The Deadwood Encore

Kathleen Murray

• Publisher: The Borough Press
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN:
  9780008524227
• eBook ISBN:
  9780008524203
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A brilliantly inventive and witty novel about legacy and birthright from Kathleen Murray, Ireland's brightest new literary voice.

Frank Whelan is the seventh son of a seventh son, so by now should have inherited his father's legendary healing power, but still hasn't managed to graduate beyond small-time skin afflictions.

He already feels adrift when his twin, Bernie, reveals a life-changing decision that calls into question everything Frank thought he knew about his place in the family. And then he discovers his father had been keeping secrets of his own.

And so Frank turns to an unlikely source for guidance and finds himself on a quest for answers… from this world, and the next.

A boundlessly inventive novel about the past's hold over the present, set in an Irish community alive with old magic and extraordinary possibility, The Deadwood Encore is an electrifying debut from one of Ireland's most acclaimed short-fiction authors.

Wolf Night

Even though I wake late enough the next morning, I can still hear the Mater snoring away. I take my cup of tea and a smoke into the garden, head down to sit in the gazebo. Although Bernie’d often be out all night, or left the house before I’d get up, it feels different now I know he’s gone. Sounds like they had the craic in London.

Maybe I’ll take a trip over when I get my money back off of Hopper. I wouldn’t mind seeing Bernie, face to face. Wonder what he’d make of it all: the Deadwood and Letty, Oddsey’s place, Rose and Mrs EB and their shenanigans with the bathhouse. That rock pool with the fish lit up, pure wild stuff you couldn’t make up.

I’m looking up at Bernie’s bedroom window and I’m not half as annoyed with him as I was. When you think of what Tara was saying that night about watching her grandmother disappear bit by bit, mentally, even though her body’s still there; she was fading out the way the night comes in. One thing I would’ve always said about Bernie, he’s himself and you know what you’re getting. I know now that’s not a hundred per cent accurate, but I suppose he’ll become more himself, in a weird way. More true or something. Maybe I’m getting more and more like myself too, whatever that looks like.

I can hear the Mater calling for me inside. She’s puttering around the kitchen, laying out bits of grey furry material across the table. ‘You’re up already,’ she goes. ‘I’m after getting an emergency call from Cissy.’

Some parent is after having a fit because they used real rabbit skins on the choir costumes. Only the collars and ears, mind, but they have to switch to fun fur.

‘Two of them is vegans.’

‘The kids?’ I goes. ‘What age are they?’

‘Too young for that carry-on.’

I pick up a key ring off the table, a rabbit’s foot.

‘Paddy Curran gave me a couple of them, along with the skins,’ she goes. ‘Cissy was going to give them out as prizes. For the best behaved. That’s gone by the wayside now. I may pick up some lollipops later.’

There’s a nice feel to the foot, fur tapering down to the nail. I stick it in my pocket.

‘What are you up to for the day?’ she goes.

‘Nothing much. Head in around five. They’re putting the scallions on early this year.’

‘That’s probably because of the lights.’

‘What’s that about?’

‘What’s going to happen is once it gets dark, they’re going to have every light extinguished all down Barrack Street and Tullow Street, even the shops windows, signs, everything, and then a celebrity is going to turn a big switch and these old-fashioned lights will come on.’

‘What celebrity?’

‘Is it that hat designer Laurence Connell? They were going to do a whole show, Parnell’s speech and the whole shebang, but that’s gone by the wayside.’

‘Who’s Parnell?’

‘Charles Stewart. He was the original one brought electricity to Carlow. The Great Electrifier. But the money got used up on the trees.’

‘Trees?’

‘That whole row of trees from the Cattle Mart up to Glitz and Bitz had to be cut down. Dutch tree disease.’

‘You’d think they’d be insured for that kind of thing.’

‘Anyway I’m off,’ she says, packing up her sewing bag. ‘See you later, son,’ and she’s gone out the back door.

So I’ve the house to myself again. I go into the sitting room and see what’s on the box. Nothing much, as per usual. When I’m emptying out my rucksack, I find the Katie Taylor cut-out stuck in the front pocket. Have a hard look into her eye sockets, give her a wink she can’t return, before I put my lighter to her leg and peg her into the fireplace. A whoosh of flame, paper curls up, then a leaf of white ash drifts across the grate. That’s the end of that.

