Chapter 15

Back at the flat Monday evening changing his clothes.

Place seems empty without her somehow.

Though she was only here a few weeks.

Homely feeling produced by the proliferation of her things, brought with her from the station or collected later from Janine, her jacket on the hook, shoes, and the smell of hair conditioner, deodorant.

Dishes piled in the sink.

Now in her absence the flat is clean again and sterile and at the same time dingier, like a hospital waiting room.

Reminds him how much he's always hated the place.

The ugly furniture, glass dining table, Jesus Christ.

Friday morning in bed he told her that he loved her and she cried.

Naomi crying over him, yes.

Final gruesome victory in a game he should never have played.

What he wanted after all, to defeat her, ruin her life.

In retaliation for what, making a fool of him.

Making him like her so much.

Whole thing in horribly poor taste, he thinks.

Start to finish.

She'll be alright at least.

Survival instinct.

Checking out the house in Kildare, nice bathtub, presume I can smoke in the garden.

She'll be alright, she'll be fine.

She's a carnivore.

Back home that night he took another two milligrams and went to sleep with the lights on.

Dreamed of nothing.

Up early Saturday morning he tidied, hoovered, washed the sheets, made from unthinking habit too much coffee, and sat at the dining table to call Sylvia.

Took her some time to pick up, hello, and he asked if he could see her.

Oh, she said.

I'm at home for the weekend.

Is everything okay? At home, in Waterford, of course.

Everything's fine, he said.

How are you feeling? She said she felt much better.

Thank you for the other day, she added.

I told my parents you took very good care of me.

I mean— Sorry, obviously I didn't go into detail.

They were both laughing then, awkwardly, and he said that was alright.

They talked a little longer.

Medicinal effect of her voice, her intelligence.

She asked if he wanted to say hello to her mother and he said sure.

Doors opening and closing then and Miriam's voice on the phone saying: Hello there, Peter.

How are you keeping? Tired, still sitting at the dining table, he closed his eyes.

Hi Miriam, he said.

I'm alright, thank you.

How are you and Joe getting on? Behind his closed eyes he could see their kitchen, with the low ceiling, the painted cabinet doors, and Miriam in her dressing-gown with her glasses pushed back into her hair.

All well here, she said.

We're thinking of you, of course.

And your lovely dad, God rest him.

Sore his eyes and hot he felt.

Thank you, he said.

You're very kind.

They talked for a little longer, exchanging good wishes, and she passed the phone back to Sylvia.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Listen, he said then, I love you, alright? Let's see each other soon, if we can.

Quietly and without hesitation she answered: How about Monday afternoon? I'll be home after four if you want to come over.

They hung up and he made some breakfast, scrambled eggs, bacon, finding himself surprisingly hungry, a third and fourth slice of buttered toast.

Coming up on quarter past now.

Puts his coat on and takes his umbrella from the stand by the door.

Be at her building in ten minutes, eight if he walks quickly and doesn't get caught at the lights.

The right life, yes, at last.

Outside, the fresh damp winter air, clouds massed dark and heavy.

He turns right towards the church and cars glide past through standing water, headlights dipped.

Grand old terraces, coloured lights blinking on and off in the high handsome windows.

His mistakes all behind him.

Raw relief to contemplate.

He has extricated himself, the wrongs are in the past, however many, however complicated, and his life is beginning again.

And rounding the corner the way the wind comes bowling down Baggot Street, rattling through the trees.

Everything rinsed fresh by cold air and water, everything clean and new, he thinks, yes.

Because the past falls away behind you at every moment.

And the lights are with him all the way and he's up the stairs by four twenty-three, letting himself inside.

White daylight from the windows falling soft and silent on every surface.

She's at the table, papers everywhere, rises to her feet to see him, looking wan he thinks, and happy, and he takes her in his arms and kisses her.

Yes, because his life is starting again, the long terrible intermission at an end, the smoke is clearing, he is finally resuming his place.

And drawing back she smiles at him.

You're in a good mood, she says.

Did you have a nice weekend?

Uncertainly he hesitates, sensing how far he has proceeded past explanation.

Trying to organise his thoughts, wanting not to have to, he says: Well, it was quiet.

Already she's going to the kitchen, asking if he wants tea or coffee.

No, thanks, he replies.

I'm having tea, she says.

Unable to remember or visualise now how he thought things would unfold once he arrived, he goes for no special reason to the mantelpiece, looks unseeing at a candlestick.

You work away, he says.

Presently she comes out again, seats herself on the sofa, her feet pulled up under her.

Sets the cup down on the side table to cool.

You were saying about your weekend, she says.

No, I wasn't, he answers.

I don't think I was.

Listen, I want to tell you, I've ended things with Naomi.

She's moved out.

She's going to stay in my dad's house for a while, until she finds somewhere more permanent.

