Folk'd Up Beyond All Recognition (FUBAR) Read online

  “Oh,” Danny said. He seemed deflated by this. She supervised the chip basket removal, divided the fried bread and the bacon and shovelled his share onto his plate. He grabbed it and was about to troop out when she called him back. “In the kitchen tonight love. TV can wait.”

  “Ach…”

  “Ach nothin. Get yer arse back here. Mon, we’ll have a wee chat. You and me.”

  He flumped down as if to his last meal prior to execution. She sat opposite him across the kitchen table, the smell of the fried dinner thickening the air between them. For a few minutes they ate, because he didn’t eat enough for her liking and she wanted to make sure he had a good few mouthfuls before she started, and started she meant to.

  “So,” she said, when enough of the portion before him had been dispensed with, “what’s brought all this on about yer Da?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Nothin. Dunno.”

  “Danny…” she said warningly, giving him an eyebrow-quirked look. “I’m yer Mummy amp’ten I? How many years now have you seen yer Da go here and there and then outta the blue tonight I get the questions?”

  Again he shrugged, if in a little less of an outright wanting-to-change-the-subject way. “I dunno,” he said. “I just…like, he just seems a bit…have you noticed him bein a bit…”

  She frowned. “A bit what?”

  A third shrug. It was Shrugville in here tonight. He was well on his way to being a typical teenager on this evidence. “Bit I dunno. Bit grumpy,” he said, and then promptly filled his mouth with food in what seemed to be partly embarrassment and partly dreading he was going to get in trouble for saying what he’d just said.

  Linda felt the fuzzy amusement she’d been feeling about this whole spate of curiosity from her son dissipate. Danny was serious, she could see that. She paused, going through the last few days, weeks, even months in her head, scanning them for any signs of odd behaviour from her husband of these past fourteen years.

  Tony Morrigan wasn’t a verbose soul, that was an understatement. She hadn’t married him for his scintillating conversational skills. He’d been young and dashing, and there had been rumours around the place that he was a bit dangerous, which in this place usually meant you were mixing with a certain band of eejits, but in all the years she’d known him he’d never once demonstrated the slightest sign of interest in religion, pro or anti one side or the other.

  The dangerous thing had never really panned out, but she’d been glad, because he was a devoted partner and a kind, good-hearted man, and he doted on wee Danny. His wee Miracle Baby, he called him. So if her son thought his Da was being a bit off with him, something was wrong one way or the other, and she was concerned immediately.

  “What makes ya say that, son? I’m sure your Da’s fine…”

  Danny’s head was still turned down into his plate. When he spoke it was in the mumble of a child saying words he didn’t want to say and as is sometimes the case with children, when the tap was turned on it was turned on full blast.

  “Just that when he comes back from a trip, like, he’s usually dead pleased to be back and he would take me out for a wee dander round the place or if it’s night like sit and talk to me for ages about how school is and Steve and all that oul stuff but for the last few months he’s been like quiet and even when he came back last week from that one away down South he never came to get me from school and I waited about for him and he was here paintin the house and I know that’s like important but when I says to him can I help ya a wee bit he just got a bit angry or somethin and said no and then he came up to see me later on and said he was sorry and that yes I should learn to paint cos ya never know what skills ya might need to learn and it was a bit weird cos he hugged me and like I could sorta see that he mighta been cryin and I was talkin to ones in school about what made their Da’s act a bit strange and they said maybe it’s his work is gettin him like maybe he’s gettin paid off and he hasn’t told ya or yer Ma yet.”

  He paused and took a breath and didn’t look up, which was just as well because Linda’s mouth had formed a large O of astonishment which would have derailed him entirely. The effort of the last outburst had seemingly drained him, for the next few words barely formed a sentence at all.

  “That’s what happened Steve’s Da,” he concluded, and went back to the food conveyor belt.

