A secret yeah, this kip is Clougheally, nice eh? smile flashed to the camera-guy.
A so nothing’s changed and here I am, back half-smile all for himself.
A fuck this fresh air! grin and yelp for the benefit of the camera-guy, as he stripped to his boxers.
And a let’s get to work smile and nod: he had to keep some of the smile power on reserve for the cameras.
John Paul couldn’t help a grin at the thought of the video: it was going to be a good one. The Official Miracles of Pope John Paul III followed a certain formula. A familiar biblical reference (loaves and fishes; healing the sick) was revitalized with a contemporary twist (famine in Ethiopia solved; an escalator opened so no poor soul would have to miss five floors of shopping). Often, the video required that John Paul stripped to his boxers, useful for the controversy and the clicks. Today, Pope John Paul III would walk on water, miraculously buoyed by the powers of natural gas. He’d fall in, of course – that was how Pope John Paul III rolled, no gag too cheap – but he’d be back on his feet for the finale: standing on the gas rig and pulling out nets of money from the water. Nobody had hired him to perform this particular miracle, but as a cultural figure of some importance, Pope John Paul III had the obligation to wade into controversial topics and provide clarity. Some people didn’t think that Erris was the right place for Shell’s gas pipe; typical, for bedrudgers followed progress like flies to fresh shite. Pope John Paul III would banish the protesters. Ignore the naysayers, his smile would radiate. Didn’t the Bishop of Kilcommon himself bless the gas rig a few years back? Believe in me and we’ll walk on water; he’d write that one down too.
First, the video! John Paul made his way over to the fellas by the currachs and gave them Pope John Paul III’s best I’m freezing my bollix off here, let’s get going lads, man among men grin. Then, John Paul couldn’t help it, even though the cameras weren’t rolling yet: he made a show of searching for a sail, kerfuffling about for a second before he unleashed his catchphrase.
Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
Coupled with one of Pope John Paul III’s gormless smiles, of course, the one that suggested that the poor holy fool had got himself into another mess again. Together, the smile and the catchphrase had helped launch him towards YouTube stardom (well, in Ireland at least). He’d secured an upcoming feature on Xposé on TV3 and a mention in the Sunday Independent. He even had enough money to throw a few bob towards a camera-guy, an essential expense as his routine became more polished; he’d get an intern next! All tax-deductible, and if any prying eyes had questions about irregularities in his accounts, he had his catchphrase at the ready: Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
The sentence proved reliably robust, especially when it was sheathed in irony. Most sentences these days had irony wrapped around them like a condom and so this one was a treat: an expression of not knowing that conveyed just how much you knew. He might keep it when he launched his political career, John Paul decided. Election season was on its way and he had a hunger to grace telegraph poles with his grin. Next time. Pope John Paul III was practically already a mascot for the government; he’d met half the Cabinet at the Galway Races. His grin at the end of the videos radiated optimism. Haven’t we all done well, it said. Onwards and upwards. Don’t let the begrudgers into government. Vote Fianna Fáil for five more bright years of prosperity. Vote John Paul Doyle for the best handshakes in town. He’d have to write some of this down, once he found his BlackBerry, and he’d have a real think about running in the next election, suss out some seat he could cruise easily through, a coy smirk and ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that! at the ready if some reporter got wind of his ambitions.
‘Do I know you?’
John Paul turned. It was some auld one, weaving over to them before he could get in the currach. He shot the camera-guy a private smile: here we go …
It was hard to tell what views the auld one opposite might have about Pope John Paul III. If she were one of the ‘it’s a holy disgrace’ brigade, he’d have a sober smile at the ready, one that communicated respect and contrition and had ‘May he rest in peace’ hidden in its dimples. He even had an earnest, delighted, yes I did hear about his miracle, isn’t it great? smile ready if she talked about the latest news, a well, I have to be getting on crisp grin to be unleashed if she suggested that his antics were demeaning the very concept of miracles. But she might only be after an autograph, so he had a bigger grin in reserve too, one that announced that it was the only dream of Pope John Paul III to pose with her and that he was delighted to sign a photograph for her granddaughter.
‘You’re Bridget Doyle’s young one, aren’t you?’
That wiped the smile clean from his face.
‘Mary Nelligan’s sister’s grandson, isn’t that yourself?’
A central part of being John Paul Doyle was learning to live with the black hole inside of him. He had strategies to keep the vortex under control. It was surprisingly easy, most of the time. The trick was to keep moving. The trick was to avoid the Doyles. The trick was to keep conversation light. Certain proper nouns were taboo (Peg; Damien; Rosie). Certain periods of time were to be avoided, large pockets of the 1990s not to be thought of. Smiles to be stretched; to breaking point, if it came to it. Don’t dwell: that was a key one. The black hole liked nothing more than for you to stay still and dwell: that was when it grew, gulping away inside of you, reaching for internal organs.
The worst thing was that the black hole could surprise you. It could stay hidden away for a long while, hanging out beside an appendix or a gall bladder or whatever other useless things whiled time away inside a body. But then some small thing would activate it – some auld one asking if you were anything to the Nelligans – and there it was, pulling the heart and lungs towards it, swallowing everything, including whatever neurons sent messages to the mouth because even as John Paul searched for a smile he couldn’t find the shape of one.
He should have seen it coming. Once he got Aunty Mary’s letter, he should have realized: no avoiding the other Doyles now. Competing maxims had tumbled about in his head – Don’t Dwell wrestling with Seize Every Opportunity! – until here he was, dipping his toe back in Clougheally after ten years; he should have known he’d be recognized. There was the shop where he’d pinched penny sweets and there was the boulder he’d climbed and there were the shells on the strand that he’d seen the Virgin Mary inside and here was the past, a rush of feelings twisting away inside, the murder of John Paul Doyle their only aim.
Relax, he tried to say, willing his knees to stay still. It had been ten years since he’d been to Clougheally. The auld one didn’t know a thing. No need to get into the past. If he could stare down the sea without flinching, he could see her off too. After a moment, a smile found its way to his face: bemused, kind, you must be mistaken. He held out his hand, the master of all occasions.
‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Pope John Paul III!’
The auld one looked suspicious.
‘You’re sure you’re not Bridget Doyle’s grandson?’
John Paul flashed his best smile, the one in tune with his catchphrase.
Ah now, I wouldn’t know anything about that!
5
Rucksack (2007)
Of course, Rosie got onto the wrong subway and of course she ended up in the worst place in New York. Rosie wasn’t prepared for the intensity of Times Square. That comforting pocket of Irish accents by the Aer Lingus bag carousel had disappeared and she was surrounded by American voices. Heat charged through the streets without bends and promised to knock her horizontal. Cheerful chains sold donuts that could blind you and coffee that was mostly whipped cream, and M&Ms in so many flavours and colours that you might die before you decided what