In shock with lips parted, bright and wide her eyes.

Oh my God, Peter, she says.

What happened?

Uncomprehending he stares at her, disorientated, and she stares back at him, the two of them silent.

What do you mean what happened? he says.

We— Breaking off, finding no available grammar with which to complete the sentence, he tries again: This was on Thursday, after we— She goes on staring at him, wordless, offering nothing, and finally he manages to say only: After I was here, with you.

She goes on looking at him, pink patches of colour forming on her face.

What? she says.

After you were here with me, what? You went home and broke up with Naomi?

Right, he says. Yes.

Why?

He says nothing.

Astonishing he thinks that he even continues to breathe, standing there, the air moving mechanically in and out of his lungs, while he says nothing, holding with one hand the mantelpiece.

Peter, she goes on, I'm honestly trying to understand what you're saying.

Why have you and Naomi broken up?

Somehow thoughtlessly the words produce themselves: After what happened, I thought it was the only thing that made sense.

She lowers her eyes now, speaking quietly.

You told me that she understood about that, she says.

You said it wasn't monogamous.

He feels his head shaking, and the mantelpiece hard under his hand.

Jesus, he says.

It wasn't.

I mean, she understood, she knew.

But what's the point in dragging things out?

Dragging what out?

Desperation, to feel it all slipping somehow away, and almost angrily he says aloud: For fuck's sake, Sylvia, what are we talking about here?

She rubs her brow with her hands.

You told me it was all okay, she says.

There wasn't supposed to be any pressure.

If something happened with us, it would be nice, and if it didn't, whatever.

It was all relaxed, there was nothing to worry about.

No one was going to get hurt.

Now you're over here shouting at me, I broke up with my girlfriend for you, aren't you happy? Of course I'm not.

I never wanted you to do that to her.

If I had known that's what you were thinking of, nothing would have happened between us.

You led me to believe it was something completely different.

Frankly, I don't think you know what you're doing.

And you're making all three of us miserable.

Shaking his head, his mouth moving, unspeaking.

These words, all three of us, crowd into his brain horribly, all three, like an inappropriate joke.

I don't understand, he says.

We're in bed together, you're telling me you love me, and now you're saying it was all just a misunderstanding? You don't want to be together after all?

And she too is shaking her head, her eyes averted.

But nothing has changed, she says.

What happened between us the other day, it was nice, I'm not saying it wasn't, but my situation is the same as before.

The kind of relationship you're talking about, where I'm the only woman in your life and you give up everything for me, I don't want that.

Honestly, I don't.

It's just too much pressure.

I'm sorry.

Sick feeling, to have misunderstood so badly, and angrily he says: What did you think I was going to do, just keep stringing Naomi along to make you feel better? Jesus.

Who said anything about stringing her along? I thought you were fond of her.

Staring at the floor he hears his voice sullen now and inexpressive.

She's twenty-three, he says.

It wasn't going anywhere.

We had fun, whatever.

I liked her, but it was just a distraction.

After a moment's pause, Sylvia asks: Have you told her about me? I mean, about my situation.

Have you talked about that with her?

Head throbbing he goes on staring down at his feet.

Well, I felt like, I suppose, yeah, he says.

I thought I should try and explain, to some extent.

A little bit, I did talk to her about it.

Strangely, frighteningly, Sylvia gives a kind of laugh, and puts her hand in her hair.

Looking at him, she's looking, and her face is different.

That's alright, she says.

I didn't understand before.

But it makes sense to me now.

You're in love with her, aren't you?

Fumbling with his hand at the mantelpiece, sweating, he says nothing, and neither does she.

Finally he answers: No.

I don't know.

Yeah, maybe.

But it doesn't matter now.

Because you think I'm going to come in and rescue you, she says.

Well, I'm not.

Dry feeling in his mouth, his throat.

I don't know what you're talking about, he replies.

Very controlled and intelligent her voice now, controlled and intent, and her eyes still glittering.

Yes you do, she says.

You've fallen in love with someone, and you're afraid.

It's the usual thing, you don't like being vulnerable.

And I suppose on top of that, she's not a very suitable person.

She has no money, and she puts up these pictures online, maybe you think people are laughing at you.

And you're looking back on how things were when you and I were together, how easy everything was, and everyone was jealous of us, and you just want that back again.

For life to be easy.

What happened between us the other day, I can see now, you did that because you wanted an exit strategy.

Maybe not consciously, I don't know, but in the back of your mind.

You were looking for a way out with Naomi.

I thought we were just— whatever, in that moment, and for you it was something else.

We should have talked then, or we should have, I don't know.

I was in a lot of pain, I wasn't feeling well.

But whatever it was, I was not trying to help you get out of your relationship.

Okay? You can't use me like that.

I'm a human being.

Sharp goring sensation, and he presses with his hand at his breastbone, feeling what, the bitterness of the accusation, and worse, that she is taking away from him the only right thing in his life.

