Terminus

Mark O'Rowe

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781848421745
• eBook ISBN: 9781780015187
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Arte dramático británico

A blackly comic vision of Dublin infested with demons.

'We go, see the slo-mo ebb and flow; the mill, the babble, the rabble of wobbling waywards, exiled and aimless, unlike us as, purposeful and double-file, like kids on a dare, we head who the fuck knows where?'

Three people are ripped from their daily lives and catapulted into a fantastical world of singing serial killers, avenging angels and lovesick demons.

Hold tight as the ordinary turns extraordinary in Mark O'Rowe's urban fantasy.

Terminus was first performed at the Abbey Theatre Peacock, Dublin, in June 2007. The production transferred to the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, in August 2008 as part of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, where it was awarded a Fringe First.

Lights up on A, B and C. Hold. Lights down on B and C.

A

‘This Samaritan shit’s the pits,’ I think, as I try to talk a guy from the brink of suicide; a gun implied at first, then at last admitted to. A bullet through the head his plan.

Now, I should be calm, it goes without saying; but instead I’m filled with distress as I stupidly ask his name, his address, then dread as I hear a shot, then not any more as I hear him say, ‘Got you, you gullible whore!’ and hang up with a snigger, the fucking fake!

I figure I’ll duck outside for a break, and do, have a suck on a cigarette and rue my volunteering for this, fearing I don’t have the sand, the grit, the bit of detachment required – Ah, shit – Sure, mired as I am in sympathy, you see, what possible help can I be to these loveless lost, what cost to them my hapless, helpless, hopeless best, my messed-up endeavours?

And so, I confess, I consider just quitting this shit altogether and splitting home right away. However, my duty decrees that I stay till the end of my shift, which is only fair, I guess. So, until nine, it’s back to my chair, my desk, my phone, to take more calls, which come as a stream of imprecations, hopeless tales and despairing petitions until a petition in particular gives me pause, or rather the voice which imparts it, because it’s a voice I’m certain I recollect, someone I taught in school, I suspect, then am sure of. Yes. A girl called Helen I had for maths. A fucking mess. Though that’s a tale best told at a better time. For now, she’s saying she needs an abortion. Fine. I ask her how many months she’s gone, she says, ‘Nine.’ I say, ‘What?!’ She says, ‘Sorry. Eight.’ I say, ‘Jesus, either way, that’s way too late. Now, look: a baby doesn’t have to be the end, you know? And, understand, there are people you can go to who…’ And here she screams so loud my eardrum seems to perforate, and in the calm that follows calmly states that whether I help or not, it’s happening. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Helen?! What does that mean?!’ She hesitates having heard her name, then – click! – the line goes dead.

She’s gone.

And I feel sick for not having been adept or slick enough to have kept her on, and annoyed at myself as I am, I decide to leave after all, and to hell with my duty, my fucking shift, I’m out of here and drifting now toward the nearest pub in order to clear my head, to have a mull.

When I get inside the place is full, but, moving through the mill, I discover a table being cleared by a waiter, off whom I order a vodka and water, then, taking a seat and receiving my drink, I allow myself to really think about Helen’s call, her request, her appalling tone and intention…

Did I mention, by the way, that she was a student of mine when I taught? Okay. But did I also say that there was a time when I ought to have helped her, but hadn’t? I didn’t. Many a time in fact, her being the kind of girl who attracted derision, incited spite, who was constantly picked on, the other kids delighting in seeing her suffer. Why? Who knows? I mean, there are those, I’ll grant, who just give off that particular scent, but the sudden fit of guilt I feel since her call, the shame, for never having intervened at the time, combined with the fact it was me she got back there tonight, my line, is beginning to feel like a sign, a dare, or a command, to find her, and I understand if you deem this kind of reasoning extreme, but I’ve always been a woman who’ll embrace her intuition and obey it, and today it’s saying, Save this girl, you know? Protect her.

And so, having sunk a second drink, then a third, and by now sufficiently inspired, I step outside and stride again, my destination home, to carry out stage one of my plan: a climb to the attic, a comb through files, two piles worth of student details, addresses, and, yes, it’s here, what I guess is my only lead: the home of her mother. I write it down, then make my way there, knock on the door twenty minutes later.

The mother answers.

