Getting it in the Head by Mike McCormack

Author:Mike McCormack
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short stories, Rooney Prize, macabre, Irish, New York Review, Irish Times, literature
ISBN: 9781843514145
Publisher: The Lilliput Press
Published: 2013-04-22T16:00:00+00:00

Like the legions who have gone before and the legions who will come after, I met him on the lip of his own grave a split second after he came over from the other side. He was standing on the edge of his grave, looking down at where he had lain beneath the trampled earth and the whitewashed emblem of his saviour. He was wringing his hat into a shapeless mass between his hands, a look of anguish and disorientation drawing his features. Not for the first time did I think that if I had a penny for every time I had seen that look I would long ago have indentured an apprentice and handed over my trade at the first opportunity, then taken my chances with those other pilgrims in the wastelands that lie beyond this graveyard. But I am not running a business and no money changes hands in this land without value; such dreams are only torment.

Their anguish, their torment – so much of it have I seen through the years that I admit now without shame that my soul is totally callused over with indifference. I do not give a damn for their sensibilities any more and because of that I have been freed to develop an attitude of cold efficiency. It is an attitude which spares me and profits them – previously so much time was wasted in grief and this rictus of foreboding. Now I come upon them suddenly, stalking among the crosses and mausoleums and startling them with my abruptness. I tell them straight out that if they value what is left of their lives then they had better follow me; if they choose to stay where they are and curl up and die, as they inevitably will, then that is a matter of no consequence to me. All I ask is that they decide quickly and not waste my time. Their choice is simple: they take their chances with me or they stay there and die. It’s not much of a choice but then this is a world without mercy.

Thankfully he was not the argumentative sort. He was sharp enough to mark closely the piles of bones that stood at the head of several graves around; he drew the relevant lesson, then remoulded his hat quickly and followed me from the graveyard outside to where the stores were situated. On entering, I informed him quickly that he was here to pick up provisions and instructions for a journey he was to make alone and that the sooner he was kitted out, the sooner he would be on his way, taking steps towards his destination.

First I relieved him of his suit and replaced it with a pair of jeans that were riveted and double-stitched in heavy fabric, styled more for endurance than comfort. He turned in his shirt and tie for three cotton shirts with long sleeves, one white to ward off the summer heat and two black to hold body warmth when the snows fell.

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