At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [190]
He left soon after. Still dragged the day. He could not think what to do with it. At the pro-Cathedral he looked in at the confessions. The lines snaking from the confessionals were close-packed with uniformed men. The light green and the dark green intermingled, Volunteers and Citizen soldiers, already in prayer the one army. It made him think of laughing, the first in a while. What need had the Castle of spies and informers? In Ireland, if you would know was a rising due, look no farther than the Saturday confessions.
He had stopped inside the door. Now the voices gathered about him, male voices groaning their sins to their beads in their hands. The votary candles flickered, yellow and blue and red, shedding no light only telling the dark about them. The statues all were draped still. A finger poked starkly out of one of them.
He thought of himself at home, when he had looked in on him behind his screen, his stepfather. He was more dead than living now, but still he clung on. Doyler had opened his hand and placed a plug of tobacco there. To chew, he told him, then pointed to his mouth, Chew. The fingers closed on his own fingers, and Doyler had felt them pulling him down. Sweet Jesus, but that man clung to life. And Doyler understood that. He too would cling to life. That life which all his thinking years he had dreamt to spend in a magnificent cause. He’d take this miserable existence instead. He would too. He’d never live with himself, but he’d take it, and hate himself ever on. Jesus, I’m too coward to turn back even.
He turned on his heel. He must go to Jim. Even while he thought this, he did not believe it. He was making for the Russell Hotel. Across the river, past Trinity, up Grafton Street to the Green. He sent in a note. It seemed he must wait an age before the coach-house door would open. He followed the boots up the stairs. He stood on the bed-frame and slid the skylight open. He stepped back. He hadn’t spoken a word to the boots. Now he just nodded for him to go first. The boots did as told. Then Doyler pulled himself out and replaced the skylight. He led the boots creeping along to the pit where two roofs pitched. The boots kept his back to him. Doyler didn’t know was he shy or ashamed. He didn’t care. He pressed up behind, he had his hands at the boy’s buttons undoing them. The black trousers came down, he tugged at the drawers. He had himself unbuttoned now. He lifted the tail of the boy’s shirt. He kept one hand on his back pushing down, the other round his waist. The boots staggered to his hands and knees. Doyler too went down on his knees where the surface scraped his skin. He spat and rubbed his spittle in. He pushed. He pushed till it hurt but he could gain no way. He took a hand to aim but still he could do nothing. He rammed against the stupid flesh. He took hold of the boots with his hands on his thighs and tugged him backward. He could do nothing. He could not even do this.
“Christ almighty,” he cursed, “ain’t you use for nothing?”
He gave a mighty shove at the boots who tottered forward. He leant back on his hunkers. The boots was sniffing back his sobs. His fingers pulled at his drawers, his trousers. Crouching the way he was he couldn’t get his shirt tucked in.
“What are you snivelling for anyway? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“You didn’t need to be so rough.”
“You want to see me rough? Throw you off the roof, then you’ll know me rough all right.”
“You didn’t have to be rough with me.”
“Ah will you shut your snivel. What manner of a man are you I don’t know. Right sheela.”
He still hadn’t turned round. He was still kneeling, fumbling with his shirt and holding his trousers up the same time.
“Ah lookat here,” said Doyler exasperated. “Turn round for God’s sake till I sort you out.”
He didn’t turn but he let Doyler coax him round. Doyler pulled the trousers down. He straightened the shirt tail, then pulled the trousers up properly, buttoning the waistband. “You can do the rest for yourself,” he