  “Ach son,” Linda said, and did the worst thing she could have possibly done by getting up. going to him and enveloping him in a big hug, which made him determined never to talk about his real feelings ever again if his reward was going to be a Mummy Hug Of Doom and having to watch her pretend she didn’t have tears in her eyes, “ach Jesus…you’re imagining things. He’s probably just had a bad headache or somethin; he gets them sometimes, sure as God. And sure didn’t he come and show you the paintin, and a brill job yous two did of it an all! Place looks grand!”

  “Mmmf,” Danny agreed, with a faceful of cardigan. At that point he would have agreed to substituting the ketchup for Strychnine had it meant release.

  She let him go and sat back down, wiping her eyes. “And sure he’ll be back tomorrow night. He’s away in Meath I think he said looking at some hills or somethin or other. Do you want me to give him a wee shout and let you have a wee word with him? I have the number of the B&B he’s at.”

  “Have a wee word with him?” Danny echoed, aghast. “And say what?”

  “Tell him you’re worried about him and you think he’s bein a wee bit…cold, distant.”

  Danny’s jaw dropped. “Tell him wha?” he choked. “He’s my Da fer Jesus’ sake!”

  “Danny!” she snapped reflexively.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed, and fairly gulped down half a slice of fried bread like a frog swallowing a bluebottle. “Can I go now?” he pleaded. “I’m finished, look. I’m all done. Can I go?”

  “Aye go on. You sure you’re-”

  The kitchen door had already closed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She pottered away with the dishes for a while, and heard him tramping upstairs. It wasn’t even 9pm, but he’d obviously decided to take himself off to bed, and she knew he could be trusted to get his teeth done. He was a good wee boy, was Danny. He’d make some wee girl very happy one of these days. Even as she thought that her eyes misted over automatically and she went back to splashing around with the dishes until they were washed and dried and put away.

  Her eyes lingered on the phone, resting on its cradle in the kitchen.

  A few seconds later she was holding a scrap of paper in her hand, stabbing the keys with her other hand on the phone to dial in the B&B’s number. Danny might not want to talk to his Da, but after all that emotion (all hers, but even so) she could do with hearing his calm voice, and it’d do no harm to mention to him that he could do worse than to take his son - and in all likeliness that big lig Steve as well - along to a wee football match or somethin at the weekend. Fellas loved their football. She knew that as sure as sure. Football’d see them right.

  “Tony Morrigan’s room please?” she said.

  “I’m sorry madam,” the musical Irish voice came back. She’d always been a bit jealous of the Southern Irish lilt; her own Belfast twang sounded like someone gargling with razor wire by comparison. “We don’t have anyone by that name here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, madam.”

  She hung up, frowning. That was strange. Tony always used that B&B when he was down that neck of the woods, which - come to think of it - seemed to be often enough that there must be precious few bumps in the Earth on that part of the island that he hadn’t triangulated within an inch of their lives.

  She shrugged. Maybe she’d get him one of them mobiles when the prices came down another fair whack. He’d phone tomorrow and she’d mention to him then and ask him what had changed his plans.

  Going to bed, some time and some soap operas later, she saw Danny’s room door closed. The ancient Mummy instincts inside her screamed at her to go inside and check he was sou
nd asleep, maybe adjust his covers just a wee bit, even if they were perfectly set upon him; it wasn’t about that, after all, it was just about giving them a wee touch, just to let yourself know you’d contributed in some physical way to their peaceful slumber.

  But he was ten years old, and if he wasn’t asleep, his oul Mummy coming in was sure to send him into an indignant tizzy and he’d only end up broaching the subject of locks for the door, and then they’d be through the Looking Glass and either Steve would never get staying again or she’d have to wage a non-stop one-woman reign of guerilla warfare until Channel 4 was shut down for good.

  So she restrained herself, and felt proud, and went into sleep, trying not to think about the unoccupied half of her own bed.

  In his room, Danny heard the creak of his mother’s body settling into her mattress and opened his eyes. In the almost-darkness of his bedroom, he could make out the outline of Ireland on his map affixed with sturdy Blu-tak to his bedroom wall. All he could discern was the thick black outline of the coast; the interior seemed dark and featureless. It was his Da’s job to change all that, apparently.

