her was a bottle of Powers, a glass and a Silk Cut Blue burning in the seashell ashtray. A tallow candle gouted in a saucer, its aquarium light playing across her face.
    â€˜Your dinner’s in the oven,’ she said, her speech slow and deliberate. I hung my jacket on the back of a chair.
    â€˜You all right?’
    Something flickered in her eyes. I couldn’t read its meaning. She rubbed her face.
    â€˜I was at the doctor’s for a check-up.’
    â€˜How’d that go?’
    She looked away.
    â€˜The usual. Give up the fags. Eat more fruit.’
    I dipped my chin, indicating the bottle.
    â€˜Thought you were a Pioneer.’
    â€˜I was. I recovered.’
    She took a mouthful from her glass and coughed.
    â€˜Have one with me, why don’t you?’
    Her chair scraped the floor as she got up and took a glass from the draining board and tipped whiskey into it. She placed the drink before me like a dare.
    â€˜Go on,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me you never broke your pledge. I can smell the beer off you from here.’
    I accepted the glass and took a sip, aware of her eyes on me. Uncharted territory. Whiskey burned all the way down to my stomach. She offered me one of her cigarettes. Again I wavered.
    â€˜Oh take one ower that,’ she snapped. ‘And sit down for heaven’s sake. You’re making me nervous standing there.’
    I held my hair back from the candle’s flame and lit the cigarette. My mother gazed out the window and contemplated whatever was out there for a few moments. When she spoke again her voice had softened.
    â€˜I was just thinking about when I first went travelling.’
    I took a chair and sipped the whiskey. I liked the warm feeling in my stomach, harsh but somewhat comforting. Candle shadows threw ju-jitsu shapes on the walls.
    â€˜Where?’ I said.
    â€˜England. Scotland. I was following a man.’
    I looked at the table, a bit embarrassed. She took a drag of smoke and chortled through her nose.
    â€˜A musician, of all things,’ She shook her head, close to smiling. ‘We met at one of the demonstrations they used to have at Ballo harbour when they were going to build a power plant or something down there. It was a kind of festival.’
    The way she spoke was like I wasn’t there. She gazed out at the dim shadows of the trees.
    â€˜His band was camped out down the prom that night,’ she said. ‘They sat up all hours round a fire playing music like a bunch of gypos. I stayed listening until the sun came up. I got into trouble for being out so late, but I didn’t care. I was a grown woman. My brothers left me to stop home and mind our mother and father, like an old spinster. But that night put a longing on me. There must have been a bit of tinker in my blood. The night before they were due to go back to England, they asked me to come away with them. I said I would. I’d never been out of the county in my life.’
    â€˜And did you?’
    â€˜I did, faith.’
    She looked at the window again, as if reading something in the condensation there.
    â€˜We travelled all over England that summer. When we had a bit of money we stayed in B&Bs. If we were stuck, we’d all bunk down in the van, sleeping on big squares of foam rubber. Or if the weather was fine, we camped out.’
    She paused to lift the bottle and top up our glasses, dribbling some on the table. She wiped the spillage with the sleeve of her cardigan.
    â€˜They were some crowd, all right. Only young lads. The curse of being happy, John, is you never realise it at the time. As soon as you do, it’s over.’
    She swirled the glass, as though trying to