Eyes ranging around the room at random, helpless, and when he speaks he hears his voice cracking.

That's not what it was at all, he says.

Look, Sylvia, I understand the situation is fucked up.

It's a mess.

I get that, and I'm sorry.

Obviously, you know, you and I haven't been together for a long time, which was what you said you wanted.

To see other people.

I never wanted that.

And yeah, maybe, recently, there were feelings, I did develop certain feelings.

That's my problem, I'm not asking you to do anything about it.

I know it's awkward, but these things happen, you know, you meet people.

You were the one who insisted I should be meeting people, and yeah, things got out of hand, I'm sorry.

But I love you, I want to be with you, that's all that matters.

That look on her face, staring at him, as if from far away.

What happened to me, she says.

Let's be honest, Peter, it ruined my life.

And I'm trying to tell you that I'm not going to let it ruin yours.

His eyes trained dully on the fringe of the rug at his feet, wavering, hot, blurred.

It already has, he says.

For a moment he can only hear her breathing, hard.

Then she says: I see.

Okay.

What do you want me to do, apologise? Well, I'm very sorry.

I can see it's terribly hard for you, that I'm in pain all the time and I'm never going to get better.

How cruel of me to ruin your life like that.

And now I suppose I've ruined Naomi's life as well.

I don't know how either of you can ever forgive me.

Blinking down at the floor he can hardly see.

Okay, he says.

You're jealous, you're jealous of her.

And I'm sorry about that.

But you're saying some stupid things.

Again she falls silent, for a longer time now, a long time.

Then with a tremble in her voice she says slowly: I don't see what more I can do for you.

I've tried to be your friend, and for some reason you've been determined to humiliate me and hurt me.

I don't know why.

Maybe deep down you really wish I was dead, and you're trying to punish me because I'm not.

His hand at the mantelpiece now he feels grabbing, seizing, and with a sudden downward gesture he slams something onto the floor, without even seeing what it is.

Lands with a bang on the floorboards and rolls forward onto the rug, the brass candlestick, and something else also, a notecard, a piece of paper, floating down more slowly through the air.

How dare you, she says. Get out.

Wiping his wrist across his eyes he's already leaving.

Half-blinded in the hallway he takes his coat from the hook, umbrella, bangs the door behind him.

What happened, it changed her, she's right.

Cold superior person now who takes pleasure in twisting the knife.

Only pleasure she has left probably.

Maybe deep down you really wish.

And maybe he does, maybe he does.

Darkening blue of the sky over the tops of buildings.

Soft unsealing sound of the automatic doors at the Tesco Express.

From the off-licence section he takes a shoulder bottle of vodka wrapped in a plastic security tag and brings it to the till.

See the girl hitting the button that says Visibly Over 25 without even looking.

Thank you, yes.

I too was twenty-five once, and even younger, though I readily concede that for you at this moment it must be hard to imagine.

Life, which is now the most painful ordeal conceivable, was happy then, the same life.

A cruel kind of joke, you'll agree.

Anyway, you're young, make the most of it.

Enjoy every second.

And on your twenty-fifth birthday, if you want my advice, jump off a fucking bridge.

Thanks.

The doors once again parting to extrude his body onto the street.

Shoulder bottle in his pocket.

What's the plan, there isn't one.

Can't go back to the flat, doesn't trust himself.

Down the bottle, finish a sheet of pills, and what else.

Morbid fantasies about his own death and perhaps even more than fantasies.

Walks along the Green towards Grafton Street instead and his nose is burning, his eyes.

Maybe deep down you wish.

Get to Heuston, he thinks.

Catch a train, go and see her, the other.

Come crying, morose, apologetic, fall asleep in his childhood bedroom.

What harm.

She already thinks he's a headcase.

In the house, alone with her, even if they start fighting, at each other's throats, screaming, recriminating, at least it's a distrac tion, and nothing bad will happen.

Across the bridge to Abbey Street.

Bulky his coat pocket standing on the tram, obtrusive, and what is he thinking.

To slip quietly away unnoticed.

Yes.

Only after months or years would someone say: What ever happened to that lad Koubek? Never see him around these days.

No, I don't think he's living in town anymore.

That's all.

If it could be like that, painless.

Emigrate, like so many others who have fallen out of social life, eventually unmentioned, but instead of moving away, just quietly ceasing to exist.

Yes.

And what about God.

Well, what about him.

Feels the old kick of his spirit to think.

Nothing can force me to endure what I hate, compel me to suffer, to accept suffering, indignity, nothing, no one, not even God.

Just try and you'll see.

I won't take it.

You can't make me.

At the station with his head held high he alights from the carriage, yes, bowing to no one, alone with his conscience, yes, and he will not be forced.

