Dando-I now realised he meant more to me than most people I'd met since. He'd been a brutal bastard, but he was genuine and honest-with me at least-and immune from any pretentiousness. I hadn't laughed as forcefully in the seven or eight years since our friendship dissolved.
What did I have now? I still held on to Helen and Seamus but only then by the skin of my teeth. How easy it could have been to consign them to the back of my head, dusting them off now and then to massage my need for nostalgia. It would be better for them too, as I'd see them both in a honeyed light; that charitable bent the mind always seems to adopt in moments of reflection. How could I pretend, now they were back in my life? I didn't know the real Seamus any more though he must exist somewhere under all those layers of artifice. And Helen seemed almost self-satisfied with her lot, as if what were happening to her separated her from everyone else, marked her out for a special destiny, no matter how black it proved to be. I felt a prickle of anger when I realised she was exploiting a need for her that I thought (and hoped) I'd beaten over the years. She was probably gloating even now, that she could hold sway over my life after just a few months of tenderness that occurred years ago. But I was probably being unfair to them both. It would have been nice for them to contact me under different circumstances, but at least they'd done it. I hadn't lifted a finger. I should be turning some of this bile on myself, seeing what I was made of for a change, but it was either something I wasn't ready for or something of which I was incapable.
It was just after seven. I was in no mood to continue with the parries and deflections of our first conversation and was in half a mind to contact Helen and call off the evening. There was too much to think about already; I didn't want another bout of ghost stories to keep me awake all night, waiting for something portentous to reveal itself. I wanted to see the girl again. I didn't for a moment believe that I would never see her again. It just wouldn't be up to me; she would reveal herself. She seemed that type of person.
The afternoon's beer had made me sluggish. It would be nice to curl up in bed with something brainless playing on the TV. Instead, I drank a pint and a half of water before deciding to dress against the mood's grain which had developed throughout the day. On went a Daffy Duck T-shirt, improving my temperament enormously. How could the others speak of shadows and danger while I was acting the fool? Hopefully we would talk of lighter things this evening.
True to form, Seamus turned up at the guest house with quarter of an hour to spare. Even his punctuality unnerved me. I felt awkward, tying up my boots while he hovered, flicking through my paperbacks and tapping on the window as he looked into the street. If he asked about my paintings, I'd tell him I'd burned the lot.
'Anyone interesting die today?' I asked him.
He gave me a name but I didn't recognise it. 'She was an economist and a translator. Italian ambassador to Washington too. Leukaemia. Seventy-four.'
I ushered him out of my room. I might have laughed had I tried to say something. Would he think I was ridiculing him if I asked whether or not he kept files on dead public figures? At college it just seemed like a bit of a lark, an idiosyncrasy by which we recognised Seamus or referred to him. He would enter a room, crestfallen, to announce the death of an Australian chef or a joke writer or a stalwart of the Japanese film industry; all unknown to me-and to him, which was where the humour, or his perception of it, lay. It was funny at first, so it was probably my fault for laughing because it encouraged him to repeat his performance every morning. By the time we'd forgotten to laugh, or ignored him, he was into the business of tributes in a big way. He would watch TV specials about a
What did I have now? I still held on to Helen and Seamus but only then by the skin of my teeth. How easy it could have been to consign them to the back of my head, dusting them off now and then to massage my need for nostalgia. It would be better for them too, as I'd see them both in a honeyed light; that charitable bent the mind always seems to adopt in moments of reflection. How could I pretend, now they were back in my life? I didn't know the real Seamus any more though he must exist somewhere under all those layers of artifice. And Helen seemed almost self-satisfied with her lot, as if what were happening to her separated her from everyone else, marked her out for a special destiny, no matter how black it proved to be. I felt a prickle of anger when I realised she was exploiting a need for her that I thought (and hoped) I'd beaten over the years. She was probably gloating even now, that she could hold sway over my life after just a few months of tenderness that occurred years ago. But I was probably being unfair to them both. It would have been nice for them to contact me under different circumstances, but at least they'd done it. I hadn't lifted a finger. I should be turning some of this bile on myself, seeing what I was made of for a change, but it was either something I wasn't ready for or something of which I was incapable.
It was just after seven. I was in no mood to continue with the parries and deflections of our first conversation and was in half a mind to contact Helen and call off the evening. There was too much to think about already; I didn't want another bout of ghost stories to keep me awake all night, waiting for something portentous to reveal itself. I wanted to see the girl again. I didn't for a moment believe that I would never see her again. It just wouldn't be up to me; she would reveal herself. She seemed that type of person.
The afternoon's beer had made me sluggish. It would be nice to curl up in bed with something brainless playing on the TV. Instead, I drank a pint and a half of water before deciding to dress against the mood's grain which had developed throughout the day. On went a Daffy Duck T-shirt, improving my temperament enormously. How could the others speak of shadows and danger while I was acting the fool? Hopefully we would talk of lighter things this evening.
True to form, Seamus turned up at the guest house with quarter of an hour to spare. Even his punctuality unnerved me. I felt awkward, tying up my boots while he hovered, flicking through my paperbacks and tapping on the window as he looked into the street. If he asked about my paintings, I'd tell him I'd burned the lot.
'Anyone interesting die today?' I asked him.
He gave me a name but I didn't recognise it. 'She was an economist and a translator. Italian ambassador to Washington too. Leukaemia. Seventy-four.'
I ushered him out of my room. I might have laughed had I tried to say something. Would he think I was ridiculing him if I asked whether or not he kept files on dead public figures? At college it just seemed like a bit of a lark, an idiosyncrasy by which we recognised Seamus or referred to him. He would enter a room, crestfallen, to announce the death of an Australian chef or a joke writer or a stalwart of the Japanese film industry; all unknown to me-and to him, which was where the humour, or his perception of it, lay. It was funny at first, so it was probably my fault for laughing because it encouraged him to repeat his performance every morning. By the time we'd forgotten to laugh, or ignored him, he was into the business of tributes in a big way. He would watch TV specials about a
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