Heartland

Patrick McCabe

• Publisher: New Island
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781848406605
• eBook ISBN: 9781848406612
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Seven men wait in Mervyn's Mountain Bar, awaiting the arrival of Tony Begley and his six-inch boning knife, Sweety. Ray 'Ringo' Wade hides above them in the rafters, silent and consumed by shame as Jody, the only friend he's ever known, lies beaten and bound in the outhouse, waiting to meet his maker at the hands of the bar's raucous inhabitants. The reason for this bloody retribution? Ray and Jody went and jacked over the one and only William Walter Monroe – the man who took them in, for better or worse, and single-handedly moulded Glasson County into a place people could be proud of. To a man, they bear the mark of Cain, and the acts of the past are never far from the present. Insulated from the world by his shaky delusion, Ray Wade recounts the tale he has no choice but to live with. A backwoods sinfonia of rough poetry and black comedy about the love we give and the horror we visit upon one other – and ourselves.

Chapter 1

The Cockloft

Sneeze you’re a stiff – couldn’t have been simpler.

The story, if that’s what you want to call it – ‘spiritual pilgrimage’ would be my own preference – took place some time ago in Ireland, deep in the midlands and a long way from the sea.

Quite exactly when don’t make a whole lotta difference.

I can’t say for certain how long I’d been lying there – all I remember is swinging around when I heard my name, and must have passed out after that.

When I came to finally my head was splitting.

I’ve really gone and screwed it now, I said.

The pub underneath had once housed hens and livestock – and, to tell the truth, it didn’t look like a whole lot had changed.

The attic itself was a narrow slanting space running all the way along the length of the barn.

Through the chink in the floorboards it wasn’t easy to make them out, shuffling and muttering and arguing, but there could be no mistaking the compact sinewy build of ginger-haired Red Campbell – in his late forties, with those long tapered sideburns coming down to meet a small frizzy thatch of beard, making wild, unexpected swipes at the furniture as he pulled out a match and sparked up another rollie, clearing his throat and heaving harshly into the grate.

–You know what, I’ve been thinking, I heard him declare softly, as he exhaled an abundant lungful of smoke, lately I been figuring that maybe, you know, autumn is a good time to die. When the brown brittle leaves are just on the point of falling – you reckon?

He tilted his head slightly and I heard him whisper my name.

–I’m afraid that he’s been an unobliging feller, Ringo Wade. Now why’d he have to go and do such a thing? Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if that sonofabitch ain’t so very far away at all, with them rattler eyes o’ his all bright and fixed. Same as always, no-good fuck …

He swung sharply on his heel, inhaling a series of rapid-fire drags.

As the stoop-shouldered figure of Sonny Hackett stepped from the shadows, his chain-smoker’s face lined like a biscuit – so tall and thin he’d have had to stand in two places to make a shadow.

With his gleaming, jet-black hair slicked back as he thrust his brooding aquiline countenance forward and sat down in silence, straddling a grey plastic chair.

Continuing to say nothing.

But you knew at any time that he was capable of flaring up.

Which, as a matter of fact, was what he did now.

With absolutely no hint of warning, shooting unexpectedly to his feet, his clenched fist smartly thumping the hollow of his hand.

–What the fuck’s keeping them? he spat sourly. What in the hell can be keeping them till now? Those lousy unreliable fu— !

He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.

But just stood there, almost ill-looking, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Red Campbell was pissing out defiantly into the night.

–Man, that’s good! he groaned with immense pleasure. Bates fucking Banagher, that does.

I followed its trajectory as he swayed beneath the moon, slamming the door with a deft flick of his heel.

A wisp of straw was tormenting my right nostril as I stiffened.

–Two in the head is what the sumbitch deserves, grunted Red Campbell – to no one in particular, it seemed.

–And that is what he is going to get, he added.

A gutful of jungle juice rose sharply to my throat – as I watched the back door open and the two McHales coming tumbling in, in their grey trackies and white high-back trainers – a pair of sad baby-faced blue-eyed farmboys whose father had left them way too early and whose mother was in a state of long-time depression.

For just a split second, I could have sworn I’d seen them both lift their heads as well.

But it was nothing, just another predictable episode of paranoia.

As a shower of balls came crashing down the pool table, and both McHales stood arrogantly along its side, chuckling provocatively as they wielded their cues.

With their identical faces displaying traces of hastily wiped machine oil.

–Move over, bro, said Shorty, short and chunky with a malnourished podgy face, swaggering past, absently chewing on a hoodie toggle.

As his twin did his best to steady the cue-rest, laying sprawled across the wide expanse of baize.

–These two fellers are made of strong stuff, growled Sonny, just like their father before them, eh boys?

–That’s right Mr Hackett, The Runt McHale called over, brazenly gratified, our old man was a hero back in the troubled days. We heard all the stories. He was a top man, right Mr Hackett?

–You had better believe it, boys. When things got rough and the cause needed men, your old pop was always there. That’s something that can never be taken away. And I can see by the cut of you, that you two bucks are made from the very same stuff. Cut from the same cloth, you boys are. I can tell. We all can.