Train in ten minutes and he gets a ticket from the machine, buys a bottle of lemonade and enters the toilets.

Slides the lock shut on a cubicle and feeling overwarm pours out half the lemonade and then, with the lids in his coat pocket, attempts to decant carefully the vodka into the remainder.

His hands are sweating again.

Nothing can compel him, he bows to no one.

Okay, he may at this moment be for some reason in a toilet cubicle in a train station pouring three hundred and fifty millilitres of vodka into a plastic bottle of supermarket lemonade, which feels a little unsanitary, but nonetheless, he prostrates himself before no authority, he will not be forced.

At the sinks he washes his hands and then deposits in the waste bin the empty glass bottle and its serrated cap.

Back out on the concourse, two lukewarm mouthfuls, stinging.

And if she's in a good mood they could even go to bed.

Hurt her, make her cry, why not.

Image of the candlestick suddenly re-enters the brain, heavy banging sound, and the back of his neck is prickling, because he did that.

Shouting, throwing her things around.

Another mouthful he swallows.

Maybe deep down you wish.

Sick with guilt thinking: then don't think.

Watch instead the live display board ticking times and platforms overhead.

Animated hands of the simulated analogue clock.

Have another mouthful.

And when the number appears, it's easy, insert the paper ticket right side up and walk along the platform with the bottle swinging in your pocket.

What could be easier.

To go and see her, say you're sorry, have it out.

Distract yourself.

She won't make things difficult, or if she does, it's only the minor pleasantly irritating kind of difficulty.

Nothing serious.

Come here, I love you.

Forget about it.

Out the window of the train now the familiar scenery, the gable sides of buildings, blocks of flats, Park West and Cherry Orchard.

Leaving the city in gathering darkness, the houses, the fields, all known to him.

This singular ribbon cut through the countryside, endlessly repeating reel of film.

Burned-out car that's been sitting there ten years, the old milking shed with its roof collapsing.

Did he throw the candlestick or only drop it from the mantel, he wonders.

Knock it over with the flat of his hand or seize and throw, he can't remember, and probably it doesn't matter.

How dare you, she said.

Get out.

Living together five or six years they never once fought like that.

Crushes they had on other people they would laugh about, tease each other.

All their little running jokes drawn out over years, growing stupidly funnier and more incomprehensible.

Before they retreated to the false formalities of their pretended friendship.

Undressing her for bed he remembers, yes: though in his memories she's not so young.

Looks much the same as she does now.

At the time of course she was no older than Naomi.

Strange to think of that, and somehow awful.

I begin to like them at that age.

Forty-seven minutes the journey and he finishes in the meantime the bottle of lemonade.

Slow headache coming down from the top of his skull not even really painful.

More like the idea of a headache.

Pulling into the station and the window so dark it shows only his reflection.

Empty bottle before him on the table.

Pale luminescent feeling as if already dead, descending.

Gets off the train half-drunk and it's raining again on the platform.

Strikes him suddenly he has no umbrella: and when, where.

On the tram he had it.

Station toilet he thinks, yes, messing with the lemonade.

For Jesus' sake, he's had that thing years.

He actually liked it.

Climbs into a taxi, cash in his pocket, out towards the old ring road please.

At the house the lights are on behind closed curtains.

Finds with his fingers the front door key, and what will she be wearing he wonders.

Or in the bath again perhaps, singing to herself.

Look who's come crawling back.

Inside, the hallway, lighted, and he pushes open the living room door, almost speaking to her already, syllable forming in his mouth, and then stops dead.

At the table in the corner, the old homework table, sitting with a chessboard in front of him, thick paperback book held open with his phone, his brother.

Ivan.

As if, at the station, Peter boarded by some accident a train bound back into the past, as if he has arrived here not this evening but two years ago, four years ago, and Ivan is studying his chess quietly, or studying for his Leaving Cert, and in the kitchen their father is even now cooking dinner with the radio on.

Their father: yes, alive and well.

Across the room Ivan looks at him and Peter looks back.

From under the table, languorously, the dog unfolds itself, and comes padding up to Peter, comes to be petted and fussed over, the dog, with its long thin face almost smiling.

What are you doing here? Ivan asks.

I'm sorry, wait one minute, Peter says.

What are you doing here?

I'm staying here, says Ivan.

I needed somewhere to take the dog.

Before Peter can speak again, Ivan adds sombrely: She's gone out with her friends, if you're wondering.

Someone collected her.

Feeling nothing at all, as if anaesthetised, or dead he thinks again, dead already, Peter sits down in his overcoat on the old sofa.

The dog jumps up beside him and lies down with its head in his lap.

Absently he tousles the creature's ears, silken, warm.

Someone collected her, okay, he says.

You've met, then.

Oh, we've met, Ivan replies.

Very much so.

We've had interesting discussions.

