Blue Lights and Sirens
The cattle are still agitated from the blue lights and sirens, and the wind is whipping around the wee motes of hay that they’ve churned up. I’m agitated myself, but I grape up the silage to them anyways. They ignore it.
The yard is torn up with the weight of vehicles in it today; the police, the ambulance, the fire brigade, everyone bar the Civil Defence.
Don’t even know the lad. The officer said he’s likely not a local, blown over by whatever wind took him, and ended up in my shed. Was an awful shock. I saw the feet first, a few foot off the ground. Didn’t need to look higher to know what would be there, wrapped around the rafters, last year’s hay stacked up behind him. Was a good cut last year, the weather held all of June.
The lad was long gone, face mottled, the darkest purple pooled just above chin. I must have looked at him for a long minute, making sure he wasn’t one of my own. The eyes can play tricks on you when you’re given a sudden shock, they say. But all our boys are red heads, like me. Only Cormac took his mother’s brown hair, and I knew it wasn’t him. Mary will worry if she’s seen the lights.
“Is the patient alert and breathing,” the emergency operator asked on the phone. English accent, so proper I had half a mind I was in a film.
“No,” I said, and I’ve never known a word to land heavier. I told her, best I could, what was happening, and asked her should I try and cut him down. There was an old blade down in the midden, I told her. She asked was he definitely deceased. Deceased, not dead; her words. I said aye, and laid a hand on his. It was a block of ice, hard as one too. I’ve seen enough death to recognise it, and I told the woman as much. She said not to be doing nothing, that the emergency services were on their way.
She was right too. The police arrived first, within minutes, then the fire brigade, lastly the ambulance, though what need there was for them I don’t know.
Had the lad down and gone within the hour, and left with only a torn-up yard and agitated cattle to prove they were even there. That he was even there.
I go back to the house to beat the dying light. The clocks went back last week, and it’s taken the winter with it. They’re giving a bad weekend, could get down to single figures, and I need to get the cattle drenched and fluked. That had been the plan for today, but the hours are against me. I mind the year Cormac gave me a hand. He never was one for the farming, but the other boys were away off to college and I told him he was needed. Done rightly at it too, no fuss about the needles, nor the muck, nor the shite. I could be doing with him now, all the same.
“Mary?” I call as I break the door. “Want a cuppa?”
She doesn’t answer, but I wasn’t really asking. It’s just a given. I run the tap until it stops spitting, then fill the kettle. I’ll not tell Mary about the trouble, she doesn’t need the upset. I decide on a chocolate digestive just in case she’s sussed something’s up.
There’s a clang from outside, and I can see the gate to the yard blowing in the breeze, where I’ve forgotten to slide the latch. I call to Mary to let her know why I’m heading back out, and the cows whine and low as I approach, thinking I’m bringing meal or bread, their ideas of a treat. Only two of them are at the silage, but they’ll all come when hunger gets at them. I slide the bolt across on the gate, and mind the time Cormac caught his finger in it. Was only a wee lad, and the squeals of him could have woken the dead. Mary wanted to bring him to A&E, but I calmed her. Was only a bang. The nail went black and eventually fell off, but no harm done. Though, it was probably why he never warmed to the farm. He’d still help out when asked, though.
“I’m back, Mary,” I say, but she doesn’t shout back. I lift down the cups, and place a tea bag in each, then water, and milk, sugar for Mary. I take a sip at my own, and spray the room as I spit out the rank cold tea, cursing to myself for not putting the kettle on the stove. I set it down heavy and pour the abominations down the sink.
The kitchen falls to a quiet unease as I wait for the boil, and slowly the kettle breaks it with a low hiss that rises to a squeal. I repeat the procedure; cups, teabags, milk. The steam rises this time.
I lift Mary’s cup and head out towards the stairs. There’s a draught coming down them, cold enough to raise goosebumps.
“Have you the window open, Mary?” I say as I climb, eyes watching the tea wash to the brim with each step.
She’s sitting in her chair, the window open, book on her lap, her head slumped.
“Mary,” I say loud. She starts and looks up at me as though I’ve just ruined a lovely dream.
“What do you want?” she says.
“I’ve tea for you,” I say. “Will you close that window, you’re letting the heat out.”
She leans over and slides the sash down. “Ah, it was awful stuffy. Thanks,” she says as she takes the cup. “What was all the commotion about?”
“Ah, nothing to worry about,” I say.
“I thought I saw blue lights down on the farm. Is everything alright? Is it Cormac?” she asks.
“It’s nothing, don’t be fretting. Cormac is fine,” I lie. No point upsetting her.
“Where is Cormac, anyways?” she asks, looking at the photograph of him on her locker.
