Heartland, p.1
Heartland, page 1
Praise for Patrick McCabe
The Butcher Boy
‘The most astonishing Irish novel for many years, a masterpiece’
– Sunday Independent
‘An insidious, funny, breathtakingly horrific novel set in small-town Ireland, switching from mischief to madness as an adolescent obsession turns Dennis the Menace into Jack the Ripper.’
– The Observer
‘Compelling, unashamedly horrible, memorable and sensitive’
– Times Literary Supplement
‘An almost perfect novel … A Beckett monologue with plot by Alfred Hitchcock … Startlingly original.’
– The Washington Post Book World
‘Stunning … part Huck Finn, part Holden Caulfield, part Hannibal Lecter.’
–The New York Times Book Review
‘Brilliant, unique. Patrick McCabe pushes your head through the book and you come out the other end gasping, admiring, and knowing that reading fiction will never be the same again. It’s the best Irish novel I’ve read in years.’
– Roddy Doyle, author of Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
‘A chilling tale of a child’s hell … often screamingly funny … the book has a compelling and terrible beauty.’
–The Boston Globe
‘Lyrical and disturbing, horrific and hilarious.’
– The New York Times
Breakfast on Pluto
‘Dysfunctional Ireland in all its glories is here, with humour of the blackest hue, madness and violence, hopelessly randy priests, dodgy politicians, a grand gallery of misfits culminating in McCabe’s hero in Breakfast on Pluto, Patrick ‘Pussy’ Braden, the transvestite prostitute from the village of Tyreelin … Wild, hilarious, merciless and fiendishly clever’
– Ronan Farren, Sunday Independent
‘He is the fortunate possessor of a savage and unfettered imagination; his books … dissect life’s miseries with a gleaming comedic scalpel’
– Erica Wagner, The Times
‘It finds humour in places that other writers are afraid to look for it’
– David Robson, Sunday Telegraph
‘This is a savagely funny and authentically tragic novel of an Ireland in unhappy transition and beneath McCabe’s perfectly delivered black comedy lies an angry heart’
– GQ Magazine
‘Without drawing breath, McCabe mixes camp comedy with brutality, making Breakfast on Pluto both funny and deeply shocking’
– Maxim
‘Told with irresistible zest, brio and gaiety … McCabe’s brilliant, startling talent is to make enchantingly dashing narratives out of the most ghastly states of mind imaginable, and to induce compassion for lives which seem least to invite it … He is a dark genius of incongruity and the grotesque’
– Hermione Lee, The Observer
The Dead School
‘McCabe can make you howl at the darkest antics … He never sets a foot – or syllable – wrong. His novel is death on a laugh-support machine. Stupendous.’
– Scotland on Sunday
‘Raphael, the great headmaster, is a marvellous creation … McCabe has a charm as a storyteller which is all his own’
– Sunday Telegraph
‘Exhilarating. Reading the distilled gouts of consciousness which pour from the minds of these characters is like being trapped on a big dipper with articulate maniacs … Horribly funny’
– The Times
‘An appallingly funny story … horribly memorable’
– Times Literary Supplement
Winterwood
‘A true original’
– John Banville
‘This is McCabe’s greatest work … A sustained achievement of often dazzling brilliance … Winterwood is that rarest thing: a novel dealing with humanity at its most twisted and bleak, but one that leaves the reader feeling curiously uplifted. And that’s because we realise that we’ve been standing in an illuminating beam whose source is, and can only be, truly great art’
– Irvine Welsh, The Guardian
‘A masterpiece’
– The Observer
‘He is the fortunate possessor of a savage and unfettered imagination; his books dissect life’s miseries with a gleaming comedic scalpel’
– The Times
‘An eerily kaleidoscopic mix that reads like a modern rendering of Poe’
– Daily Telegraph
‘Winterwood is a masterpiece, even though the word is a little overused, especially about contemporary fiction’
– Adam Phillips, Observer Books of the Year
‘Winterwood is as close as you could get to understanding the nature of evil, as close as you would ever want to get’
– Irish Sunday Independent
Hello Mr Bones / Goodbye Mr Rat
‘Stark, fierce, and wonderful … McCabe is a master of both the demented narrative and demented narrator. Beneath the ghosts and ghoulies, however, lies a compassionate exploration of the aftermath of psychological damage.’
– Claire Kilroy, The Guardian
‘A rewarding experience which sees the master of the Irish gothic genre return to his best form in years.’
– JP O’Malley, The Observer
‘Both bits of Hello and Goodbye are exuberant and witty and Goodbye Mr Rat deserves to rekindle his former glories.’
– Paul Dunn, The Times
‘McCabe is especially good at conjuring up the menace of psychopaths who perpetrate acts of barbarism under the spurious guise of ideologies.’
– John Boland, The Independent
‘[McCabe] is expert at making the darkest deeds funny, forcing us to laugh at the worst things in the world. He writes like an Irish Lenny Bruce, riffing at warp speed, swerving from one time to another and one place to another and strewing the landscape with allusion … and somehow it all makes sense … The stories McCabe tells have a terrible beauty.