At these words, this idea, the interesting discussions that Ivan believes himself to have had with Naomi, Peter gives a sort of laugh.

Okay, he says.

I tried to call you, to let you know she was going to be here.

You still have my number blocked, I believe.

The aspect of hypocrisy kind of jumps out, Ivan remarks.

Still playing idly with the ears of the dog, Peter answers: Does it, indeed.

My hypocrisy, I suppose you mean.

With effort in his voice, Ivan answers: If you remember, when we discussed a certain other situation, you were not very understanding.

I remember, yes.

Still seeing her, are you?

I don't answer questions from you about my personal life, Ivan says.

That's one thing I can tell you.

I made that mistake before.

That's okay, he replies.

Don't tell me if you'd rather not.

They lapse into silence.

The dog closes its eyes serenely in Peter's lap.

Soft elastic frill of its inner lip showing.

Thin limbs tucked up on the cushions.

Studying your chess? he asks.

Obviously, says Ivan.

Back competing again?

Ivan nods without speaking, his gaze directed at the board.

What's the book? Peter asks.

My 60 Memorable Games .

After a pause, as if relenting slightly, Ivan answers: No, I wish.

It's just this thing on the London System.

Which I never play, but you have to know the lines.

How's the rating?

Still the same, Ivan says.

But there's an event on in town next week, a norm event.

So that could be good, if it goes well.

Fingers moving over the dog's small delicate ribs Peter answers: Ah, okay.

Good luck with it.

I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Ivan glances up at him now.

Did you tell Naomi I'm a genius? he asks.

Feels himself almost fondly smiling.

I don't know, he says.

Probably.

If she said I did, I'm sure I did.

Well, I hope you realise I'm not.

To me, you are.

Ivan looks back down at the chessboard, as if sheepishly pleased.

I don't mind her being here, by the way, he says.

I think she's worried I'm going to ask her to leave.

But if you talk to her, you can tell her, I don't mind.

Quietly Peter answers: Okay.

Thank you.

If I do talk to her, I will tell her.

I appreciate you're being very decent.

Nodding his head, moving his eyes over the pieces on the board.

And I won't ask you about the situation, he says, because it's not my business.

Carelessly Peter exhales.

Oh, I doubt you'd be interested, Ivan, he says.

If I'm interested or not, it's irrelevant.

I'm not going to pry.

Another little silence descends.

Ivan it seems rather selfconsciously moves a pawn and consults again the notation in the book.

The dog shifts itself further up into Peter's lap, resettles, heavy and warm.

Back to sleep.

Eye half-closed showing under the lid a thin grey sliver of membrane.

Perhaps I was a little harsh that time at dinner, Peter remarks.

Immediately Ivan answers: There's no perhaps.

You were extremely harsh, not perhaps.

As I recall, I was trying to speak to you about something else.

It doesn't matter now.

We were talking at cross-purposes.

I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.

When Peter looks up, he can see Ivan is red in the face, no longer looking at the chess set, but breathing in and out between his lips.

It's not an apology when it goes into ‘if', Ivan says.

‘I'm sorry if', that's not a sincere apology.

With an oddly cool feeling, getting on for drunk he remembers, Peter regards his brother.

Well, alright then, he replies.

I'm sorry I was harsh, is that better? I actually texted you to apologise, but you blocked my number.

Ivan rises to his feet now, and in Peter's lap the dog's eyes come open, watching.

As far as the double doors to the kitchen Ivan paces and then turns back.

There's more to it than that, he says.

You don't show me respect.

I'm not sure that's entirely fair, Peter answers.

You look down on me.

You treat me like a child.

Smoothing his hand slowly over the dog's coat, Peter replies: Well, you're my little brother.

I'm a lot older than you are.

Maybe I do find it difficult to accept that you're an adult now.

But that's not to say I look down on you.

Flushed, raising his voice, Ivan retorts: Even right now.

Even right now, you're doing it, using all these words.

The explaining kind of voice.

You think you're right about everything.

That's how you act.

Obviously there are things we disagree on, Peter answers.

And yes, when it comes to our disagreements, I think I'm right, of course.

If I thought you were right, we wouldn't disagree.

Throwing his hands up, Ivan says: Right now, literally.

The voice you're putting on, the way you're talking.

Peter watches him pacing over to the piano and chewing on one of his nails.

Well, if you want to get into it, Ivan, he says, I do think you have some unpleasant opinions.

There are things you've said about women, to be honest, I would describe as disturbing.

What am I supposed to do, pretend I agree with you? While you sit there saying feminism is evil, or women make up lies about being raped, or whatever it is.

Ivan moving his hands around in front of his face, as if waving the words away.

Okay, look, whatever, he says.

You're getting off the topic now.

That's not relevant.

Yes it is, says Peter.

You're accusing me of acting like I'm right about everything.

And I'm pointing out, yes, sometimes I'm right and you're wrong.

