Cassandra Voices

Tag: Camillus John

  • Unforgettable Year: September 2020

    As summer gave way to a season of mist and mellow fruitfulness in September Covid-19 returned with a vengeance, but by now there was considerable disagreement over elusive facts.

    Frank Armstrong interrogated unreliable accounts in the Irish media, and the doomsday scenarios of a number of scientists.

    The main go-to-man among Irish scientists for the Irish media has been Trinity Professor of Immunology Luke O’Neill. On June 22nd he claimed that Ireland would have had 28,000 deaths if there hadn’t been a lockdown.

    The piece earned praise on Twitter from Irish Times journalist Ronan McGreevy.

    Andrea Reynell, meanwhile, looked for new ways of socialising during The New Abnormal; although having to order a meal made the idea of going out for a drink less appealing.

    It is easy for some premises that already served food. But it is a bit of a pain knowing that you’re spending more than you want, all for the sake of a socially-distanced drink.

    Divers on Dublin Bay.

    That month we receive the first in a series of articles from underwater photographer Daniel Mc Auley. The first acquainted us with the hidden world below Dublin Bay.

    The silt and sandy bottom around Dublin Bay is in a state of constant motion, drawn by the strong tidal flows moving down the east coast of the country. These massive sand banks are also easily disturbed by strong southerly or easterly winds, leading to dramatic drops in visibility when a strong wind blows. Unlike the deep water off the west coast, Dublin Bay is a relatively shallow body of water with a primarily sandy bottom.

    Coral Garden Dalkey Island, Dublin Bay. Image (c) Dan Mc Auley

    Another new contributor Neil Burns wrote movingly following his work in addiction services:

    Heroin addicts tend to mate for life. Like dilapidated swans – twisted in a deadly alliance they dance and embrace towards a finality of breath. Like a sculpture in a Giorgio de Chirico painting. It is an ersatz marriage of sorts, sharing needles – inveigling that sharp, finite pain. Into the vein. The arm. The thigh. Leaving rack-marks like horse gallops that tear up the grass on a racecourse. Puckered, indeed, punctured skin. Delving into the life’s blood. The blood’s life which is cherished. Next to Godliness. Spike island. Feel like Jesus’ son was The Velvet Underground’s lyric. Warm blanket to insulate against the world’s harshness. Being judged. Much of it in the head and coveted paranoia.

    While Boidurjo Rick Mukhopadhyay was considering The Rise of the Machines:

    f you have already worked out that whoever lives inside your phone when you say ‘Hey Siri’ or ‘Hey Google’ can read emails out to you, find the nearest movie theatre, or reserve a restaurant table, then Artificial Intelligence (AI) is already in your life.

    Image: Luke Fitzherbert

    Next, Luke Fitzherbert despaired at Lebanon’s rotten leadership after a massive explosion that rocked Beirut:

    The impact of the explosion is hard to understate. Its sound and force stretched for miles, releasing a huge mushroom cloud that killed close to two hundred people, and scarred thousands both physically and mentally; destroyed countless homes, and leaving once vibrant streets desolate. The immediate aftermath was dystopian: “It was like a movie. People moving slowly, covered in blood, glass shattered everywhere. Leaving a whole city riddled with PTSD,” recalled one witness.

    And in the wake of Amy Coney Barrett’s appointment to the Supreme Court David Langwallner reckoned it was game over for American democracy.

    We found a gem to be September’s Musician of the Month:

    My name is Gemma Dunleavy and I’m a yapper. I’d talk the handle off a cup. I also write and play music. I see myself as a storyteller first, then a musician. It’s where I feel my true gift is, my natural comfort is in meandering through my memories, picking out the best details to paint the clearest picture in the heads of those listening.

    Also in music coverage Brian Mooney was keeping the conversation going after the tragic loss of his wife to cancer:

    six months now. A year of firsts. A lot of lessons learnt. A new wisdom.

