Dark Interlude

1: O'Mara SHAUN ALOYSIUS O'MARA came round the shadow of the low wall that bounded the end of the little church. He stepped unsteadily over the wall; began to walk through the small graveyard towards the yew-tree grove. It was hot. The sun beat down pitilessly; there was no air. O'Mara stumbled over a low headstone, cursed horribly; saw over his shoulder the short figure of the curé; the dingy worn and shiny soutane; the thin white face. He began to laugh. He laughed at the priest. He began to sing a ribald song in the Breton tongue. The curé shrugged his shoulders; disappeared into the cool darkness of the porch. O'Mara heard his footsteps die away. He thought that the sound of worn shoes on the stone flags was a strange sound. He was half drunk. He was always at least half drunk. Pints and gallons of spirits, of cheap beer, of cachasa of veritable cognac that was veritable methylated spirit and colouring, had deadened his metabolic processes. Gallons of cheap-cut, laced and doctored wine, had filled his veins with acid, yellowed his eyes, sagged his facial and stomach muscles. O'Mara was tall and big. Once he had looked like a handsome bull. A well-kept, superior, fierce and handsome bull. Now the skin under his blue eyes was faded and pouchy; the fresh complexion had turned to the greyish hue of the near third-stage drunkard. The fair shining hair that had curled back from an intelligent forehead in waves that made most women envious was long, dank, dirty, bedraggled. He stepped over the low boundary wall on the far side of the graveyard. There was no shadow here. The sun descended on his bare head without mercy. He could feel it burning through the thick hair on the top of his head, heating the brown and dirty skin of his neck. He was dressed in a pair of blue velveteen trousers that were baggy at the top and narrow over the broken shoes. He had no socks. As he walked, the trouser legs rode up and you could see his unwashed ankles. He wore a shirt that had been a middle-blue and was now dark blue with dirt and sweat. The shirt was open at the neck; his broad, tanned chest had burst the buttons. He walked into the yew-tree grove. The damp shadows of the grove; the cool dark box-like square made by the thick arching yew trees, was like an icebox. Outside, it was as hot as hell, he thought. Here, inside the grove, it was as cold as death. He stumbled over a root, fell; was too tired to get up. He lay there muttering. He was sorry for himself. The last good eighth of his brain said: This is the third stage—self-pity, weakness; sickness; tremors in the left arm and leg; a feeling of approaching paralysis at night; an inability to remember. O'Mara thought that maybe you could play this game too well. Maybe you could overplay your hand. This drink business was an overrated pastime. But if the last eighth was still working you were all right; that was what Quayle had said. Quayle had said it would be all right for him because he was O'Mara who could do anything; get away with anything. He thought: Goddam Quayle. Quayle knew everything. Every goddam thing. Quayle was the boyo for telling you what you could do or what you couldn't do. O'Mara lay on the damp earth cursing Quayle; mouthing appalling epithets; unspeakable comparisons. Sometimes you forgot things. That was marvellous. It was going to be marvellous for him if he forgot where he'd hidden the coramine and the heroin and the syringe case. That was going to be very good. He began to recite poetry. If you could remember poetry, you were all right. That meant that your brain was still working—more or less. Then he made up his mind to think about himself logically. He was O'Mara—although that was a fact that he divulged only to himself. He was Shaun Aloysius O'Mara who had been born and reared in County Clare. And he could play the piano and ride a horse. He was a good shot; could sail a boat. He spoke four languages. That was who he was and that was what he had been like. Now he was Philippe Garenne. Not-so-good Philippe. A dirty, drunken sot who worked for Volanon at the Garage Volanon on the other side of the estuary. In a minute he would get up and go out of the yew-tree grove and walk to the hill and look over the sunlit estuary. And there on the other side would be the fisherman's cottages and the pseudo hotel that was empty, and the cinema that the Germans had gutted. And on the right, near the quay, where the boats were moored, would be the Garage Volanon and the Café Volanon just beside it. And the louse Volanon would be standing at the door of the café smoking his curved pipe filled with rank Caporal, wondering where the no-good drunken Philippe was.... Goddam Volanon... to hell with the Café Volanon... to eternal damnation with the Garage Volanon! He got up. Slowly he got up. He stood there in the cool grove, thinking about the nervous pain in his left arm. The pain would go in a little while. Of course it would come back. It would be back to-morrow; it always came back to-morrow. He began to think about Eulalia. Now his face changed a little. It became softer. The Senhorita Eulalia Guimaraes... some Senhorita. The delightful and lovely and alluring Senhorita Eulalia Guimaraes who lived in a delightful and lovely apartment in the Edificio Ultramar, at Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro. His mind swam into a picture that had passed, that seemed to have existed such a long time ago. He saw himself. He was coming out of the bathroom and the sun poured through the open windows of the drawing-room and shone on the off-white carpet; on the