‘Hey there,’ I say, and tell her I taught her daughter, Helen, way back when and, since I was in the vicinity, thought I might drop in for a minute, just to see how she’s getting on. Far-fetched, I know, but the woman plays along, turning and making a gesture to follow, so I do. She’s thin, eyes hollow. Suppose she’s a drinker – the state of the place, the funk! – or a junkie.

We sit, she smokes, a kitten in the corner pokes at an empty tuna tin. We watch it a minute, then she begins: ‘Helen’s dead to me, love,’ she says.

I ask why.

‘For getting knocked up by some guy for one; for getting a taste for cunny, two.’

‘For what?!’

‘Honey, you know what they’re like, those dirty dykes, the things they do. And, three, because she called me a junkie whore; and four, because I’m no more that than a lover of smelly gat like her and that fucking pig’s behind, Celine O’Brien, the bitch who bent her,’ she says, ‘sent her lez, and made her a concubine in her filthy dirty dyke harem.’

Seconds pass as I try to process this. Then I ask for this Celine’s address.

She chokes a bit, says, ‘You’re joking! Shit, that crazy bitch, if she feels it befits you will fucking blitz you, break you to bits, you even look at her crooked. Fuck that shit.’

And she stares at the cat.

But there’s no way I’m gonna leave it at that, so I ask again and, shaking her head, she takes out a pen, says, ‘Fair enough. It’s your life, man,’ and scribbles it down, then turns away as if to say, ‘Now, go,’ and so, I take what she’s written, thank her, pet the kitten, withdraw from the kitchen, the hall, the house, and wander, wondering whether she’s really that mean, this Celine, that fearsome, and if it’d make more sense to veer somewhat to the left; a lot, in fact; a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and just turn back. Give up. Go home.

But, God, how can I when it’s me alone who can help this child? So, instead, I roam a while until I find a cab to nab and get in and we go, the driver prattling on the way they do. I couldn’t be bothered responding. I tune him out and drift and, miffed at my lack of response to his shit, he quits his attempts to engage and sits in a childish rage till we’re there and, having paid my fare and got out, I hear, as he pulls away, him say, or rather grunt, ‘You ignorant cunt!’ and, unfazed by his curse – I know, I know. But I’ve been called worse – I go to the gate and enter, knock and wait on tenterhooks till she answers the door.

Celine.

There’s no doubt that it’s her. I mean, ‘pig’s behind’ might be going too far, but not much. And as she comes near, such a fearsome blast of breath takes mine away, combined with a spray of spit which hits me right on the cheek when she speaks, says, ‘What?’

‘Is Helen there?’

‘She’s not,’ she says.

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘I do,’ she says, coming closer. ‘Why the fuck are you looking for her?’ To which I reply, to my absolute horror, ‘It’s none of your business,’ and something whizzes toward my eye – her fucking fist! – and lands with a sizeable thwack, before she says, ‘Bitch, I’ll burst you fucking worse, you come here again, you understand?’

And then her hand goes to her nose, her finger, finds her nostril, enters, comes back out with a snot about that size, or bigger, says, ‘Don’t fuck around with the Alpha Nigger…’ wipes the snot in my hair ‘… you hear?’ says ‘Au revoir’ with another punch which crunches the bones in my nose, and stars explode in my head, and this is really boding bad indeed; see the fucking ogre fume and seethe while I sway and bleed and decide that I dearly need to be somewhere not here.

So, I turn with a wobble, hobble toward the gate, get through it. My dinner leaps up into my throat and I spew it, dousing the street, hearing the sound of retreating laughter, a door closing after.

After which I wander again in my stupor, come to a greasy-spoon and enter, head for the ladies room to check my eye which is swelling nicely. Christ, she got me good, I think, as I clean my face of blood at the sink, my hair of snot, use toilet roll to blot it dry, then order tea and take a seat and sip, my will diminished, concede defeat: that’s it; I’m finished; beat…

Light up on B.

B

Every night at five…

A

… the odds too tough…

B

…I leave work…

A

…I’ve had enough.

Light down on A.

B

… and meander the minute or so to McGurk’s; sink one, sink two, then bid adieu to the barman – his reply to me each and every time, ‘God bless’ – depart then, head to the M&S, my dinner to purchase, my day-to-day to adhere to, near to identical all, said days, near rote, you know? Near...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Dedication
• Characters
• Terminus
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information