    And I feel quite stupid and not quite intelligent enough. Exposed, as my better half who I was always so proud to be beside has gone away.

    I have to build now. My friends are close and music has kept the conversation going…

    We enjoyed futuristic fiction from Camillus John:

    Gasping for a hit, Carl made himself a fresh cup of coffee. But big-nosed and bat-eared, when he tried to slam it, the steaming brown liquid dribbled down his chin to piddle over his pink tie and white shirt. His accountant’s uniform.

    Also in fiction, Yona Shiryan Caffrey brought a portrayal of cocooning widows in rural Israel in Tina.

    There were poetry submissions from Haley Hodges ‘Make of Me a Microcosm’:

    …. Myriad music still marks her mind, her memory,
    Music of mending and meaning, naming and being—
    Music of mackerel meandering, matter and mass,
    Metaphysical music marching from moment to minute

    As well as a number of works from Mischa Willett, along with the irrepressible Kevin Higgins, who wondered at the longevity of Henry Kissinger:

    For its birthday, a baby gets Spina bifida
    A Bengali family have all their arms sawn off.
    Fifty bodies topple into the sea off Indonesia
    but none of them are Henry Kissinger
    Each time Henry Kissinger again fails to die

    Unforgettable Year: January 2020

    Unforgettable Year: February 2020

    Unforgettable Year: March 2020

    Unforgettable Year: April 2020

    Unforgettable Year: May 2020

    Unforgettable Year: June 2020

    Unforgettable Year: July 2020

    Unforgettable Year: August 2020

     

  • Talking Through Your Chin-Box 3.2

    Gasping for a hit, Carl made himself a fresh cup of coffee. But big-nosed and bat-eared, when he tried to slam it, the steaming brown liquid dribbled down his chin to piddle over his pink tie and white shirt. His accountant’s uniform.

    ‘Fuck!’ He’d forgotten the stitch-up already. His lips weren’t even that sore. His doctor had done a fine job. No gaps. Nothing could get into his mouth now. Not the normal way. Ingenious. Time was at a premium, that is if he didn’t want to be scalded. So with a tea towel, Carl did his best to sop up all the coffee off his face and clothes. Behind him, the door swung open. And from where, with a crash, the handle had hit the wall, some flaking paint fell to the floor. Looking down, before she stepped over it, in came his wife.

    ‘We have to get that door fixed.’

    She saw it. The gold thread razzle-dazzling his mouth. Extra strength.

    ‘So after I specifically told you not to, you went and got your mouth stitched up, didn’t you? Isn’t that right? You disgust me Carl.’

    Taking off his coffee-stained jacket and tie, he looked directly at Nicola, who mimicked a quite convincing fit of dry retching, and then said,

    ‘You’ll be sick now and have to swallow your own vomit. You’ve gone and done it, haven’t you? You’ve only gone and done it.’

    ‘Yes. I have gone and done it. I’m not getting the sack. No way.’

    At which, she jumped back from him.

    ‘What the hell sort of a sound was that?’

    ‘It’s my new voice. Rather thought you’d like it, Nicola. You were always a Columbo fan, weren’t you? Still are, far as I know. It’s the voice of Peter Falk, isn’t it?’

    ‘Trying to be funny Carl? Because I’ve a left foot here that’ll soon sort that out, when swiftly raised to your anatomy’s pendant parts.’ She said this, moving in towards him.

    ‘Hold on. See this pimple on my chin? Right in the middle? Come closer for a look, because it’s been fitted quite snugly.’

    ‘Yeah, I can see it alright. Wasn’t there this morning, when you left for the office.’

    ‘I know it wasn’t. Because it’s not a pimple. It’s the Chin-Box 3.2. Now that they’ve stitched my lips together, henceforward I’ll talk out of it. Oh, and I can tune it to any voice in the world.’

