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– Besides, Crabbe added, I like the sea.
– Well, fair enough, Hackett growled, why not stay right here. This is a hotel.
Mrs Laverty raised her head, displeased.
– I have already told the gentleman, Mr Hackett, she said sharply, that we’re full up.
– Yes, but of what?
Dr Crewett, a peace-maker, intervened.
– Mrs Laverty, I think I’ll buy a glawsheen all round if you would be so kind.
She nodded, mollified a bit, and rose.
– Damned physics and chemistry are for me a scourge, Crabbe confided to all. It’s my father who insists on this medicine nonsense. I have no interest at all in it, and Dr Crewett agrees with my attitude.
– Certainly, the medico nodded.
– He believes that doctors of today are merely messenger boys for the drug firms.
– Lord, drugs, Hackett muttered.
– And very dangerous and untested drugs many of them are, Dr Crewett added.
– Nobody can take away Dr Glauber’s great triumph, Hackett remarked, grasping his new drink. I’ve often wondered that since glauben means ‘to think’, whether Glauber means thinker? Remember the pensive attitude of the seated one.
– It doesn’t, Mick said brusquely, for he had briefly studied German.
– Actually, poetry is my real interest, Crabbe said. I suppose I have something in common with Shelley and Byron. The sea, I mean, and poetry. The sea is a poem in itself.
– It has metre, too, Hackett’s voice sneered. Nothing finer than a good breeze and a 12-metre boat out there in the bay.
Mrs Laverty’s gentle voice was heard from her averted face.
– I’m very fond of poetry. That thing the Hound of Heaven is grand. As a girl I knew bits of it by heart.
– Some people think it’s doggerel.
– I suppose, Crabbe ventured, that all you good friends think my Christian name is odd. Nemo.
– It is odd, Mick agreed in what was meant to be a kindly tone. And if I may say so, your father must be an odd man.
– It was my mother, I believe.
– You could always change it, Crabbe, Dr Crewett suggested. In common law a man can call himself and be known by any name he likes.
– That reminds me of the poor man whose surname was Piss, Hackett recounted. He didn’t like it and changed it by deed-poll to Vomit.
– I implore you not to be facetious, the unsmiling Crabbe replied. The funny thing is that I like the name Nemo. Try thinking of it backwards.
– Well, you have something there, Hackett granted.
– Poetic, what?
There was a short silence which Dr Crewett broke.
– That makes you think, he said thoughtfully. Wouldn’t it be awful to have the Arab surname Esra?
– Let us have another round, Sussim L, Mick said facetiously, before I go home to beautiful Booterstown.
She smiled. She was fond of him in her own way. But had she heard his hasty transliteration? Hackett was scribbling a note.
– Mrs L, he said loudly, could you see that Teague McGettigan gets this tonight? It’s about an urgent appointment with another man for tomorrow morning.
– I will, Mr Hackett.
They left soon afterwards, going homewards by tram. Hackett got off at Monkstown, not far away, where he lived.
Mick felt well enough, and wondered about the morrow. After all, De Selby had done nothing more than talk. Much of it was astonishing talk but he had promised actual business at an hour not so long after dawn. Assuming he turned up with his gear, was there risk? Would the unreliable Hackett be there?
He sighed. Time, even if there was no such thing, would tell.
* (#ulink_193a1e42-9605-5a2f-8a0b-d31840992cd0) Virgin Martyr.
4 (#ulink_6a89a18a-90a2-5083-883e-0a6312b513d2)
Mild air with the sea in a stage whisper behind it was in Mick’s face as his bicycle turned into the lane-like approach to the Vico Road and its rocky swimming hole. It was a fine morning, calm, full of late summer.
Teague McGettigan’s cab was at the entrance, the horse’s head submerged in a breakfast nose-bag. Mick went down the steps and saluted the company with a hail of his arm. De Selby was gazing in disfavour at a pullover he had just taken off. Hackett was slumped seated, fully dressed and smoking a cigarette, while McGettigan in his dirty raincoat was fastidiously attending to his pipe. De Selby nodded. Hackett muttered ‘More luck’ and McGettigan spat.
– Boys-a-dear, McGettigan said in a low voice from his old thin unshaven face, ye’ll get the right drenching today. Ye’ll be soaked to the pelt.
– Considering that we’re soon to dive into that water, Hackett replied, I won’t dispute your prophecy, Teague.
– I don’t mean that. Look at that bloody sky.
– Cloudless, Mick remarked.
– For Christ’s sake look down there by Wickla.
In that quarter there was what looked like sea-haze, with the merest hint of the great mountain behind. With his hands Mick made a gesture of nonchalance.
– We might be down under the water for half an hour, I believe, Hackett said, or at least that’s Mr De Selby’s story. We have an appointment with mermaids or something.
– Get into your togs, Hackett, De Selby said impatiently. And you, too, Mick.
– Ye’ll pay more attention to me, Teague muttered, when ye come up to find ye’r superfine clothes demolished be the lashin rain.
– Can’t you keep them in your cursed droshky? De Selby barked. His temper was clearly a bit uncertain.