“He’s grand, he’s in his room,” I say. She’s been asking for him a lot, more recently. The doctors say it’s common for them to fixate, and it’s probably best to tell her he’s still at home. It doesn’t even feel like a lie anymore.
“You sleeping long?” I ask as she blows over the cup and takes a sip.
“Ah, Pat, no sugar?” she says.
I tut and roll my eyes in a sorry sort of way, and tell her I’ll be back. I take the sugar pot with me, and a chocolate digestive.
“Good, good,” she says. “Love a digestive. And are you alright? You look awful pale.”
I tell her I’m grand too, and I’m going to have a cup of tea and maybe get out for a walk. She tells me she’d love to join, but really wants to finish her book. I don’t tell her she’s read it before, and before, and before. I get her a blanket for her knees, to keep the chill off her and head back downstairs.
I down my tea in one gulp, most of it, the dregs I pour down the sink, then call up to Mary that I’ll be back soon. I grab the wee head torch one of the boys got me for Christmas last year and leave. The sun’s near low, and the evening has dragged out long and watery shadows. I haven’t a need for the torch light yet, but I know I will soon enough. The breeze has kept up, and I pull my coat a little tighter as I head out down the lane towards the road. There’s a fluttering in the hedge, a bright blue, the unnatural sort. It’s a glove, probably from the paramedics, that’s flapping about in the wind, like a hurt bird trying to get itself free. Reminds me of the time with the slurry tank, there’d been plenty of discarded gloves then too. I’d gone in after the dog, poor thing had collapsed because of the fumes, and I thought I was clever enough with holding my breath. But they must have got in somehow, because I went down too, they said. It was Cormac that went in after me. Barry Brennan had been delivering his stock ram and chanced to see it all happen. Was him that phoned for the ambulance. A lot of blue lights that day too.
I’m out on the main road before I need the torch. There’s not too many cars about, rarely is, except for the likes of wakes and that.
The local chapel appears out of the darkness, as though it had just been birthed into existence. They’ve the lights off, and the whole place looks empty, abandoned. The graveyard gate squeaks as I open it.
I tread the well-worn path up the hill, past headstones that rise like crooked teeth from the soil. I know a lot of the names here, most of them. Good people.
I slow up as I reach the back hedge, the top of the hill, where the land sprawls out into the darkness of the night. The local village glows in an orangey yellow fuzz. Little car beams move about on roads and seem too small to be real. In the far distance there’s the flash of blue, intermittent, stuttering, and I offer a silent prayer beside the empty chapel for whatever poor soul they’re heading to. I ask Cormac to go and watch over them. I don’t know if he can. I tell him his mammy misses him, and bless myself by his grave before I can wrack myself with guilt for lying to the dead.
It’s pitch black as I walk back, and quiet once I leave the squeaking gate. I take my steps, one after another, and in the dark I can see the young lad’s feet, suspended, unstepping. I wonder where they’ll bury him, who’ll claim him, will the roads be packed with cars, and will hands be shaken and condolences offered that mean little to nothing. Will his father blame himself, and will his mother lose herself. I torment myself, wondering if I’d seen him before, in the shops, or at a match, or down the pub. Had I held a door for him to pass, or looked at him and thought him a wastrel. It’s getting cold and I pull my coat tighter nearing home.
The warmth of the house is welcome as I enter, but I keep the coat on. Will have to check the cattle before bed after today’s antics. Mary is still in her chair, awake, holding tight to Cormac’s photograph. The book is on the floor, and the dust jacket is askew.
“Where were you?” she asks. “I was wanting a cup of tea.”
I don’t tell her that the cup I made is sitting cold beside her.
“Sorry, love, I’ll go and swing the kettle now. I was just up seeing Cormac.” I gesture to the outside, and she follows my hand to the window, then back to me. There’s a wrinkle on her forehead.
“He’ll be foundered. Make sure he’s got his coat,” she says.
I tell her I will, and go to boil the kettle again. I’m outside before I realise, the latch of the gate open. The cattle groan in the dark and my torch light catches their eyes. They’re settled and content. I walk over to the hay shed, step inside. The wind is whistling through the gaps in the tin. A short strip of rope is snaked on top of a square bale. I can’t look up.
I whisper his name to the darkness.
“Cormac.”
Seán McNicholl is an award-winning writer and GP from Armagh. He is the winner of the Hammond House International Literary Prize, and his work has been shortlisted for the CRAFT Short Fiction Prize, and longlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Fish Prize. His stories have appeared in Epoque Press, The Storms, Gemini, Fahmidan, Frazzled Lit, The Belfast Review, and Intrepidus Ink. He is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Microfiction. Find out more at seanmcnicholl.com.