In the dream he would be walking past the high gate of solid wood at the sawmill yard. It would always be locked, with a big padlock that you could see was unbreakable. He would hear noises behind the gate, like someone was using the big circular saw inside but not properly — he could hear a noise like someone was trying to saw through something less regularly shaped and wetter than wood. Then the screaming noise of the metal being sawed would change to a human screaming as the padlock burst in two and flew off in different directions and the sawmill-yard gate swung inwards and he would be rooted to the ground, just standing there, unable to move as a humped black shape grew from the shadows and then he would see that the black shape had lifted the circular saw and the whole bench from the ground and the screaming blade would be coming straight at him and he would wake with his breath gone from his lungs and his covers would be on the ground and his sheet would be wet with sweat and once his pyjamas were soggy with pee.
WHEN JOHNSEY CAME to he could not see. He was still on the ground; he could feel that his hand was in a puddle of water and he could smell rain and something else that was damp and dirty, like there was a wet dog somewhere near him. There was a taste of metal in his mouth. He could just make out a pulsing light and someone was saying You’re okay, good man, in a soft voice and then he felt himself being lifted and then doors slammed and an engine started and he slipped away. He had the dream again, and this time the black shape had a face and it was the townie fella’s face and it was roaring out of the sawmill yard at him that he was a faggot and a fat cunt and even Eugene Penrose was a bit shocked-looking and wasn’t joining in any more and was saying Ah fuck it, come on, leave him to fuck.
THE NEXT TIME he woke he was in a bed. It wasn’t his own bed, it was harder and there were metal bars either side of him. They were cold to the touch. He could smell something like Dettol mixed with shit. He was fairly sure his eyes were open, but still he couldn’t see. Then a young woman’s voice, soft and soothing, said Did you wake up? and called him love and said Don’t worry now, you’ll be fine, the doctor will be in to you in a few minutes. Then she said some words that he didn’t understand and she click-clacked away into the distance.
He spent a few minutes trying to have thoughts one after the other instead of all together. He was in hospital, obviously. He had a clear memory of being knocked down on his arse by Eugene Penrose. There had been a townie lad with Eugene and the boys and Johnsey had a memory of the townie lad descending on him in a whirling cloud of punches and kicks, but it was like he was looking at what happened through the glass of a toilet window. He remembered thinking this fella was going to murder him and he’d be on the news and they’d show the pump with a yellow tape all around it and a little bangharda minding the murder scene and there’d be a bunch of flowers left by the Unthanks and they’d interview random villagers who would say Sure he never harmed anyone, his parents were lovely people, he always kept himself to himself, isn’t it a fright to God that this could happen in our lovely village?
There were little pinpoints of light flashing on and off and that was all he could see. They must have kicked him in the eyes. Could you kick a man’s eyes out of his head? It didn’t seem likely. Still, Mother always said them townies were fit for anything. He remembered feeling like something was exploding in his head every time that ratty lad’s runner connected with him. He should have covered himself up better. But he remembered that feeling of letting go and falling apart that came over him and it must have been after that that his defences crumbled altogether.
He was in some stew now: no mother or father to mind him and he as blind as a stone. Would he be able to manage to get a cartridge into Daddy’s shotgun even? Knowing his luck he’d miss his useless brain and blow half of his face off and he’d spend the rest of his born days being a blind monster, sitting on a chair somewhere with people lining up to scare themselves by looking at him. Some would be brave and they’d come up right close and poke him. Others would only be able to look at him through their fingers — the women mostly. Children would cry and try to run away, but parents would make them look and they’d say Now, look at what’s waiting to come for you if you’re bold, he’s the bogeyman and he eats bold children. And he’d sit there, unseeing, with one old Cyclops eye left and a mad, useless eyeball rolling around inside in it.
IF THOSE NEIGHBOURS of Daddy’s relations were able to give themselves over to the devil to get their hands on land that wasn’t theirs, why couldn’t Johnsey do the same now to get up out of this bed and be a different man? He could make a solemn pact that on his death he’d travel straight to hell and give eternity in scorching fires. In return he’d be transformed into a man who could rise up out of this coward’s cradle, sight restored, with muscles all over him like that vampire fella with the blonde girlfriend and he’d slap the nurse’s arse as he left in his cool grey suit and sunglasses and they’d all stand there shocked to see this handsome hero stride out of the hospital and one woman at least would faint away at the sight of him. God had deserted him, so why shouldn’t he switch sides? The devil might give him a better run of it.
That was the thing about the devil, though, Johnsey knew: he would promise you the world and every blue and green and growing thing in it and give nothing but more torment. Didn’t he try that old trick with Our Lord and he famished and parched in the desert? Lies is the devil’s currency. You wouldn’t catch Jesus making deals like that crowd beyond who had all the land they wanted but no immortal souls to call their own and the gates of heaven barred to them.
THE NURSE with the Lovely Voice whispered back in to say the doctor was very busy and would visit him on his normal rounds this evening. It was two now. He’d had woeful bad luck in the eye department, by the Lovely Voice’s account. His poor old eyes had had two separate strokes of bad luck: Eugene and the townie and the other two apes had split his left eye right open. A surgeon had stitched it back up. And his retina in his other eye had been knocked from its rightful place and the same surgeon took that eye right out of his head and fixed it up and stuck it back in but it wouldn’t be fully right again for a good few weeks; the upshot was he would not be blind forever and wasn’t that great news and sure he supposed it was.
The other big news, said the Lovely Voice, was that his right arm was broken clean in two and was in a plaster cast and so were three of his ribs but they would have to heal themselves without the help of a cast. He had massive bruising on his legs and back. When he was admitted his head had been swollen but there was no damage to his brain (no surprise there, he nearly said, there wasn’t much to be damaged) and the swelling was nearly fully gone down now and a cat scan had been done and from there Johnsey was lost again, swimming against a tide of big words.
He had one big question he needed to ask but he was damned if he was going to go embarrassing the owner of that lovely voice. How was he going to go to the jacks? And just as the question presented itself in front of his blind eyes, she answered it, as if she could read his mangled thoughts — a cat eater had been inserted into him and that would drain his bladder. It was all cats in this place. Now that she mentioned it, something was not quite right down there. His mickey felt like it had more going on than usual; it wasn’t quite sore, but it wasn’t the height of comfort either. What about it? Just as long as this cat eater didn’t bite.