    Akimbo, Nicola stared into his talking Chin-Box 3.2, as she picked up his coffee cup. The hankie he handed her was for the dregs that dribbled down her chin, as in one gulp, she drained what was left.

    ‘You mean to say, out of all the voices in the entire world, you picked Peter fucking Falk from Columbo? Is that what you’re telling me through your Chin-Box 3.2, Carl? Well, is it?’

    To this, Carl said nothing, now unbuttoning his white shirt. He took it off, and Nicola watched his hairy chest throw the shirt, along with the pink tie, into the washing machine. His hairy spine then walked past her to the far side of their small apartment. Where, from the bedroom wardrobe, he took out a fresh white t-shirt which, in small print on the front read, ‘With Millions of Invisible Advertisements.’

    Returning to the kitchen, he answered, ‘Yes, Nicola. It is. That’s what I’m telling you. Through my Chin-Box 3.2. And as I said, I won’t be getting sacked any time soon. Now, the next time I sneeze, there’s no danger that my nose will fall off of my face. We’re ok for rent. Well, for the next while, at least. And for the foreseeable future, I’ll be talking out of my Chin-Box 3.2, so get used to it.’

    ‘Was that the actor, Leonardo Di Caprio just then?’

    ‘No. It was a mixture of 50% Donald Duck and 50% Bono. I think. I’m only getting used to the controls. Messing around a bit.’

    ‘Who knew that combination would sound like Leo Di Caprio.  I must have a look at how you did that. But you’re trying to play on my love of hip-hop. You’ll not get around me that easily. Did I not say to you, “Don’t get your mouth stitched up, Carl?” That it’s unproven in the fight against the Gordian Worm Virus? Didn’t I?’

    ‘Yes, you did. And your bat-eared boy didn’t listen. Because you’re wrong.’

    Stomping over to the other side of the kitchen table, Nicola fished around in her handbag for a small box which, in front of Carl’s big nose, she placed on the table.

    ‘Is that what I think it is, Nicola?’

    She pulled up a chair to sit at the table, and crossing her arms, looked him straight in the eye.

    ‘It is, Carl. In my view, the Eat-Babies theory is correct.  The Stitch-Your-Lips-Up theory is pure gastroenteritis. Inconsistent and dribbly, indeed. This here is a small box of baby G worms that I’ll eat, and in so doing, become immune to their poison. It’s like that old Turkish delight of a king, Mithridates of Pontus taking small amounts of poison. So many people wanted to kill him, but he developed an immunity. Quite ingenious really. Millions of years BC this was. And people were quite thick back then, relatively speaking. So that’s what I’m going to do, Carl.’

    ‘Won’t they just lay eggs in your body? And therefore those eggs will travel to your brain, hatch and lay more eggs. Hatch, and eventually, when you sneeze, your nose falls off. They’ll burst out of your head, leaving you completely sacked, forthwith.’

    ‘No Carl. They’re dead baby worms. Dead.’

    ‘Oh well. Dead babies. That makes it all right doesn’t it? Do you have any sort of conscience?’

    ‘No. They’re worms, Carl. Just worms. I can’t afford a conscience and by the way, neither can you. If it were otherwise, we’d all be sacked. Now, it’s your turn to get used to it. So please do. I’m eating worms. Dead baby G worms. And I’m making sure to chew each one at least twenty times before swallowing, as the very nice chap in the shop told me to do.’

    Around the wooden kitchen table, the two of them sat in silence, staring at the box before them. Inside the box, dead baby worms were floating in some kind of fluid.

    ‘You know Kevin, from downstairs on the second floor?

    Of course I do. You know I do, Carl. Nice man. He works for the Post Office or whatever it’s called now.’

    ‘Not any more, he doesn’t. His nose fell off last week. Got sacked before his two nostrils hit the ground. Seems they’re evicting him from the building tomorrow. If it hasn’t happened already. In the middle of the night. With baseball bats.’

