Bina Read online

  There has to be a plan. I’ll have to kill the cat if I’m to go. That’s a pity. For the best. Nice cat though. Except when it piddled all over the place early on. Including on my new pillows, because Eddie locked the poor craytur in my bedroom. Them’s the sort of stupid thing Eddies do.

  I didn’t want it to get out, he said.

  You locked him in my bedroom for two days and gave him no food because you didn’t want him to get out?

  He didn’t get out tho’, he said.

  He couldn’t get out! He was locked in!

  That cat’s not dead, said he. As if there were some fear the cat would be dead if it lived a normal cat’s life.

  It’s very hard to get run over when you are locked inside my bedroom.

  Most cats die. Most cats let out die. They die on the road.

  And he believes it. He holds fast. Plain, dry, seasoned oblivious. Smothered with fungal oblivion. He could live, die and rise again entirely oblivious that man. Every time the thought revisits me that I should have left him in that ditch. I am thinking it as I write this to you. I’m warning you not to lift men out of ditches and don’t trust the common declaration “all he needs is a bang on the head.” Eddie received a big bang on the head when he landed off his motorbike in my ditch and there is no evidence of it improving him. I don’t know how I didn’t take the cat and brain him with it. Except the poor creature had suffered enough. My pillows never recovered and the smell of cat piss still lingers. It’s a reminder. Heed your reminders. Your mistakes always come with reminders. Often there’s a smell of a reminder. Log it. Sniff it. Choke on it. Make your nose passport and border control. Let no one in.

  Since Eddie’s gone, I’ve put items in his bed to remind myself he is gone. But I had to throw out the mattress,*7 the pillows and sheets he’d slept on for years, because he was filthy anytime he lay down on them. You could never wash the smell of him away. I’ve one room stinks of cat’s piss and another of Eddie. I hesitated though, because according to my prophecy I thought the smell of him could, if I left it, serve as a warning. I’m happy to say I’m past needing a warning, which is why I am able to batter this out to yourselves. I’ve transcended.

  I often wonder at the women who give birth to awful young fellas like Eddie. I think there’s a case to be heard for shoving the likes of Eddie back up and starting all over again. I believe in abortion since I met Eddie. It’s only a shame you can’t abort a 40-year-old.

  I believe in obliteration. I believe in removing useless specimens from the planet. I don’t say it aloud, but I’m committed. You can only say it aloud if God has told you to do it. He hasn’t, but On My Oath if I were called I would serve. Likewise, I believe that the more useful amongst us should also have some choice about when we go. That is why I joined the Group when the Tall Man came to my door.

  Eddie’s gone quiet now.

  So we are waiting. That’s all I do now.

  Wait.

  Suspiciously.

  Primed.

  What kind of a strange place is Canada if they let Eddie in?

  Maybe they don’t know he’s in.

  I won’t tell them.

  They can keep him.

  He’s theirs.

  Sometimes they send them back.

  I don’t want Eddie back.

  Maybe I’ll phone the embassy and register

  He’s not mine and I don’t want him.

  I rang the embassy

  There was a bit of confusion

  You don’t need a visa, the woman said

  I’m not after a visa, I said

  I’m in bed and I won’t be going anywhere.

  I was going to tell her I was arrested.

  I decided to tell her.

  I was arrested, I said.

  Was I Canadian?

  Not a bit, I said. I was never there in my life. I only saw an advert for it on the television.

  I’m calling about a fella you’ve let in there.

  The line went dead.

  I waited.

  Hold for consulate services, said she.

  And a phone rang and a recorded woman’s voice said she was Daphne and not at her desk.

  I thought it was a bit silly, telling that.

  If someone wanted to rob her they’d know now was a good time to do it.

  I left her a message.

  Daphne, I said, You don’t know me and I am ringing you anonymous about a man who is over there and if ever you send him back, no matter what he says, don’t send him back to me. I hung up. I felt much better.

  That finally I had said to someone he’s not to come here.

  If I said it once, I could say it again.

  I was grateful to Daphne for listening to it.

  I started thinking a lot about Canada and what kind of people might be there, and would there be any hope they’d beat Eddie over the head?

  I didn’t like their Prime Minister, he was flighty. He looked like he’d take off if he went rolling up an escalator too fast. But he’d a good coat on him. I don’t like our Prime Minister. He’s an awful man. I can’t remember his name but he’s very hairy ears. A bit like a wolf. I’ll be honest I’m only repeating what a woman I delivered Meals on Wheels to said about him, because I’m not much for television. Her name was Mary and one day out of nowhere she said, would you look at the ears on him. She was pointing at the television claiming it was the Taoiseach. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually a badger and now I’m after repeating the story myself without remembering the woman was confused. She was angry about something, I forget what. I agreed with what she was angry about. For I’m angry about a lot of things and I’ve no one agreeing with me at all.

  That’s a warning. Two even.

  Find someone who’ll agree with you.

  Don’t repeat stories about people on the television.

  Life is nothing but ordeals.

  Have you noticed?

  There are ordeal creators.

  That’s a fact.

  Eddie’s one.

  One Eddie is too many.