Well, I don't remember saying those things you're talking about.

If I even did say them, it would be a long time ago, and I don't remember the context.

But whatever, views can change.

I'm not saying, you've never been right.

I'm saying, not always.

Feels himself settling back on the sofa now, watching.

Ah, I see, he says.

You've changed your mind, then?

Rubbing at his face with his hands, pacing from the piano to the bookcase, Ivan replies: Oh my God, whatever.

I don't want to get into this at all.

What I said in the past, I don't remember what it was, but I'm sure I have developed different views since then.

Which would be the normal, right, that beliefs can change over time.

You know, you're making a big deal out of nothing now.

Lightly Peter shrugs his shoulders, scratching the dog's narrow pink belly with his fingers.

Well, to me, it's not nothing, he says.

It's a question of right and wrong.

But if you've changed your mind, I'm glad to hear it.

Without looking around, Ivan retorts: Because you're so perfect towards women.

Pauses, without looking up.

Cold feeling rather than hot.

I was talking about your beliefs rather than your conduct, he answers.

Conduct is more important than beliefs.

Slowly lifts his hand away from the dog and brushes a stray hair off his lap.

Well, I don't know what you're accusing me of, he says.

I can only assume Naomi has been complaining about me.

But of course I'm not perfect, I never said I was.

Ivan is silent a moment.

Then he says: Actually she defended you, if you have to know.

But I can draw my own conclusions.

She's the same age as me, you realise.

Yes, I'm well aware, Peter answers.

Although I don't see how you of all people can object to that.

Ivan does look around now, eyes flashing.

I'm not the one who's messing around with two different women, he says.

With a jolting shock, Peter hears himself laughing out, a hard unpleasant laugh, cruel-sounding.

If I were you, he replies, I wouldn't talk about things I don't understand.

Ivan's face is red, flushed, angry.

See, he says.

Now you're being honest for once.

You don't think I understand anything.

For your information, I have my own life.

And I understand things very well.

You think you can just push me around and I won't stand up for myself.

Always, you're always the same.

With the eulogy, at the funeral.

You pushed me into letting you do it, and I just had to sit there saying nothing.

Because you always have to be in charge.

Calmly he answers: It had to be one or other of us.

I believe it's usually the eldest.

But I didn't realise you had strong feelings either way.

You didn't express any.

I was closer with Dad, Ivan retorts.

Strange that feeling, and chilling.

So familiar the room, their home, and Peter realises suddenly, remembers, how much he hates it, how hateful, the feeling of being again in this terrible house.

I'm sure you're right about that, he says.

I tried my best, but I suppose it's true, we weren't very close.

What does that mean, you tried your best?

For a moment he's silent.

Flickering in his head, in his hands he feels, pulse of his blood.

I didn't find him an easy person to be close with, he says.

He wasn't always very open to talking about things.

Quietly, with a shaking voice, Ivan asks: You're criticising him?

You asked me why we weren't close.

I'm just trying to explain.

It was his fault?

Peter shrugs his shoulders.

We were as close as I imagine he wanted us to be, he replies.

We had very different personalities.

Why don't you say the truth? Ivan asks.

You didn't respect him.

You never respected either of us.

And your eulogy was horrible, by the way.

It was embarrassing.

You always think you're so good at everything, but you're not.

People just flatter you because they're scared to give criticisms.

Well, I'm not scared.

All you do is tell lies and talk in clichés all the time.

You never say anything true.

Strangely Peter is conscious of smiling now, yes, thin smile, and with an energy inside him, his hands, his arms, hot, towering sensation, he gets up, stands at the empty fireplace.

Okay, he says.

You want me to tell the truth.

That's fine.

The truth is that I've spent my life trying to protect you both.

From the age of what, twelve, fifteen, I was the one who had to be the adult.

That's the truth, if you want to know.

Who was looking out for me, Ivan? When I was the one who needed help, where were the two of you? No, you didn't want to talk, you didn't want to know.

Neither of you.

And why, because it made you feel awkward, you didn't know what to say.

You want to know why I treat you like a child? Because you are a fucking child.

When things get difficult, you're gone.

You're out of the room.

And that's alright, I don't expect anything else.

Maybe with Dad I did, but I learned my lesson.

He didn't want me to be his son, he wanted me to be his protector.

And yours.

So that's what I was.

All my life, I was looking out for the both of you.

And neither of you ever even had the decency to say thanks.

Seems to feel before he sees.

The sensation, sudden, jarring more than painful, shoved backwards against the hearth, and he has to step back, find his footing.

Ivan has pushed him, Ivan has raised his hands and pushed him back tripping hard against the fireplace, Ivan, standing there before him, breathing heavily, yes, he did it, he shoved him, hands to his chest.

Heat of rage flaring inside him now, hot light, Peter reaches out and slaps him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

Behave yourself, he says.

