But my brain taps away at my skull. I moan in protest. My conscience doesn’t give a damn and guilts me into moving. I roll on my front and drool down on to the whiteness. My arms push me up. I feel like a heifer, the weight of me.
I unpack my remains. From my jacket, the pictures: Tony and me, Sadie and you. My father’s pipe that I run my hand over to feel its smooth comfort one last time. Sadie’s hair-clip purse that I hold to my nose for a minute before laying it down with my glasses and my phone.
I search my trouser pocket, for the handkerchief. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? My hand rummages, but it’s gone. Did I drop it? Where? Sitting at the bar? In the toilet? My hand pats at my clothing, at my jacket, as my brain goes over the memories of the evening. And I remember giving it to Hilary. My fingers recognise the plastic bag now, in its hidey-hole, scurrying about under my touch. Thirty little pills. I scoop it out, dig my fingers into the plastic and let the contents spill on to the bed: the yellow, blue and pink. I count them. One all the way to thirty. I get up to get a towel from the bathroom and lay it flat on the writing desk, careful to push the bottle and glass in out of the way. I retrieve the pills from the bed and wrap them in the towel. With the water bottle, I begin to pummel them. Each time I press down with my weight, I cry. Tears that surprise me stream down my face, my neck, reaching my chest. Flow for as far you can go. I’ll not stop you now. And when I’m sure my job is done, I shake the contents of the towel on to the table, my hand corralling all that falls, pushing the multicoloured mess to the edge, tipping it over, into the glass. Tears, pills, everything falling downwards. Tinkle, tinkle. I sit and stare at it, my love-heart mixture. Still crying, for me. I am as reluctant as I am eager to leave this world behind me now.
I got them in Dublin, the pills. Tried to con the Doc into giving me some. But he was having none of it. A counsellor, that’s what he wanted to give me. A fecking counsellor.
Didn’t take me as long as I’d thought to find Gizzo up in Dublin. Tall as a giraffe and a Jimi Hendrix tattoo on his left hand. Not that young David ever knew why I questioned him so much about his misguided youth. Walked into the Galley Bar and there he was, sat in the corner booth. I wore an old, moth-eaten coat, long enough to cover my shotgun strapped to my belt. All I was short of was a Stetson and a horse.
‘I hear you supply all sorts,’ I said to him. Another lad sat beside him, Deco or Eamo maybe. We didn’t exactly introduce ourselves. Gizzo had me up out of the place fairly lively. His hand jammed right into my armpit, pushing me through the doors.
‘What the fuck, man? You can’t be at that in there. You’ll get me barred,’ he said, hoisting me down a lane behind the pub. My blood was pumping. What was the worst he could do, I kept saying over and over in my head, shoot me? Wouldn’t that’ve been a good one?
‘I’m a friend of David’s. David Flynn,’ was all I could think of babbling, God forgive me, I hope the kid never finds out.
‘David? Fuck me, man. Haven’t heard from him in years. Heard the Da died.’
Polite young man, I have to say.
‘You can get anything you want, old-timer,’ he told me when I’d explained my predicament, ‘once you’re willing to pay through the nose.’ How he laughed at that one. ’Course, I didn’t know what I wanted, I just knew what the end result needed to be. I waited a half hour or so in the lane with the rubbish and the used condoms until he came back like he said he would.
‘Amiods, Digs and Zeps man. Just crush ’em and mix ’em. Wash ’em down with a bit of booze. And bam. Gone. Adios, amigo.’ I took the little bag he offered and left. Had there been a follow-up survey, he’d have gotten five stars.
I shake those crushed pills about in the glass, still fascinated by them, by this, by me.
There’ll be no letter, Kevin. That’d take a whole evening in itself. Instead I want you to hear my voice, so you know for sure this is what I want. My voice. Did I ever tell you it was my voice your mother fell in love with?
‘So deep and smooth,’ she said, not long after we were married, ‘I could’ve closed my eyes and listened to it all day, the first time we met.’ Imagine.
From the bed, I take your picture, my phone and glasses and bring them to the writing desk. The towel, I fold and push towards the end. Jefferson’s, pills, phone and picture – all before me. I put on my glasses. Ready at last.
I tip the red button and my voice tumbles out, exhausted but steady:
‘Son, it’s me – Dad. By now, I’ll be, em … gone. I’m not one for letters, as you know. How many of those have you gotten from me over the years, what? No, that was more you and your mother. You were good with the words, the two of you. You got it from her, of course.
‘I want you to know, son, I’m sorry. Not for dying, not for going, although I … I know it won’t be easy. But no, I mean, sorry for the father I’ve been. I know, really I do, that I could’ve been better. That I could’ve listened more, that I could’ve accepted you and all you’ve become with a little more grace. I’m in awe of you, is the truth of it. The man you are, the goodness you possess, your brightness, your cleverness. I feel a lesser man standing beside you, having watched you grow into this big strapping man of letters.
‘I want you to know I’ve read your articles, every one. It took me a while, I’ll admit, but in the last two years I’ve read every one. Even did a bit of your mother on it and looked it all up, and you, yes, I googled you. And there you were. The amount of stuff on you, I couldn’t believe it. Sure you’re everywhere. I even googled myself and there I was missing. So in my own way, I did find you. I met you there in print and on the screen. I’m sorry it’s taken me until now to tell you I see it – I see your brilliance and your kindness. I see it all and I love it – I love you.
‘There are things I regret, Kevin, like how I never shook your hand for working beside me every Saturday when you were younger, hating every moment of it but doing it anyway. And how I shut you out when your mother died. That was … that was wrong.
‘God almighty, I had hoped I could spare you the tears but there you go … Achmm, achmm … Sorry now.
‘I drank your Jefferson’s tonight. She’s a beauty. I raised a glass in your honour. I had a toast for your mother and Auntie No-no and little Molly and your Uncle Tony too.
‘I want you to know I’ve gone on my own terms, Kevin. This life has been good to me. This is no tragedy. You know I’m not one for illness or nursing homes; I couldn’t have done that, Kevin, because the way I saw it, that’s where we were headed. Be honest, it’s better this way.
‘I remember Rosaleen holding your hand the day of your mother’s funeral. She’s a good woman, Rosaleen. I know I’ve not given her the credit she’s deserved over the years. Tell her I’ve asked that she hold your hand again now.
‘To my Adam and Caitríona, I send my deepest, deepest love. I know I must’ve played the part of crotchety grandfather well for them over their young years. Give them a kiss for me and tell them Granny and Grandad will be watching over them.
‘The will is sorted. Robert has that for you. Everything is taken care of. The land and home is sold and every business interest I’ve ever had has also been taken care of. You’ll find that all the proceeds are yours, sitting in several bank accounts, except of course for the one in Adam and Catríona’s names. I wanted to leave no headache for you. All is ready for you to live your life.
‘There is, of course, the issue of the hotel, this hotel. I own half. It’s a long story and one I’m sure Emily will tell you. You’ll remember Emily from your wedding, nice lady. I want her to have it, Kevin, the hotel; I’m giving it back, although her mother may have something to say on that. She can do what she wants with it then. It’s best that way. I’ll let her fill you in on it all, no need to bore you with the detail now. But one other thing, you know that brother of Rosaleen’s, your man who was one of your grooms men, can’t remember his name, but you might introduce him to Emily someday, I’ve a feeling they might hit it off. And there’s a few bob there for a lad called David as well. Robert’ll tell you about him.