primrose-painted walls. He was dressed in a striped dressing-gown—broad stripes of cigar-ash grey and black crêpe-de-chine. Definitely a dressing-gown. He wore nothing beneath the robe and he walked across the off-white carpet on his bare feet. Good well-shaped feet that gripped at the carpet like a cat's paws. He walked across the carpet to the radiogram and put on a record. The soft music of the tango seemed heated with the sunshine. He stood in front of the radiogram nodding his head to the music; smoking a small black cigar whose perfume he could still smell. And when he turned round, Eulalia stood in the doorway of the little hall that led from her room. She was dressed in a lacy wrap and he could see the tiny velvet mules beneath. Her hair was dark and her face pale and long, and her lips were cherry colour and her eyes were long and lovely and brown. When she smiled the sun became brighter and the smile curved her mouth and you felt that you wanted to do something about it at once. That you must. She put her hand against the wall and smiled at him. She said: "It has been said that one can be too happy. This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost..." She went away. He laughed because she was talking nonsense. Sweet nonsense. He stood there in front of the radiogram listening to the strains of the hot sweet tango, moving his shoulders and his feet in time with the music. And the bell rang. And the sound of the door-bell ringing was like coming into the yew-tree grove of which he was then unaware. It was as if someone had laid a dead cold hand on your bare chest. That was how the sound of the door-bell seemed to him. He went quickly to the door and opened it. Outside, Willis—the Engish messenger from the Embassy—stood smiling, with the note in his hand. O'Mara could hear Eulalia saying: "This happiness is too sweet to be permanent, my Shaun. Almost..." He took the note, and Willis went away. He opened the note. It was the transcript of a coded message, probably sent in the diplomatic bag by Quayle. It said laconically: COME BACK STOP IMMEDIATELY STOP PLAYTIME IS OVER STOP QUAYLE. And that was that. And he had dressed and written the note to Eulalia whilst she was still in her bathroom. He had written: I'm sorry, Eulalia, but there is someone else. There has been for some time. I've got to go. Shaun. And he had sneaked out and left his clothes; everything. Because that was the easiest way to do it. Easiest for her; for him; and it stopped a lot of questions. Even questions that do not get further than the mind. That was Mr. Quayle that was.... Come back... playtime is over.... Goddam Mr. Quayle. And now he was standing in the yew-tree grove where it was cold on a hot day. He was standing and wondering and trying to think with a mind that was three parts numb with bad liquor and the other part not-so-interested. But the drink thing was necessary. Or so it seemed. And who the hell was he to argue anyhow. Nobody ever argued with Mr. Quayle. Well, not more than about twice.... Not about anything that mattered. The thing was not fair. Because when you wanted to be something; when the time came you would have no guts; no morale; no anything. You would be a drunken sot. And if you were not a drunken sot, the time wouldn't come. So anyway you were in hell. Thank you, Mr. Quayle, thank you very much.... Goddam you, Mr. Quayle, and I hope it keeps fine for you and that you fall in front of a motor bus on a foggy day and to hell with you. His stomach heaved; he began to feel sick. He stood leaning against a tree waiting for the tremor to pass. Someone had said of him—someone—Ricardo Kerr, he thought it was—"O'Mara would charm you, would eat and drink with you, converse with you, play cards with you, win money off you, take your girl off you, swear unfailing loyalty to you, and if necessary kill you." That was what Ricky Kerr had said. He wondered what Ricky would say if he could have a look now. O'Mara realised that he must have a drink. Some sort of drink. Even if it was that lousy firewater that Volanon cooked up in the back room. You had to have a drink when you felt like he did. There was no argument about it. And that meant that he had to walk round the estuary and go back to the Garage Volanon and eat dirt and tell Volanon that he was sorry about last night when he had spat in the face of Tierche, the fish factor. Volanon had been quite peeved about that. But, anyway, what the hell could he do? He had to have some sort of help in the garage and even the drunken O'Mara was better than nothing. Three days a week he could work anyhow—sometimes.... He would have to walk round the estuary, and he would sweat some of the liquor out of him, and he might be better. Maybe something was going to happen to-dayw—maybe. It hadn't happened for months and it probably wouldn't, and anyway in about another five weeks he would be all set for the fourth stage, and that was when you started seeing things on the wall. O'Mara moved slowly out of the yew-tree grove and began to walk along the green fringe that edged the high cliff. On the other side of the estuary he could see Volanon standing at the door of the Café.... O'Mara moved away along the cliff. It would be funny, he thought, if he fell over. And it might save a great deal of trouble. But he wouldn't. No, sir... not to-day, sir.... No, Mr. Quayle... not to-day and goddam you, Mr. Quayle. The curé in the faded soutane came out of the church and walked to the edge of the graveyard. He watched O'Mara as he moved stupidly along the cliff path. He said: "Poor Philippe... poor Philippe...."