– The New York Times
Heartland
Heartland
Patrick McCabe
HEARTLAND
First published in 2018 by
New Island Books
16 Priory Hall Office Park
Stillorgan
County Dublin
Republic of Ireland
www.newisland.ie
Copyright © Patrick McCabe, 2018
The moral right of Patrick McCabe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-84840-660-5
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-84840-692-6
Epub ISBN: 978-1-84840-661-2
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-84840-662-9
All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), 70 Merrion Square, Dublin 2, Ireland.
New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland.
This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance with any real person is coincidental and unintended.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For David Monagan, with thanks.
Contents
Chapter 1 The Cockloft
Chapter 2 The New Arrival
Chapter 3 The American Eagle
Chapter 4 Snow In July
Chapter 5 Uncle Wylie’s Wrecking Yard
Chapter 6 Kentucky Fry
Chapter 7 Some Velvet Morning
Chapter 8 Good Times
Chapter 9 Secrets, Songs and Shadows
Chapter 10 The Story of Mickey Wrong Moon
Chapter 11 The Glasson County Accident
Chapter 12 The Wonderful World of Jim Reeves
Chapter 13 The Indian in the Caravan
Chapter 14 The Wildwood Flower
Chapter 15 The Secret Life of Oranges
Chapter 16 I’m Mr Bonny
Chapter 17 The Way It Used To Be
Chapter 18 In the High Country
Chapter 19 El Brindis Del Paso
Chapter 20 The Memory of an Old Christmas Card
Chapter 21 The Tackle Harvest
Chapter 22 The Glasson County Electrisms
Chapter 23 A Life, Shredded
Chapter 24 The Mountain Throwback
Chapter 25 The Wayward Wind
Chapter 26 The Bones of Lake Wynter
Chapter 27 A Delta Dawn in Dreams Embroidered
Chapter 28 These Are My Mountains
Chapter 29 Five Little Fingers
Chapter 30 The Arrival of Tony Begley
Chapter 31 Moonlight and Roses
Chapter 32 El Dorado
Chapter 33 A Tiger by the Tail
Chapter 34 The Old Rustic Bridge by the Mill
Chapter 35 Welcome to My World
Chapter 1
The Cockloft
Sneeze you’re a stiff – couldn’t have been simpler.
The story, if that’s what you want to call it – ‘spiritual pilgrimage’ would be my own preference – took place some time ago in Ireland, deep in the midlands and a long way from the sea.
Quit e exactly when don’t make a whole lotta difference.
I can’t say for certain how long I’d been lying there – all I remember is swinging around when I heard my name, and must have passed out after that.
When I came to finally my head was splitting.
I’ve really gone and screwed it now, I said.
The pub underneath had once housed hens and livestock – and, to tell the truth, it didn’t look like a whole lot had changed.
The attic itself was a narrow slanting space running all the way along the length of the barn.
Through the chink in the floorboards it wasn’t easy to make them out, shuffling and muttering and arguing, but there could be no mistaking the compact sinewy build of ginger-haired Red Campbell – in his late forties, with those long tapered sideburns coming down to meet a small frizzy thatch of beard, making wild, unexpected swipes at the furniture as he pulled out a match and sparked up another rollie, clearing his throat and heaving harshly into the grate.
–You know what, I’ve been thinking, I heard him declare softly, as he exhaled an abundant lungful of smoke, lately I been figuring that maybe, you know, autumn is a good time to die. When the brown brittle leaves are just on the point of falling – you reckon?
He tilted his head slightly and I heard him whisper my name.
–I’m afraid that he’s been an unobliging feller, Ringo Wade. Now why’d he have to go and do such a thing? Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if that sonofabitch ain’t so very far away at all, with them rattler eyes o’ his all bright and fixed. Same as always, no-good fuck …
He swung sharply on his heel, inhaling a series of rapid-fire drags.
As the stoop-shouldered figure of Sonny Hackett stepped from the shadows, his chain-smoker’s face lined like a biscuit – so tall and thin he’d have had to stand in two places to make a shadow.
With his gleaming, jet-black hair slicked back as he thrust his brooding aquiline countenance forward and sat down in silence, straddling a grey plastic chair.
Continuing to say nothing.
But you knew at any time that he was capable of flaring up.
Which, as a matter of fact, was what he did now.
With absolutely no hint of warning, shooting unexpectedly to his feet, his clenched fist smartly thumping the hollow of his hand.
–What the fuck’s keeping them? he spat sourly. What in the hell can be keeping them till now? Those lousy unreliable fu— !
He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
But just stood there, almost ill-looking, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Red Campbell was pissing out defiantly into the night.
–Man, that’s good! he groaned with immense pleasure. Bates fucking Banagher, that does.
I followed its trajectory as he swayed beneath the moon, slamming the door with a deft flick of his heel.