Clutching at his own jaw, Ivan retorts: Fuck you.

And tries with his other hand to shove again, tries actually again to push him, attempts, yes, and with a blind sort of pounding behind his eyes Peter grasps him by his sweatshirt, both hands, holding hard, and throws him down on the floor, where his body lands heavily.

Crying out, and the dog up on all fours now lets out a high sharp yelp.

Out of breath, blood filling his head, standing over him, to lay a hand on me, he did that, Peter feels himself draw back to put the weight of his body into his foot, ready to slam it into his ribs, who's sorry now, you little worm, I'll fucking kill you.

Before he can move however he catches in the eyes a glimpse, eyes looking at him.

Ivan's.

Turned up to him, widened in horror, pleading, whole face ashen sick, beyond white, grey.

Terrified.

Dropping sensation in the stomach.

Frightened, he's really frightened, and Peter steps back now, steps away, clearing his throat.

Sort of thudding in his chest still.

What was that.

He wouldn't really.

It was just.

I wasn't going to do anything, he says aloud.

Hears Ivan scrambling up, retreating to the other end of the room.

Dog trotting after him, ticking sound of its claws.

Dizzy sort of spinning feeling, light-headed, vague tinny ringing in his ears.

You shouldn't have started it, he goes on.

Looks around to see Ivan holding his face, and yes, the lip is bleeding.

Fear in his eyes still.

I wasn't really going to hurt you, Peter says.

Look, I'm going, alright? I'll leave you alone.

Clearing his throat he adds once more: I wouldn't have actually done anything.

Closes quietly the living room door, front door, out onto the driveway, and it's cold out, hands are cold, shaking, breath leaving his body.

Walks down in darkness as far as the road.

Churning feeling, cold or is it hot, and his mouth filling with a thin sour fluid, yes, and turning back from the road now, towards the garden wall, he tries to inhale slowly, thoughts breaking up into rivulets, rapid, incoherent, a heaving sensation, and then he gets sick.

Once, twice, and he's sweating again, back of his neck breaking out, underarms trickling.

Taste of formic acid and the rancid sweetness of lemonade.

Feels better after.

Takes a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his coat, wipes his face, his lips, back of his neck.

Shouldn't have pushed me if he didn't want to fight.

Half an hour it'll take him walking back into town now he thinks and then what, the train, and then.

Headlights silver the walkway, flash and vanish.

His lip was bleeding.

Must have caught him when he gave him that slap.

An overreaction, that's all.

Said he was sorry.

Shouldn't have started on him like that.

I didn't.

His fault.

Handkerchief from his pocket and he wipes again mechanically his face.

Weak in his legs.

He was going to kick him, he would have, he was about to, and he would.

In truth, he wanted to and would have.

Heat of rage in his body.

Frightened himself.

More frightened than Ivan he thinks when he realised what he was doing, what he was about to do, more scared than he was.

Something wrong with his brain.

What he said, did.

Hitting him in the face like that.

Talking that way about their father.

Regrets that now, of course he regrets.

It was different, it was more complicated.

Difficult feelings, everyone was doing their best.

He was a good person, he tried.

No one is perfect.

Sometimes you need people to be perfect and they can't be and you hate them forever for not being even though it isn't their fault and it's not yours either.

You just needed something they didn't have in them to give you.

And then in other people's lives you do the same thing, you're the person who lets everyone down, who fails to make anything better, and you hate yourself so much you wish you were dead.

Takes his phone from his pocket, opens the contacts list and taps Ivan's name, see if he's okay, and the call disconnects.

Blocked number he forgot or did he.

Taps again for no reason.

If he's hurt or something, just to tell him sorry.

Shouldn't have pushed me.

No, it wasn't your fault.

Wave of weakness he feels as if to be sick again and finds himself touching, holding the slick wet side of wall beside him, passing cars, and he's leaning almost crouching, his back against the brickwork.

Something wrong, he can't walk.

Try Ivan again but of course there's no answer.

Can't call Sylvia.

She hates him now.

Himself also he hates.

Better off if he did it.

Scrolling up unseeing and then finally tapping again, holding the phone to his ear.

Breathing hard against the wall, picked out in the passing headlights, shielding with his hand his eyes, and the phone is ringing, three times, four, and then the voice.

Hello my darling, says his mother.

Steady voice he tries.

Hey, he says.

Pause he detects and then lightly she says: Everything alright?

Yeah, he says.

Yeah, I was just thinking.

Are you at home?

Yes indeed.

Swallowing, sour in his mouth.

I thought I might call round for dinner this evening, he says.

Only if it suits you.

Of course it suits me, she replies.

I'm killing the fatted calf as we speak.

What time should I expect you?

Closes his eyes.

Wet of the wall against his back.

Well, I'm out in Naas just now, he lies.