–When this is all over, when we get this job done, me and this brother o’ mine here – we are heading straight over to the States. We’re going to see our Uncle Wylie. You wanna know about him, Mr Hackett? Well then I’ll tell you. He’s a road warrior, that’s what he is. Man you had better believe it – motherfucking speed king, woah boy, no prisoners … !

He swung around to see if anyone might happen to be prepared to disagree, raking his fingers through his highlighted quiff, windmilling the cue-stick as he breathlessly continued:

–You see that Uncle Sam? You wanna know about him, Mr Hackett? Way back up in them hills they got themselves snake handlers, coon dogs, and all the sumbitch moonshine you can drink. And if’n you wanna know how we come to know that – then just call up our father’s brother on the phone. Yep, you go right ahead – just call up Uncle Wylie.

–That’s right, agreed his brother, they got themselves wind in the pines out there, and all the liquor a feller can drink. Now get that ass right on out of here and let me in there in front of you, bro, for I want to pot that sweet there waiting blue …

–Aye, our fella, you strike that ho’ and make sure and sink her down …

–Ah shore as hell will, brother o’ mine, this very second I’ll drop her plumb …

And that exactly was what young Shorty McHale proceeded to do.

–Yep, when all o’ this is over, friends, The Runt resumed, the two of us are gonna go to Amerikay – over to see that crack-cat Uncle Wylie, and along with him tear up the dirt at every goddamn stock car meet in the place. Right, our boy?

–You got it, fella – you got it in one, affirmed Shorty, beaming.

As another ball ker-plunked, sinking into the depths of the north-eastern pocket.

–Good call, hollered The Runt, giving his twin a hearty clap on the back.

As everyone else present looked on in silence, seeming content to remain that way for what might be left of the game.

As, high up among the brooding rafters, I hauled in another hesitant, tremulous breath – stiff as a board on the straw-strewn floor – and never once taking my eyes off the door.

–How much you reckon Uncle Wylie is going to pay us? I heard Shorty inquire.

But never got to hear what his brother’s answer might be.

Because just at that precise moment the pub door swung open and the stout, bearish figure of Big Barney Grue came barrelling in, dressed in a heavy coat and muffler.

Dragging something, with great ceremony, after him – tossing it in front of him like a wet sack of grain.

–Evening ladies, Big Barney beamed, tipping down his baseball cap just so.

As the only friend I’ve ever really had in the world did the best he could to escape – groaning for a bit, and after that not making a sound.

Yes, Jody Kane – my soul-brother comrade, for years down the line.

And this was how I’d shown my appreciation.

–Breed gon’ die! Sonny Hackett sneered, loudly clacking his tongue against his teeth.

–Adios, Jody boy! It sure has been nice knowing you, fucker … !

Chapter 2

The New Arrival

Hughie Munley was short, a little baby-faced banty of a man in his fifties, friendly as tap water – with a head bald as a duck egg and a habit of showing the point of his tongue through prominent teeth whenever he smiled.

A medallion gleamed underneath his open shirt.

El Paso, read the lettering woven in the shape of a bridle.

‘Wee Hughie’, as they called him, was generally regarded as funny – with the only problem being that, soon as he got going, he would talk the legs off a stove.

But a straight arrow, nonetheless.

Always ambling and angling, and hoisting up his britches, fixing to get into the company whatever way he could, with that trademark brawny handshake and distinctive aw-shucks grin.

–Man could I use me a shot of your best jungle, he hollered, as up rose swiftly a bottle of colourless liquid, with Mervyn, behind the counter, grinning from ear to ear.

–’Bout...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Indice
• Dedication
• Chapter 1: The Cockloft
• Chapter 2: The New Arrival
• Chapter 3: The American Eagle
• Chapter 4: Snow In July
• Chapter 5: Uncle Wylie’s Wrecking Yard
• Chapter 6: Kentucky Fry
• Chapter 7: Some Velvet Morning
• Chapter 8: Good Times
• Chapter 9: Secrets, Songs and Shadows
• Chapter 10: The Story of Mickey Wrong Moon
• Chapter 11: The Glasson County Accident
• Chapter 12: The Wonderful World of Jim Reeves
• Chapter 13: The Indian in the Caravan
• Chapter 14: The Wildwood Flower
• Chapter 15: The Secret Life of Oranges
• Chapter 16: I’m Mr Bonny
• Chapter 17: The Way It Used To Be
• Chapter 18: In the High Country
• Chapter 19: El Brindis Del Paso
• Chapter 20: The Memory of an Old Christmas Card
• Chapter 21: The Tackle Harvest
• Chapter 22: The Glasson County Electrisms
• Chapter 23: A Life, Shredded
• Chapter 24: The Mountain Throwback
• Chapter 25: The Wayward Wind
• Chapter 26: The Bones of Lake Wynter
• Chapter 27: A Delta Dawn in Dreams Embroidered
• Chapter 28: These Are My Mountains
• Chapter 29: Five Little Fingers
• Chapter 30: The Arrival of Tony Begley
• Chapter 31: Moonlight and Roses
• Chapter 32: El Dorado
• Chapter 33: A Tiger by the Tail
• Chapter 34: The Old Rustic Bridge by the Mill
• Chapter 35: Welcome to My World