    Nicola pushed back from the table. Her chair scraped noisily across the wooden floor.

    ‘What sort of a voice was that?’

    Carl was fiddling about furiously with the Chin-Box 3.2 controller on his phone.

    ‘70% Margaret Thatcher and 30% Ronald Reagan, I think. Might’ve been a bit of George Dubya in there as well. Thinking of using that as my new work voice. What do you think? It’d be great for any promotions coming up.’

    ‘I think if you’re talking like that, getting your lips sewn together with golden thread has done far worse things to your mind than ever having Gordian worms running wild about it. Like, how will you sleep in your condition?’

    I’ll sleep fine, Nicola. Don’t worry about that.’

    ‘No you won’t. I sleep beside you every night, and I know. You haven’t thought this through. Budgeting being your forte, you’re supposed to be an accountant for god’s sake. Even before you got your lips sewn together, every second night, religiously, at 3 am, you saw giant insects coming in through the bedroom windows. With less air getting in to your bunged-up mind, God only knows what you’ll see. With less and less circulating your head, by the end of the month, I’ll be married to a person whose brain is the size of an amoeba. Can’t believe those adverts finally convinced you to stitch yourself up. This isn’t on, Carl. You’re a fucker, and you know it. How will you eat?’

    Standing, he went to his light blue holdall. The one with the two gold stripes, which now matched the thread in his lips. His hands rummaged inside for a considerable length of time until, onto the kitchen table, he slapped something long and snakelike.

    ‘Via my Cheek-Tube, Nicola. That’s how I’m going to eat. Through my Cheek-Tube 400.’

    Backing away from him, she nearly collided with the door, shaking her head from side to side to side to side and foaming at the mouth.

    ‘So from now on, you’re gonna eat through a tube?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘A tube? Really?’

    ‘Yes. It’s the Cheek-Tube 400. Top of the range. I just insert one end of the tube into my cheek like so, where they’ve cut a small tube-hole insertion point, if you can see it, and then put the other end of the tube into my food, and press this button on the side, and hey presto Nicola, HEY PRESTO!’

    Selecting a breakfast bowl with rainbow butterflies on the outside, into it he put three Weetabix. And after an unstinting splash of cold milk, he pushed the appropriate end of the tube into the bowl. With no noise or effort whatsoever, up his Cheek-Tube 400, the Weetabix disappeared, travelling in a more mashed and condensed form, to the inside of his mouth. Then through theatrical ums, and ahs, while he was chewing, gulping, swallowing, and speaking in different voices, he said through his Chin-Box 3.2, ‘Watch this!’

    ‘I can chew, swallow and talk all at the same time. Look Ma! No hands! From now on, at work, my productivity will sky rocket. It’s a win-win for everybody. I won’t be able to sneeze anymore, because my lips are stitched together, Nicola. The World Health Organisation has stated quite categorically that before anyone sneezes they open their mouth and then a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo. If you can’t open your mouth then no a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo a-tish-hoo can happen, and therefore no sneezing ever again. This means my nose won’t fall off.  If, at any point, I’m infected with the G Worm virus, and forced by my boss, into a Pass-the-Hankie scenario, I’ll be able to blow at my own pace. Nice and slow. Or fast and furious! But my nose won’t fall off my face, because I can’t open my mouth. I’m back in complete control again! Cool Carl, your bat-earred boy wonder. Nicola, even if I do manage to catch the virus my nose won’t fall off. I won’t be sacked. Don’t you get it?’

    ‘I get it. It won’t work. But I do get it. The WHO are wrong. You will sneeze again. But if you believe in all that gastroenteritis hokey-cokey, well then that’s fair enough. I’m not arguing with you any more, Carl. Life’s too short. I’m tired. It’s a bollocks theory but go ahead, it’s your own life to live out how you please. I’m only your wife. Sure why would you even consult me? Eh? Why? I’m only a poor little know-nothing solicitor.’