Around two o’clock, I lay into a box of fish fingers and oven chips. The day is feeling long drawn out. If this is how it’s going to be without a job and Bernie away, maybe I will see if Murt has anything going for me, workwise.

I get a message from Hopper checking to see everything went okay last night with the Mater. He left the car back and gave it a good clean out; the hamster delivered eight babies, all uneaten.

Two missed calls from Bernie. I get a can of Coke from the fridge and settle into an armchair to give him a ring.

Straight off, he’s telling me about his job at the hospital and some supervisor he has who fancies him, some Spanish lad. He was showing Bernie how to clean the toilets and sinks and all that; they take it real serious, not just a quick wipe and off you go. He really went into detail, dragging it out, as if Irish people never did a lick of cleaning in their lives.

‘Are you thinking of staying?’ I ask.

‘Nah. I’ve brought hardly any gear with me. Want to go back to college. I’m going to get a bit of cash together first.’

I’m relieved he’s coming back. He’s going on about this club he’s going to next weekend. Some friends of his from Kilkenny are over for the summer; he might move in with them.

‘What did the Mater say when you told her?’ I goes.

‘What?’

‘You didn’t tell her, did ya?’

He starts going on about not getting a chance to talk to her properly on her own; how he didn’t want to upset her on holidays.

‘Not having a chance to talk to her? You’ve just spent four days only the two of you together.’

‘What if she doesn’t want to be around me? It happens, you know.’

‘That’s bullshit.’

If he turned inside out, the Mater’d still want him around. Probably put him up on her shelves and talk to him every day. It’s not like Bernie to be behind the door with this kind of thing; when he came out, he practically took a full-page ad in the Nationalist.

‘Eventually you’ll have to say something,’ I says. ‘At the end of the day, better to get it over sooner.’

‘You don’t get it, Frank. I seen her reaction to trans people on TV, like they’re a joke or something.’

You’d never think he’d give a shit what anybody thinks.

‘Seriously? That’s just pure ignorance, Bernie. Everyone laughs at things without thinking. She’s not really thinking, that’s all.’

He’s real quiet on the other end, like he’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t know what. Like, it’s obvious to the world and his mother that the Mater is totally mad about Bernie.

‘You’re not those other people, Bernie. You’re family, no matter what happens.’

He goes around the houses a bit before he says what’s stuck in his head. Turns out, years ago when he told the Da, he thought that the Da’d tell her. When that didn’t happen, Bernie took it as a sign she wasn’t going to be happy about it. That’s why the Da was avoiding it. Then the accident happened and for some reason he couldn’t do it himself. He got stuck. We all got a bit stuck. He’s not making sense. I tell him the conversation I had with Murt, how the Da was waiting til he felt Bernie was ready to tell the Mater himself. Then he was gone.

‘We’ve got over worse,’ I say. ‘It’s not like you’re dying.’

‘Actually, I thought I was going to die yesterday. Couldn’t believe they put me on the floor polisher first thing in the morning.’ He’s back to himself, telling me about this bar he went to from work with jugs of real cheap cocktails. Dying the next day.

‘You know I was only messing with you,’ he goes.

‘What?’

‘Saying about you not having the gift and all that.’

‘I’m not that bothered.’

Now that I think about it, I’m not. Maybe any ordinary Joe could cure warts and rashes if they put their mind to it, but how many is going to bother trying? And I’m starting to kind of get some of the things the Da used to say. Like the whole trick is just having the nerve to hang in there with someone and their problem. Obviously, I’m not going to do that if a fellah comes in with a massive tumour on the side of his head. But there is five different kinds of ringworm at least and warts can be very draining on a person if they get out of control.

‘You’re easier to wind up than a clock,’ he says.

‘Heading into town later. Wolf Night.’

‘I know. First one I’ve ever missed.’

‘It’s not all that anyways.’

‘Send me a clip of the wolf call. That’s the bit I love. Catch you later, bro.’

‘You too, bro. I mean …’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Got your back.’

This time I mean it.