  He went to sleep thinking there were worse things to do.

  **

  Belfast, 30th September, 2000 AD

  Danny looked down at the things on his plate. The chips were black, the egg desiccated beyond repair, the beans covered in third-degree burns. It looked like a nice wee peaceful fry had been the victim of nuclear terrorism.

  “M…Mummy?” he said.

  “WHAT?” Linda snapped, her back to him.

  He lifted his fork, speared a few of the beans. “Nothin,” he said, and shoved them into his mouth. They tasted as good as they looked.

  It had been six days. He knew two things.

  She was crying again, that was the first. He could see her shoulders shiver, and he wanted to tell her it was okay but he was a million miles from possessing that kind of ability. So he sat there aglow in the embarrassment of being present during another human being’s collapse and he ate the dinner that she had prepared for him out of some robotic need to do something approximating normal life.

  It was his fault. That was the second.

  He wasn’t gonna tell his Ma that, of course. Ever. Cos he’d tried to in this very kitchen five days ago, and look where that had gotten him - nowhere except hugs and whispers that he was being silly and that hadn’t stopped her being wrong, had it? He’d seen it a mile off; his Da had simply wound down, stopped doing things with him because he wanted to and started doing them because he had to, because he didn’t want to feel guilty or feel like a bad Da for not doing them, but Danny had seen the little ding go up in his eyes when he’d judged he’d spent enough time Being A Good Da and when that happened, he’d call a halt to proceedings, retreating back into that quiet shell.

  His Ma hadn’t seen it because…well. He was only ten, and he loved his Ma dearly and couldn’t imagine any reason why he wouldn’t always do so as it was somewhat hard to hold a grudge against anyone who’d armour up Rambo style and waste a hundred people without a second thought if she’d thought any of them had so much as looked at him crooked, but to put it one way he already knew he wasn’t about to hold any all-night debates with her about complex world issues beyond what that tart in Coronation Street was doing floozying off with yer man when she knew rightly he was a proper cunt.

  Just as he’d known it would, her initial snapped response had sank in and now she was murdering herself with guilt. Here she came, tottering toward him, her face empty with grief, demanding he come to her and give her a big hug and let it all out and he did so, he went to her and he hugged her and the tears didn’t come. Fuck tears. Tears did no fuckin good, didn’t stop anything bad from ever happening.

  He ripped the map from his bedroom wall that night, ripped it down and tore the bastard into wee tiny bits and filled the bin with it and then put somethin on top of it so his Ma wouldn’t see and know what he’d done. When he was done doing that he got into bed and shamed himself by crying anyway, unable to look at the empty patch of wall where it had hung for as many years as he could remember.

  The next day, he’d found the letter, lying on the doormat. His Ma was upstairs asleep, the first time in a few days he’d actually witnessed her with her eyes closed. It had her name and address written on the back.

  It was from his father.

  He held in shaking hands. This was it. This was the note that would explain where his Daddy had gone. He’d been called off on some mission to somewhere far off, somewhere without a phone and this was the fastest way for him to get a message to them. He should call his Ma now, wake her up. She’d want to be the one to read it, he knew.

  He got halfway up the stairs before he stopped, and turned, and sat down, and ripped that envelope apart as carefully as he dared.

  Reading it blew his world apart.

  **

  Country Antrim, 247 BC

  All things considered, Danny decided, as he felt Thor’s hammer slugging him repeatedly between the eyes, when it came to methods of travel through supernatural planes, he preferred being dragged through the bowels of the Earth to psychic transportation.

  “Welcome back,” a voice said softly. It sounded like the crow. He tried to open his eyes and focus on the little black bastard, the better to wring its neck with, but it was obviously too early to try to do something as complicated as use his primary sense. He groaned like a poltergeist trying to impress the boss and slowly lay back on the cool surface on which he’d found himself deposited at the merest fateful touch of that feathered wing.