    ‘Nicola, Eileen McCruddy’s nose fell off this morning. And so too did her husband’s. Do you know Sarah Mince?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well, her nose fell off as well. Do you know Tom Tiddle?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well his nose fell off three times this year already. He’s lost three jobs as a result. In the current recrudescence of the virus, it’s getting more and more expensive to get someone to sew it back on again. Do you know Marty Smarty?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Well, his nose fell off as well. Yesterday.’

    ‘If this goes on much longer, we’ll have no neighbours or friends left. I’m scared, Carl. Everything is shit. So very shit. Fuck it. I’m doing it now. I have to go to work on Monday. I’m eating dead worms right this minute.’

    ‘Are you sure?’

    ‘No, I’m not sure about anything anymore, but I’m doing it anyway. I can’t get my mouth stitched up. I’d suffocate, I would. I’m not built like you. I’ve no other choice.’

    They sat back down, around the table.

    ‘Nicola, have you talked to Susan lately?’

    ‘Yes. We talk every day on the phone. Practically every three or four hours, these last few weeks, since I marooned myself temporarily into our apartment.’

    ‘I’m sorry, but I have to tell you.  Her nose fell off at the weekend. She lost her job on Monday, and she’s being evicted tomorrow morning.’

    ‘What? Carl, she has to come and stay here with us. Most law firms don’t accept no-nosers, even for their first offence. Why didn’t she tell me herself? I was only talking to her earlier this morning on the phone.’

    ‘She was afraid how you’d take it, in your current dread fear of contracting the virus hyper-hysteria. Nicola, are you sure you’re okay with letting her stay here?’

    ‘Of fucking course I am. You’re disgraceful if you think I’d have a problem with letting one of my best friends move in with us for a while. We were at law school together. Disgraceful. Do you have a problem with it? Do you, Carl? You fucker!’

    ‘No, of course I don’t. In fact, I’ve already arranged everything with Susan. She’s all packed and down in the foyer of our building. Just waiting for the okay to come up. Knew I had to check with you first. We’re living in a mad world at the moment. Nothing is certain.’

    Nicola rushed over to Carl and threw her arms around his shoulders. She started to cry.

    ‘I should’ve known you wouldn’t let me down. I love you, Carl. Thank you. Though she should have confided in me first. It’s dreadful she didn’t. Unbelievable really.’

    Putting her lips on his, she kissed him hard. Or tried to. Forgetting his lips were stitched up.

    ‘However golden and shiny the thread, kissing stitched-up lips is absolutely dehumanising. Carl, this has no feeling or warmth whatsoever. How will we survive as a couple without the comfort of kissing?’

    Plunging his left hand down his trouser pocket, he took out an apparatus.

    ‘These are my Loving Lips 4,000. They were included with my Stitch-Up bundle at the doctor’s. Seems I just attach them over my stitched-up lips and hey, presto! Kiss me and find out how good they are, Nicola. Come on. Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me! It has a robot tongue with AI.  4,000 wurps per second.’

    ‘You just made that up, didn’t you?’

    ‘Yeah. Yeah. I don’t know what the 4,000 stands for. Unfortunately, wurps don’t exist yet.’

    Tears streamed down her face, and with the hankie, dabbing at her eyes, she moved towards him. When he too, moved towards her, she closed her eyes and again they kissed. But this time, Kerboom! Bang Boom! Boom! Boom! Like Sidney Opera House fireworks. On New Year’s Eve.

     

    ‘These don’t feel, in any way, like your old lips. Nice though. I’ll give you that, Carl. Nice indeed. Wurps, eh?’

    They kissed again.

    ‘Can you kiss and talk at the same time?’

    ‘Of course.’

    ‘Do George Clooney.’

    ‘A bit old for you, isn’t he?’ said Carl, in a Donald Duck / Ricky Gervais melange.

    ‘Just do it, Carl. Do George Clooney. And stop trying to put me off my food with Ricky fucking Gervais.’