When we were growing up, Wolf Night wasn’t as big a thing. There’d be a pageant near the bandstand where they’d act out the hunting and killing of the last wolf in Ireland. Then it got bigger and they started closing off the main street and having this chase around and it’d end with a party in the middle of town. Now they’ve started adding in different things to make it more of a festival. All the pubs get decorated, have bands in. There’s animal fancy dress, fireworks, céilí dancing, and the scallion eating.

If you think about it, though, the last wolf couldn’t have known he was the last one. So this whole thing where the choir and the town sings the big happy wolf chorus as if the wolf is celebrating doesn’t make a lick of sense. Why would the wolf be celebrating the dawn of a wolf-free Ireland? Or crying about his last night on earth when he wouldn’t actually know? It’s impossible to know the beginning or the end, especially if you’re it.

Heading into town, every place has some kind of decorations up and the streets are hopping. There’s loads of stalls along the river with food and all kinds of gewgaws and there’s carnival rides set up behind the square.

I spot Lena and a group of oddbods standing behind a table with loads of her shit on it; at least the Deadwood was spared that. I duck into the front porch of Waxy’s to avoid her. Murt must’ve persuaded her to keep her crap out of his front window. Small mercies.

I’m meeting Hopper and the lads in the beer tent at Castle Hill. Of course he’s wearing one of those flashing pink wolf collars and ears they’re giving out. He’s in full swing, telling them all about Oddsey’s Bodega and Mila.

‘How’s it going?’ I says.

‘Alright.’ He’s buzzing because he just heard. As part of the prize this year, the brewery’s going to be running scallion eating challenges in their beer tents at all the music festivals and the winner’ll travel around with them. Free passes to everything.

‘Think about it, Frank. You can be my corner man. I texted Mila. She’s already got tickets for Live at the Dive in Bairdstown. This summer’s going to be epic.’

Trust Hopper to get us sorted for a good time, even without cash or jobs. Nice one.

We’ve time for a couple of beers before we head over. On the stage there’s two buckets of scallions waiting. Regular strength. Some fellah in Clonegal’s been cultivating extra strong ones for the final.

We spot the Mater and Cissy Agar herding a group of little wolf children down the street. She gives Hopper a big thumbs up. Loads of people are coming up wishing him luck, doing wolf calls. He’s a very popular winner. Last year this lad from Tullow turned up who’d won some iron stomach competition in college in Dublin. Wasn’t even through a quarter of his bucket by the time Hopper was picking the last scallion out of his choppers.

Me and the boys get a good spot up near the front.

Then Harry Morrissey comes out and announces that the 2017 finals will begin: ‘After scouring the pubs and bars of the county, we’ve narrowed it down to the final four.’

‘That’s all that entered, you lying dog,’ Moose shouts up.

Harry ignores him, ‘So two v two for the first rounds, grand finale at eight o’clock. The scallions are sponsored by Morrissey’s Supermarket. The prize is two hundred and fifty quid, a crate of Scalaters, and free passes to all the major music festivals. Representing your county and our beer. You know the rules, lads: bucket of scallions, washed and trimmed, first one to get them all down.’

With that, Hopper and this real tall young fellah steps up to the table. Never seen him before. Red curly hair and a long nose that nearly goes down over his lip...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Begin the Beguine
• I Need You
• Keeping the Balance
• The Real Deal
• Curing the Kid
• Return of the Da
• Sixth Son of a Seventh Son
• Love in a Home
• What’s the Key?
• d’Emporium
• Warts and All
• The World of Work
• Big Ears, the Brothers, and Waxy’s
• Mater Under the Gazebo
• Don’t Fence Me In
• Lena Cuts Katie
• The Penny Drops
• On the Road
• We’ve Only Just Begun
• Kimchi in Ballycalla
• Mrs EB Arrives
• What Rose Knows
• Hopper’s Nose
• Travelling Down a Lonely Road
• Oddsey’s Bodega
• Ending with a Fish Ballet
• Mapping Out the Search
• The First Glen
• I Believe
• To the Power Of
• Collecting Mussels
• Catch a Falling Star
• Paying Respects
• Our Happy Place
• When You Were Sweet
• Walking the Serpentine
• Always Something New
• Wolf Night
• Love Is the Sweetest Thing
• Author Acknowledgements
• Quoted Materials
• About the Author
• About the Publisher