  Something was touching him now. Not feathers. Fingers, locking around his wrist.

  He felt himself be pulled upright and, panicked by the sudden movement and dazzled anew when he tried to gain his bearings and made the mistake of snapping his eyes open, he swung wildly with a fist and got only empty air…and then teetered…and the fingers removed themselves from his…

  Amazing how grass could feel like concrete if you hit the fuckin stuff wrong.

  “Let’s try that again,” the crow’s voice said, sounding amused. “Quickly. There’s something I want you to see. Your eyes will adjust.”

  It was right. His eyes did adjust, and when they did, his mouth adjusted too - downward.

  “Something wrong?” the goddess asked him, in the voice of the crow.

  “Uh…” he said, as she pulled him effortlessly to a standing position. Her fingers were cool, and he could see where they were for the first time; by the coast, during the day, with not a red moon or strange wolf-thing in sight. Salt stung the air around him; they were on one of the few true hills. About a hundred feet nearer the coast he could see the grass mixing with sand and only a short distance after that, the dunes that rolled to a long strip of sandy beach.

  The sun overhead was low-set. It was not long past dawn. He knew it in a deep kind of way, with a surety that surprised him but appealed to him; if only more things in life could be known with that kind of quiet certainty.

  She…well, she was something to behold, and no mistake. He put her at six foot five if she was an inch, easily taller than he was, and broad-shouldered with it. Her dark, almost-black hair spilled out of her head in every direction, bunching up in clumps around her shoulders and finishing just shy of her hips. She was barefoot, clothed in white skirt that whipped around her calves and a light green tunic of some sort that was fastened with big gold buttons down the front, four of them in a row one under the other.

  “Want to take a picture?” she asked him boldly.

  He made as if to dismiss the jibe, and then a startled expression surfaced on his face.

  “A picture…” he echoed. Seconds later, from his jeans pocket, he had produced a small black object, an absurdity of familiarity in the midst of all of this. He wanted to hug it. He wanted to plant kisses all over its glorious little LCD screen.

  “I’m getting a GPRS signal in the Otherworld,” he whistled, impressed. “Lircom would be pr
oud.”

  “Actually…” she said, all trace of humour gone despite her words. She seemed about to go on, but then shook her head. “No. That can wait. We have other things to discuss first. And anyway, this isn’t the Otherworld.”

  “It isn’t?” he said, surprised.

  “No. This is Ireland. The North Antrim Coast, to be exact. That’s Rathlin Island over there.”

  She pointed. He looked. Something clicked. He started looking around, running short little distances to check out different views from different directions. When he ran back to her, he was agitated with excitement. “We’re near Ballycastle! Aren’t we?”

  “It’s about a mile in that direction,” she nodded, pointing east. “Well…it will be.”

  “Will be?”

  “In about fifteen hundred years time, yes.”

  He sagged a little. “My cousin had a caravan here,” he said sulkily. “Will have. Whatever.”

  “Everyone’s cousin has a caravan in Ballycastle,” the Morrigan replied dismissively. “It’s the law.”

  Danny looked out at the beach, at the waters roaring up the shore. “We used to go and stay in it sometimes durin the summer. Me and my Ma and Da. It pissed with rain every fuckin day like and I spent most of my time goin round the town and goin into the same five shops over and over again somehow thinkin they’d have got somethin different in to buy in the time it had taken me to do the lap o‘them ,all while my Ma and Da argued like cat and dog cos they were fuckin sick of the sight of each other. My Ma wanted to come back after he left, but I couldn’t,” he sighed. “I just couldn’t have. I knew it wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Yes,” she replied dryly, “it’d be hard to recapture bliss like that.”

  He shot her a poisonous look. “You’re a cheeky fucker for a goddess you know that?” he said.

  “Yeah, but I look good half-in and half-out of a tunic,” she replied, leaning forward and winking at him, and laughed when his expression and lack of reply, coupled with the bloom of colour in his cheeks, confirmed that she was correct.