    ‘I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. I’d feel a bit violated to be honest, Nicola.’

    ‘And mix it with Fred from the corner grocery store.’

    ‘He’s a bit young for you, Nicola. I’m shocked. Where has all this come from?’

    ‘Just do it Carl. Without telling me, you got your mouth stitched up. It’s gonna be for at least a year. You owe me big time. Just bloody do it!’

    ‘Ok. Ok. Ok.’

    The banging on their apartment door was Susan. Unable to contain herself any longer, she turned the knob and walked into their living space. The nose she’d already had sewn back on, was running quite badly. By the look of it, probably a backstreet job. She was sweating too. Shaking Carl’s hand, she said, ‘Thanks Carl and Nicola. Thanks so very much for letting me stay with you for a while. I owe you one. Will pay you back when I get another job. Promise.’ And with this, she sneezed. Twice. Into his face. By accident. At least her nose didn’t fall off. Even so, she looked mortified. Depending on how many times you’d already had it re-sewn beforehand, most nose-jobs lasted 7-8 weeks. But with these backstreet jobs, who knew?

    To reassure her, Carl put his right hand into the air to give her the thumbs-up. And in the Chin-Box 3.2 Tarantino voice, he said, ‘You see Nicola, I’ve still got my nose. As I speak, my stitch-up is already paying dividends. Just like the YouTube adverts said it would.’

    Running to the kitchen table, Nicola ripped open her box of worms, and forthwith, put two dead babies into her mouth. As directed by the very nice chap in the shop, she chewed twenty times, and then swallowing hard, re-joined the others.

    ‘Welcome to our home, Susan. Welcome.’

  • How Can Something So Wrong, Feel So Captain Sensible?

    Stone Roses turned the stereo up a few notches, saying to to her sister, ‘That’ll teach you.’

    Smiths turned from the window to reply. ‘Teach what? That White Riot by The Clash is a good song? I already know that. It’s my album, remember? I taught you everything you know. And now Stone Roses, I’m teaching you to turn that bloody music down. Things are kicking off down below on the streets, Man.’

    Stone Roses upped it one more notch, before swiftly switching the music right off and into a nothingness where the sounds of a real riot took over the small airspace of their seventh floor apartment on Church Street in Manchester. Plonking herself down on the sofa, she rummaged for the TV remote.

    From the window, where she stared manically down on all below, Smiths said, ‘Is that Captain Sensible turning on the TV? We already know what they’re going to say’ll just rile us up. It’ll make us angry, Stone Roses. Do you really want all that in your eyes now? Venting fears? Doubts? Hatred? Do you?’ Stone Roses sat back deep into the comfort of the sofa, and folded her arms after she’d switched on the television.

    ‘Yes, I do!’

    For a second or two, Smiths stared at her sister’s nose and then said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. Suit yourself.’

    ‘I always do.’

    ‘I know.’

    ‘Bitch.’

    ‘Slapper.’

    Gazing downwards, Smiths got lost in the streets below, where men, women and children were milling about the place, in an excited state of consciousness. Rising up, it seemed from the shackles of capitalism. At long last! But damn them, she thought. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. To take this form. Unable to grasp at anything solid or primary, her mind swam in strong currents of emotion. It was spinning.

    What they were after was goods, from the shops, she surmised. The meretricious glitter of a consumer society. So they wouldn’t storm an apartment complex, where there was no shop. The Arndale was up the road, and they’d go for that, she was sure. Spinning. It was then that she was awoken from what felt like a reverie by her sister’s sobs.

    Turning, she saw her there, still on the sofa, but now silent. Like transparent worms, the tears streamed down her face, while trying to hold it in, she sniffled. Smiths closed the window and sat down beside her. A strong arm went around Stone Roses, to transfer some warmth.  ‘What’s wrong? It’ll be alright you know. They won’t get in to us. They don’t want people. They want shiny things. Status symbols.’