A wisp of straw was tormenting my right nostril as I stiffened.
–Two in the head is what the sumbitch deserves, grunted Red Campbell – to no one in particular, it seemed.
–And that is what he is going to get, he added.
A gutful of jungle juice rose sharply to my throat – as I watched the back door open and the two McHales coming tumbling in, in their grey trackies and white high-back trainers – a pair of sad baby-faced blue-eyed farmboys whose father had left them way too early and whose mother was in a state of long-time depression.
For just a split second, I could have sworn I’d seen them both lift their heads as well.
But it was nothing, just another predictable episode of paranoia.
As a shower of balls came crashing down the pool table, and both McHales stood arrogantly along its side, chuckling provocatively as they wielded their cues.
With their identical faces displaying traces of hastily wiped machine oil.
–Move over, bro, said Shorty, short and chunky with a malnourished podgy face, swaggering past, absently chewing on a hoodie toggle.
As his twin did his best to steady the cue-rest, laying sprawled across the wide expanse of baize.
–These two fellers are made of strong stuff, growled Sonny, just like their father before them, eh boys?
–That’s right Mr Hackett, The Runt McHale called over, brazenly gratified, our old man was a hero back in the troubled days. We heard all the stories. He was a top man, right Mr Hackett?
–You had better believe it, boys. When things got rough and the cause needed men, your old pop was always there. That’s something that can never be taken away. And I can see by the cut of you, that you two bucks are made from the very same stuff. Cut from the same cloth, you boys are. I can tell. We all can.
–When this is all over, when we get this job done, me and this brother o’ mine here – we are heading straight over to the States. We’re going to see our Uncle Wylie. You wanna know about him, Mr Hackett? Well then I’ll tell you. He’s a road warrior, that’s what he is. Man you had better believe it – motherfucking speed king, woah boy, no prisoners … !
He swung around to see if anyone might happen to be prepared to disagree, raking his fingers through his highlighted quiff, windmilling the cue-stick as he breathlessly continued:
–You see that Uncle Sam? You wanna know about him, Mr Hackett? Way back up in them hills they got themselves snake handlers, coon dogs, and all the sumbitch moonshine you can drink. And if’n you wanna know how we come to know that – then just call up our father’s brother on the phone. Yep, you go right ahead – just call up Uncle Wylie.
–That’s right, agreed his brother, they got themselves wind in the pines out there, and all the liquor a feller can drink. Now get that ass right on out of here and let me in there in front of you, bro, for I want to pot that sweet there waiting blue …
–Aye, our fella, you strike that ho’ and make sure and sink her down …
–Ah shore as hell will, brother o’ mine, this very second I’ll drop her plumb …
And that exactly was what young Shorty McHale proceeded to do.
–Yep, when all o’ this is over, friends, The Runt resumed, the two of us are gonna go to Amerikay – over to see that crack-cat Uncle Wylie, and along with him tear up the dirt at every goddamn stock car meet in the place. Right, our boy?
–You got it, fella – you got it in one, affirmed Shorty, beaming.
As another ball ker-plunked, sinking into the depths of the north-eastern pocket.
–Good call, hollered The Runt, giving his twin a hearty clap on the back.
As everyone else present looked on in silence, seeming content to remain that way for what might be left of the game.
As, high up among the brooding rafters, I hauled in another hesitant, tremulous breath – stiff as a board on the straw-strewn floor – and never once taking my eyes off the door.
–How much you reckon Uncle Wylie is going to pay us? I heard Shorty inquire.
But never got to hear what his brother’s answer might be.
Because just at that precise moment the pub door swung open and the stout, bearish figure of Big Barney Grue came barrelling in, dressed in a heavy coat and muffler.
Dragging something, with great ceremony, after him – tossing it in front of him like a wet sack of grain.
–Evening ladies, Big Barney beamed, tipping down his baseball cap just so.
As the only friend I’ve ever really had in the world did the best he could to escape – groaning for a bit, and after that not making a sound.
Yes, Jody Kane – my soul-brother comrade, for years down the line.
And this was how I’d shown my appreciation.
–Breed gon’ die! Sonny Hackett sneered, loudly clacking his tongue against his teeth.
–Adios, Jody boy! It sure has been nice knowing you, fucker … !
Chapter 2
The New Arrival
Hughie Munley was short, a little baby-faced banty of a man in his fifties, friendly as tap water – with a head bald as a duck egg and a habit of showing the point of his tongue through prominent teeth whenever he smiled.
A medallion gleamed underneath his open shirt.
El Paso, read the lettering woven in the shape of a bridle.
‘Wee Hughie’, as they called him, was generally regarded as funny – with the only problem being that, soon as he got going, he would talk the legs off a stove.
But a straight arrow, nonetheless.
Always ambling and angling, and hoisting up his britches, fixing to get into the company whatever way he could, with that trademark brawny handshake and distinctive aw-shucks grin.