  Anytime I hear that name I take a jolt. There was a dog passing recent and I thought I heard a voice call out Eddie. I ran inside and hid in my bed. Literally pulled the covers up over my head. I said to myself that dog’ll kill you if you stay out another three seconds. And I waited. I waited to hear Eddie’s gorsy tones. Nothing. That was when I realized Eddie had gone to my head. That I was suffering in his absence.

  The next day, though, was a Wednesday and I woke up with sense again.

  I recovered. I was glad that Eddie was gone.

  Long may he stay that way.

  I wouldn’t want him dead tho’

  Because it might be up to me to bury him

  And it would be an awful lot of work

  And I’m not for another funeral for a while.

  Except, obviously, my own.

  That’s a bit glum.

  But that’s what a man like Eddie will do to you.

  He’d make you glum.

  Especially on a Tuesday.

  Watch Tuesdays. Careful on Tuesdays. They are very dangerous days.

  Hard on the head.

  If you’re a man called Eddie reading this: Change your name. Say you are Sam or Tom.

  *1 I was arrested most recently in the shampoo aisle at Boots. I preferred being arrested at Shannon Airport. People thought I was being arrested for shoplifting in Boots. I wasn’t. I never stole anything in my life.

  *2 I know I was in jail for a week.

  *3 I hate Castlebar. The radio described me as a Castlebar woman. “A Castlebar woman was remanded to custody this week charged with .” All kinds of unhelpful things are said on radios. I know. I listen to a lot of radio.

  I am not a Castlebar woman. I hate Castlebar. They think they are Milan in Castlebar. They think they know better than the rest of us in Castlebar. I’d build a road straight through it. I’d flatten the place. I’d drop a bomb on it. OK Bina sto
p writing mad things you cannot scrub out. I do not mean it. The part about bombing Castlebar. I have no access to bombs. I wouldn’t even know what one looked like. Put this page into the fire Bina. Stop adding to it. The trouble is I like what’s on the other side of the paper. I can’t tell you what it is, alright it’s an ESB bill. I’m going to have to stick a piece of paper on top now to cover this part up. Castlebar brings out the worst in me. Second only to Eddie bringing out the absolute worst in me. I was in a charity shop there once & had to ask a man to shut up gossiping at the till. He turned & apologized & said he was only looking for directions to Tesco. I didn’t turn since I was already facing him. I said what are you after at Tesco? You might find it here. I doubt it, he said. What are you after, I persisted. Windscreen fluid, roll-on deodorant for my wife & a pint of milk, he said.

  *4 The first time he knocked at my door, I boiled the kettle & he eyed the games gathering dust on top of my cupboard & asked would I play Scrabble with him.

  *5 Also, I might be writing it on the back of a receipt or a gas bill. Receipts aren’t wide so to fit all the words on it they must be stacked. Receipts are easy to hide. And easy to come by. I have thousands of them despite having so little money to spend.

  *6 See, Malarky: A Novel in Episodes.

  *7 I wonder now if I hadn’t had the delay on needing to get a new mattress might I have saved Phil. Maybe, in the end, Eddie will have killed the pair of us without even trying.

  I will say that I was surprised when this other fella came to my door one night and asked me a question. This is the Tall Man I talk of, not Eddie. Eddie is squat and pouchy. I am getting old now and my memory is dotted but I still remember being surprised that a man with a question was standing at my door.*1

  He was an unremarkable man. That’s all I recall of him. It was dark, remember. It is also a dark remember, so I need to get this written out quick, lest I lose my courage to record it. He may have worn a long coat. Could he be lost, or a preacher, or collecting for charity? Those were my first thoughts. He was neither. He was, I see now, just another man content to put me in a whole pile of trouble. I swear there’s a factory out there producing them for the task. There’s probably 54 already minted and I’ve another 52 coming for me yet.

  What was it he wanted again? Wait now. How can I say it without actually saying it.

  What he wanted me to do eventually*2 became a mountain of woe and had me sent inside prison for a week. I didn’t like the food. It was glop and stodge and unrecognizable. Every single item was the colour of porridge or covered in breadcrumbs. Except the jam. The jam was orange only because it was marmalade. But the young people were good to me. They shuddered and said wrong, it was all wrong, all wrong Bina and I shouldn’t be in there and I didn’t disagree with them. I shrugged. I enjoyed it because, even though it was prison, it was still a week’s holiday from Eddie. But then I started to have very bad dreams they’d hang me in there. I didn’t like the tin toilets and you weren’t allowed to use talc.

  Eddie, it turned out, was an acorn of trouble in comparison to this Tall Fella at the door. I believe he’s hiding out in England now, the Tall Man.*3 Very unfair. He was only trying to help. It wasn’t his fault that someone changed their mind and told their daughter.

  Never have a daughter, they report on you and get into your knicker drawer and shift things around. Never have a son either. They don’t get into your knicker drawer but they are clowns. They drive drunk. They don’t change their jumpers. They only have half-witted answers and they eat everything in the house. They’d even eat raw lard. And they are never out of the toilet. Clowns. Pure Clowns. And there’s better ways to waste your time than with clowns.