    Tears still pumping out of her eyes, Stone Roses stood up to take three soft steps towards the television screen and kneel before it, pointing. ‘Look at the people being interviewed. The shop owners. Hear those accents? Recognise their aggression? All the tell-tale signs?’ Smiths now stood, suspecting what would come hurtling at her, hot and heavy. Knowing her sister only too well, she braced herself.

    Stone Roses said,‘Their accents! Their manner! Superciliousness directed at a certain section of society! At us! These shop owners castigate rioters as just plain dumb scumbags. They called us that when we were growing up as well, Smiths.’  Smiths tried to wrap another arm around her in vain. ‘Stone Roses, come on. Sit down. We’ll put on a DVD. Take our minds off the whole thing, you know? Like old times.’

    Animated by her own words now with every passing sentence, Stone Roses even appeared to become physically bigger in the fading light. ‘All those times I felt small in their presence. Really only in their presence. Granted, I never spent too long in there, but..but.. I wouldn’t have been able to withstand it anyway. Brought up under the yoke of their putative superiority. ‘I know it’s wrong. Oh so very wrong, to feel like this, Smiths. But how can something so wrong, feel so Captain Sensible? When I see those infuriated middle-class faces so upset on the telly, it makes me feel glad. And I’m not ashamed of these feelings any more. I see their anger and I want to laugh. I want my fist in the air, in triumph. In revenge for my youth. Our youth, Smiths. Everybody’s youth!’ At this, Smiths stood back watching her sister’s subsequent tears collect on her chin.

    Then she said, ‘It’s alright. I know what you mean. But it’s not good for the soul to ponder such things. Those thoughts will kill you. Because you can’t win. Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think. Get out of this moment. Sprint! Put on that Damien Dempsey album. Take your French pencil out and draw to his lyrics and chord progressions like you usually do. Don’t dwell on this, Stone Roses, please! Float, with Damo, instead?’

    Stone Roses’ tears were arrested by a sudden spark in her eyes. Adulterated thoughts coursed through her veins, and spread so quickly, she knew exactly what came next. What had to be done. Hands thrust into her pockets, she frog-marched over to Smiths. ‘Come on! We’re going downstairs. We’re joining up. Let’s steal back a little dignity. To make the heart strings go zing! Like that old song. The Clash song. You already know all the words backwards at this stage. The lyric made real flesh and blood, come to life.’

    She nearly walked through Smiths, as if she were a ghost. ‘Are you coming?’

    ‘No. Sit down. Calm yourself.’

    ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Smiths. Tweak your own nose, not mine. Blame it on the posh doctors of our youth who played Rugby for Ireland. The ones who called us lazy scumbags, and thus, wouldn’t treat us properly. The ones who’d no respect for patients carrying a medical card, yet on all their earnings had never paid any tax, themselves. Ah, good old Dublin. The good old days.’

    ‘But we’re in Manchester, England now. Across the Irish sea!’

    ‘It’s the same here. Look down at the street, yourself. The people feel the same pain. Maybe they don’t know it consciously, but they do. Come on. Feel the noise! Can you? Or don’t you dare?’

    Yes, Smiths knew Stone Roses only too well. So she walked to the door of the living room, as if going to the toilet. Upon opening it, she stood in the hallway, where she locked it firmly behind her. Realising what had just happened, Stone Roses rushed up to the locked door and banged her arms against it, while Smiths shouted through the keyhole. ‘Direct, non-violent peaceful protest. That’s how we’ll do it, Stone Roses. Not rioting in the streets. You know that. Relax there now, Child. Write some poetry and a literary, yet bitter, autobiography, it’s the only way.’

    In a torrent, Stone Roses drummed her hands against the door. She shouldered it. Elbowed it. Bummed it. And in lashing out at every splinter within its essence, released herself. Next up she whacked her head against it until blood oozed.