I had a meeting.

But I'll hop on a train, I could be with you in an hour or two.

You take your time, she says.

I'll rustle something up here.

I think it'll be just the two of us, if that's alright.

Fine, he answers.

Perfect, actually.

Okay, see you then.

He clears his throat.

Christine, he says.

Could you do me a favour, in the meantime? It's not a big thing.

Could you maybe give Ivan a call, and see if he's alright? We've just had a bit of a row.

I'm sure he's fine, but I'd feel better if you spoke to him.

He's not picking up for me.

Dreading what she might ask, tightening in his jaw and throat.

But all she says is: No problem, I'll call him now.

Do you want me to say we've spoken?

Exhaling he answers: No, I think better not.

Understood, she says.

I'll be back to you.

See you soon.

Phone slipping down into his coat pocket.

Stands up on his feet, reaches again for the handkerchief.

Thirty-two years old and running to his mother.

When only minutes ago he was the one calling Ivan a child.

The aspect of hypocrisy kind of jumps out.

On his feet again and trudging towards the train station.

Minutes pass, and she texts.

Spoke on the phone just now.

All good I think.

Bit monosyllabic but that's the usual.

He didn't mention you.

Nothing to worry about I suspect.

xxx.

Reads and reads again.

He didn't mention you.

Okay.

Wonder why.

Unlikely to be out of loyalty.

Ashamed perhaps.

Or still frightened.

Jesus.

Oh well, at least he picked up, at least he sounded alright.

Alive and well.

Ivan.

I'm sorry.

Closes for a moment his eyes.

And then keeps walking.

You weren't long, she says when he arrives at the house.

Come here to me.

Do you feed yourself at all? I'll take your coat.

No umbrella? Tells her he left it at the station.

Ah, that's a shame, she says.

You were fond of that thing.

At least I'll know what to get you for Christmas.

Perfumed interior of the kitchen.

Relentless chatter of her conversation.

Darren hardly ever home for dinner, you know these big firms, keep them in all hours, and Frank is playing tennis.

He sits at the dining table while she's at the stovetop, stirring.

Says she read something in The Irish Times about young people taking cocaine.

It's everywhere these days.

I suppose you probably take it yourself.

Examining his fingernails.

Now and then, he says.

She looks up mildly from the saucepan.

And tell us, where do you get the stuff? she asks.

I buy it off the girl I've been seeing, he replies.

That makes her laugh, she's shaking her head.

Oh, very good, she says.

I didn't know you were seeing anyone.

He shrugs his shoulders.

I was, he says.

But I suppose we've broken up now.

She lifts the lid off a smaller pot, releasing a cloud of steam.

Well, you'll have to find a new drug dealer, she remarks.

He too starts laughing, they both are, and he puts his face down on the table.

I need to sort my life out, Christine, he says.

Things are not good.

Pouring the contents of one pan into another, she says: You're grieving, pet.

It's to be expected.

Do you want to tell me about this girl? Surface of the table cooling his face he closes his eyes.

No, thanks, he says.

But just so you know, she's staying in Dad's house for a bit.

Your house, as it is now.

Just until she finds somewhere more permanent.

Is that alright? Christine says no problem.

After dinner in the living room, opposite ends of the sofa, with the television on.

Opened tin of biscuits between them.

I had a fight with Ivan, he remarks.

She says he mentioned that on the phone.

Yeah, he replies, but not an argument.

I mean we actually had a fight.

I hit him.

Astonished now she looks around, the eyes goggling.

God above, she says.

Where was this? What happened? Feels himself again shrugging, his eyes on the television.

He kind of shoved me, I don't know, he says.

And I slapped him.

I threw him on the ground, I think.

But he got up again.

We were talking about Dad.

I suppose he thought I was being harsh.

Which I was being.

She has taken up the remote control and hit the mute button.

Reaches over now and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Peter, sweetheart, she says.

I know things were hard between you and your dad at times.

But he loved you.

And I know that you loved him.

The hand on his shoulder so welcome, so painfully welcome that his eyes fill again with tears and he looks away.

I'm sorry, he says.

Ah, you're not yourself, she answers.

You and your brother will patch things up.

But you have to keep an eye on that temper of yours.

Okay? He nods his head, wipes his nose with his fingers.

Firm pressure of her hand.

Why don't you stay here tonight? she asks.

Finds himself trying to work out whether it would be alright.

In his thirties, to be staying the night in his mother's house.

But his dad died.

Right, but they weren't together.

Why does it even matter.

Deluding himself that he's normal, isn't that what she said the other night.

So sick in the head you don't even see what you're doing to yourself.

You're making all three of us miserable.

You little worm, I'll fucking kill you.

No, I wouldn't, I wasn't going to.

I wish I was dead.

Yeah, he says aloud.

I'll stay, I think I will stay.

If that's alright, I will.