Beatlebone Read Online Free Page B

Cornelius’s blue eyes are set to a high murderous burn—his hilarity—and John is on the lam and loves it although he has a sad stretch, about home, but just for a half-mile or so—it passes—and the van screams and barks and it smells of the other Monday’s fish: John’s stomach lurches and his soul groans. He lights another fag, an evil Gitane.
    There’s one day I’d be after mackerel, Cornelius says. There’s another day I’d be dosing sheep. Another again? I’d be playing the chauffeur. And only last Thursday gone? I dug a grave for a man that took a sudden stroke…Sixty-two years of age and he only trying to watch a bit of television. God rest him.
    Cornelius quickens the van for a blind turn. He accelerates again to come out of the bend. He plays at full volume a vile country music all twangy hoedowns and cry-it-to-the-moon laments but in awful, reaching, sobbing, spud-Irish voices.
    John eyeballs the fucker hard—
    Cornelius?
    —but he is paid no mind.
    He slaps eject to pop the cassette but Cornelius slaps it back to play again.
    Ray Lynam, he says. That’s one powerful fucken singer.
    Keep the dogs at bay. This is the most important thing. Keep the hissing pack at bay and get me to my fucking island. His new friend whistles jauntily as he steers the van.
    Cornelius?
    Yes, John?
    You do realise it’s extremely fucking important that no one knows I’m out here?
    I do of course.
    Because it would ruin everything, Cornelius. It would defeat the whole fucking purpose.
    I understand, John. But I’ve a feeling the fuckers aren’t far off our trail.
    How can you tell?
    From the way the air is settling around us.
    His eyes shoot to the rearview, to the wings.
    Do you understand what I mean by that?
    I’ve no fucking idea.
    The ground can be kind of thin around here, John.
    Thin?
    Which means all you’ve to do is listen.
    The van spins into the mist. Cornelius taps time on the wheel. John is not used to the company of males anymore. All the musk and hilarity and contest. Slate-grey to sea-green, the hills fall away. Melancholy, too, can gleam, jewel-like—as in the rain’s sheen that blackens stone—and Cornelius steers blithely, and he beats time with his thumbs, and he turns happily—
    Tell me just the one thing, John.
    Yes?
    Why’s it you want to go to this little island?
    Because I want to be that fucking lonely I’ll want to fucking die.
    Cornelius jaws on this for a bit and winces, and he nods it through—he is at length satisfied.
    I have you now, he says.
    The blue-bleak hills. The veiling of the fog.
    This is just what I’m after, John says.
    He is all business now—
    About a boat and supplies?
    Do I look like the fucken boy scouts, John?
    The tape chews and a country song sticks hard on a high note and yodels; Cornelius pops the tape free and slaps in another; he throws a dark look seaward.
    I’d doubt we’ll be putting out in that.
    Bit choppy?
    He whistles through his nose; he sucks his teeth.
    We’ll keep you hid till the pressmen clear, John. We’ll wait out the assault.
    I haven’t got all bloody year!
    They’ll want for patience. If they don’t get the smell of you in a day or two, they’ll be gone.
    Just hole me up at a different hotel then.
    Hotels no good. Too easy follow you out from a hotel. How’d you think they got wind of you in the first place?
    You don’t mean our woman in Newport?
    Well.
    Fucking Hatchet-Face!
    The same woman has two husbands buried in the one plot, John. A small bit of respect would be no harm.
    He massages the bridge of his nose—the painful place.
    So where do I go, Cornelius?
    I’m thinking the best thing for now would be my own house.
    Super.
    The van climbs and on a sudden turn, at a height above them, a silver horse in full mantle—its eyes shaded—is formed from the motes of air and mist and rises on its hind legs and makes a great silent scream—something Hispanic here—and its teeth are yellowish, foam-flecked, pointed, and it