    Now back at the window, she looked down on the riot. Inhaling all its unbridled and cacophonous fumes, she smiled before running again headlong at the door and whacking herself once more. And again. Enjoying herself. And again. Rejoicing.

    ‘Now is the time Smiths. Can’t you see? Now is the time to get our own back. It’ll feel good and silky. Open the door!’

    ‘That’s not revenge. It’s just lashing out.’

    Stone Roses wiped the blood from her face with water from the kitchen tap, until the bleeding had just about stopped. She then lashed herself against the door once again, laughing inside and out. Rapping on the door three times, she asked ‘Remember Robin Hood? Well, that’s what we’re doing.’

    ‘You’re not doing anything. It’s them, Stone Roses.’

    ‘And Jesse James. Riding Black Bess. Like Dick Turpin Highwayman. That’s us. Stand and deliver! Us. Robbing the rich, to give to the poor. And oh look at the multitudes of the poor, stretched out on that rack, down below.’

    It was this comment that stabbed Smiths. So easily unsheathed, because Stone Roses knew it for the weapon it was. Right there and then, on the spot, Smiths restrained herself from unlocking the door, to go in, and ram her point home with her fist.

    Her turn now, Smiths kicked the door and head-butted it too when she said, ‘Robin Hood and Jesses James are stories, Stone Roses. They’re just stories. Outside the legends, these people were murderous thieves. Scumbags in real life. They took from the rich alright. But giving it back to its rightful owners, the poor? They forgot all about that, while they drank, raped and stabbed themselves into folklore.’

    Stone Roses knew she had her. Dabbing the blood on her face with a disintegrating hankie, she stood back from the wall and spoke calmly,‘That’s where you haven’t really understood the situation, Sis. Make no bones, you’re the person in this equation with the brain. You should be getting this. Even I know those Robin Hood stories are there, not because they’re true, but because they’re what people want to believe.

    ‘People believe in the romance of robbing the rich to give to the poor because that’s what they dream of, and by believing, they give their consent to a notion that it’s right and proper order to rob the rich and give to the poor. It’s allowed. Everyone has already cheered this past the finishing line a long, long time ago. That’s one hundred per cent. No one can argue. It’s justified and ancient. Rob the rich, and give their money to the poor. The real facts don’t matter. Only the goal and dream of ultimate justice. I think another chap with a beard said similar things in Galilee a long time ago too, Stone Roses. Do you not remember all those sermons on Sunday, when they weren‘t molesting us?’

    Everything went quiet in the hall. Ten seconds passed, before the door unlocked, and in walked an exasperated Smiths who, when she reached Stone Roses, whipped out her hands with the intention and enough sheer brute force to strangle her.

    ‘Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! You’re staying put, right here in this apartment, even if I have to strangle you to sleep, myself. The peaceful way is always the best! The peaceful way…’

    And with that, they rolled about on the floor for a while.

    ‘Jimmy would say you know. Didn’t realize you and Big Brother were such bosom buddies these days. He’d love you saying that, right about now. Probably salute your common sense.’

    Yes, Big Brother would crack up watching it all live on the T.V. back home in Dublin. And he’d spontaneously combust into a million rags like confetti as he shouted, ‘Shoot the scumbags! Shoot the scumbags! Shoot them! Why aren’t they shooting them? Why?’ he’d be screaming.

    He’d always wanted to get out. Be like the posh ones. Never did though. Uncle Tom. To ground control. But ground control wasn’t listening to him.’

    Smiths said, ‘You’re right. Come on, let’s go out and do a bit of rioting with the best of ‘em. Revenge eh? You can’t beat the feeling. Big Brother will be watching alright. He’ll see us,’ said Smiths. ‘Yes, he will,’ answered Stone Roses. ‘Big Brother will see us. We’ll wave to him from the heart of the riot. Flick the Vs. Hey! Ho! Let’s go!’