Forensic Songs by Mike McCormack

Author:Mike McCormack
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short stories, Rooney Prize, macabre, Irish, New York Review, Irish Times, literature, Getting it in the Head
ISBN: 9781843514756
Publisher: The Lilliput Press
Published: 2012-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

They came today, knocked on my door around mid-morning, and when I opened it they told me without any preamble that I was dead.

There they stood in the hallway, their bland interchangeable faces glowing in the half-light, these two men, these bearers of the worst possible news. And as I stood there I realized there was no doubting them; they already had a rooted, immovable presence and their open-shouldered stance blocked off the entire corridor. And yet I had no fear. On the contrary I found myself swept up in a sudden lightness of spirit that coursed through me, a blithe expansiveness of mood that had me inviting them into my flat. I stood back and motioned towards the sofa under the window where I might get a better look at my two visitors, these two sudden men.

They came as a pair – this much was immediately evident. Both wore suits and were clean-shaven and I guessed there was about ten years between them; the older one, the heavier one who had given me the bad news in the hall, I judged to be around my own age; his partner, I put in his late twenties. Both appeared to have mastered the paradox of establishing a solid, physical presence while at the same time effacing any specific detail in which this presence might be grounded. They were clean-shaven, they wore suits – that was as much as I would ever be able to say about them. And yet there was something of the comic double act, also, a complementary ease in the way they sat there, which convinced me I was about to witness one of those deft, professional routines that was no doubt worn smooth and seamless by much time and practice. And as I stood there gazing at them, I reflected that this was something new; I had not lived the sort of life that drew men in suits towards me; uniforms yes, suits no.

‘So,’ I said airily, ‘in what way am I dead? Spiritually perhaps, possibly metaphorically: what way exactly?’ I was in unexpectedly good form.

All promise of light comedy evaporated completely in the toneless delivery of the older man. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his voice came across like dry sand running in a pipe. ‘It would be a mistake to understand yourself dead in any partial, metaphorical or analogical sense,’ he began. ‘There is only one way in which someone is dead and that is literally, totally and absolutely. Such is the case with you at this very moment. And, I would advise, the sooner you dismiss all evidence which says otherwise, the sooner we will all be able to move on.’ He sat back and placed both his hands on his knees.

By rights a fit of laughter should have taken hold of me then. The ludicrousness of what he had just said was verified in every atom of my being; in fact my whole circumstance at that particular moment could hardly have served a more vivid testimony to my life and its ongoing continuance.

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