  Joanie’s daughters ruined her funeral. That’s a fact. Maybe that’s why Phil suddenly wanted gone. I wouldn’t do that one. She was on her own with that. Too risky. We might have even been buried together if we’d both had enough on the same Sunday. Don’t mind me. I didn’t say that, but I haven’t time to rub it out so it’ll have to stand.

  I have given you several facts so far.

  Add them up and I might give you a prize to send away for at the end. Mind, I’ve become very bitter about prizes, I’ve sent away for 200 of them and I only ever won a mobile phone and I didn’t like it and it’s still in the box because the plug was missing when I opened it.

  After Eddie what you’ll remember

  Before Eddie what you’ll forget

  Between Eddie what you’ll never understand.*4

  If I were to write a eulogy for Eddie, you have just read it.

  We don’t know what’s to come. We don’t know what’s ahead and avoidance should be our only objective by the time you are finished reading this. If there’s anyone reading it? If there isn’t I am only wasting my time but at least I’m lying down wasting it. And at least he’s gone. If he’s at your door, I warned you. There’s only so much a woman can do. Lie down and issue warnings. There are other places to issue them these days, so don’t hold back.

  Lamp posts are good.

  Car windows.

  The internets.

  Tell people.

  Unless they are moles.

  Don’t tell moles anything.

  Women can be moles too.

  Bina lived a peaceful life

  Until she found Eddie in her ditch.

  If she’d stayed inside her curtains

  Bina’d still be living a peaceful life.

  Also, don’t answer the door. Don’t answer the door if there’s a tall man standing there.*5 Some tall men are nice tall men and some tall men are just a bucket of trouble.

  Even if you need something heavy lifted don’t let them in. Let it stay where it is.

  Leave the men on the mat.

  Where you can get a proper look at them.

  Because once they are sitting down…

  Well everyone improves guzzling your tea.

  Don’t forget.

  You can’t tell by looking at them.

  Especially if you’re distracted and there’s something inside boiling on the cooker.

  Like an egg hopping uncomfortable inside a pot.

  They catch you weak and they’re in.

  You remember the egg.

  Oh come in for a minute.

  Never do it. Risk the egg.

  Rather than let the rasher across your mat.

  That was another warning

  See

  Men stay on the mat

  Don’t let them in

  In means din.

  I am ready to write the manual. I am going to write a combat manual. This might even be it. I think it’s time women prepared for war on the doormat. I don’t agree with women wearing pyjamas though. I am strange that way. I’ve never been comfortable with them. I don’t like the waists on them. You couldn’t put a gun in them without someone seeing.

  I don’t have a gun, but if I did I’d put it in my pocket.

  Now I’ve the socialists, the Marxists, the laryngists and the mangle-ists signing permissions and petitions to free me. But I am not locked up. They are outside camping with their clipboards, in case the Guards come for me, and to be honest now, they are in my way and I wish they’d shift off my land. Eddie made a big mess up on that land & someone could lose their life tripping over it. I didn’t ask them to come and they give me no choice. Uninvited, every day they are out there making videos of the top of my head while I am doing the washing up. They’ve installed an extension cord through my kitchen window and I’ve had to unplug my clock radio while they charge whatever it is they are charging out there. I do not know where it is they are shitting and piddling and I don’t ask.

  They say they’ll chain themselves to me if anyone comes. I told them to think of no such thing, that I am not a bovine and if anyone comes for me they’re welcome to me. They laughed light and said you’re a gas woman, and offered me some strange dried peas I wouldn’t feed to a pig. I tried to say again I’m not a gas woman. I only wish everyone would ceas
e inquiring and pass on without comment. I am not the Ukraine, I said. I don’t need defending. Would that they listen to what I am saying and leave me the hell alone in peace. No. They will not. Won’t and don’t and carry on insisting I’m a symbol and they keep referring to people I’ve never heard of. Rita. Rita so and so, she’s serving 13 months for something. It’s you and Rita, they quo-spout. And how old is Rita, say I by reply. She’s 30. Do I look 30 to you? Even if they try to lock me up for 30 years, I’ll be dead in 10. But, oh they’re all socialist, Marxist, dig in with their class war, petrol, gas pipeline, price of fuel, right to turf, capitalist, bigamist, polyagony and, probably, if I listened close enough, primping and pimping. And who is listening to them? I’ll tell you who. 39 stars above and a half-deaf badger exhausted from the noise off them. They might as well shout into a drain. I might prefer common criminals if they said less. They do their damage and they’re gone. They might kill you dead, but they don’t bore a hole in your brain. They aren’t boring and you don’t get a wet head in the rain listening to them.

  Lookit, I’ve told them straight I want no one killed, I want no one pregnant and I want no one piddling on my land and I’d rather you’d all be gone by tomorrow. They nod. They nod like there is nobody home, yet they’re agreeing that there is. They use words like privilege and resistance and this kind of head-bangy-arsy-varsy that takes a long time to cross the tongue and there’s always something on the cooker and back inside I go, distracted and disgruntled, until again they are at me with the phones filming the top of my head and do I have anything to say about my situation?