All got ready. Teague sat philosophically on a ledge, smoking and having the air of an indulgent elder watching children at play. Maybe his attitude was justified. When the three were ready for the water De Selby beckoned them to private consultation. The gear was spread out on a flattish rock.
– Now listen carefully, he said. This apparatus I am going to fit on both of you allows you to breathe, under water or out of it. The valve is automatic and needs no adjustment, nor is that possible. The air is compressed and will last half an hour by conventional effluxion of time.
– Thank God, sir, that your theories about time are not involved in the air supply, Hackett remarked.
– The apparatus also allows you to hear. My own is somewhat different. It enables me to do all that but speak and be heard as well. Follow?
– That seems clear enough, Mick agreed.
– When I clip the masks in place your air supply is on, he said emphatically. Under water or on land you can breathe.
– Fair enough, Hackett said politely.
– And listen to this, De Selby continued, I will go first, leading the way, over there to the left, to this cave opening, now submerged. It is only a matter of yards and not deep down. The tide is now nearly full. Follow close behind me. When we get to the rock apartment, take a seat as best you can, do nothing, and wait. At first it will be dark but you won’t be cold. I will then annihilate the terrestrial atmosphere and the time illusion by activating a particle of DMP. Now is all that clear? I don’t want any attempt at technical guff or questions at this time.
Hackett and Mick mutely agreed that things were clear.
– Down there you are likely to meet a personality who is from heaven, who is all-wise, speaks all languages and dialects and knows, or can know, everything. I have never had a companion on such a trip before, and I do hope events will not be complicated.
Mick had suddenly become very excited.
– Excuse the question, he blurted, but will this be John the Baptist again?
– No. At least I hope not. I can request but cannot command.
– Could it be … anybody? Hackett asked.
– Only the dead.
– Good heavens!
– Yet that is not wholly correct. Those who were never on earth could appear.
This little talk was eerie. It was as if a hangman were courteously conversing with his victim, on the scaffold high.
– Do you mean angels, Mr De Selby? Mick enquired.
– Deistic beings, he said gruffly. Here, stand still till I fix this.
He had picked up a breathing mask, with its straps and tank affair at the back.
– I’ll go after you, Mick muttered, with Hackett at the rear.
In a surprisingly short time they were all fully dressed for a visit under the sea to the next world, or perhaps the former world. Through his goggles Mick could see Teague McGettigan studying an early Sunday paper, apparently at a rear racing page. He was at peace, with no interest whatever in supernatural doings. He was perhaps to be envied. Hackett was standing impassive, an Apollo space-man. De Selby was making final adjustments to his straps and with a gesture had led the way to the lower board.
Going head-down into cold water in the early morning is a shock to the most practised. But in Mick’s case the fog of doubt and near-delusion in the head, added to by the very low hiss of his air supply, made it a brief but baffling experience. There was ample light as he followed De Selby’s kicking heels and a marked watery disturbance behind told him that Hackett was not far away. If he was cursing, nobody heard.
Entry to the ‘apartment’ was efficient enough for beginners. If not adroit. De Selby readily found the opening and then, one by one, the others made their way upwards, half-clambering, half-swimming. They left the water quite palpably and Mick found himself crouching in an empty space on a rough floor strewn with rocks and some shells. Everything was dark and a distant sussurus must have been from the sea which had just been left. The company was under the water and presumably in an atmosphere that could be breathed, though only for a short time. Time? Yes, the word might be repeated.
De Selby beckoned Mick on with a tug at the arm, and he did the same for Hackett behind. Then they stopped. Mick crouched and finally squatted on a roundish rock; De Selby was to his left and the three had come to some sort of resting posture. Hackett gave Mick a nudge, though the latter did not know if it meant commiseration, encouragement or derision.
From his movements it was evident even in the gloom that De Selby was busy at some technical operation. Mick could not see what he was doing but no doubt he was detonating (or whatever is the word) a minuscule charge of DMP.
Though wet, he did not feel cold, but he was apprehensive puzzled, curious. Hackett was near but quite still.
A faint light seemed to come, a remote glow. It gradually grew to define the dimension of the dim apartment, making it appear unexpectedly large and, strangely dry.
Then Mick saw a figure, a spectre, far away from him. It looked seated and slightly luminescent. Gradually it got rather clearer in definition but remained unutterably distant, and what he had taken for a very long chin in profile was almost certainly a beard. A gown of some dark material clothed the apparition. It is strange to say that the manifestation did not frighten him but he was flabbergasted when he heard De Selby’s familiar tones almost booming out beside him.
– I must thank you for coming. I have two students with me.
The voice that came back was low, from far away but perfectly clear. The Dublin accent was unmistakable. The extraordinary utterance can here be distinguished only typographically.
– Ah not at all, man.
– You’re feeling well, as usual, I suppose?
– Nothing to complain of, thank God. How are you feeling yourself, or how do you think you’re feeling?
– Tolerably, but age is creeping in.
– Ha-ha. That makes me laugh.
– Why?
– Your sort of time is merely a confusing index of decomposition. Do you remember what you didn’t know was your youth?
– I do. But it’s your youth I wanted to talk about. The nature of your life in youth compared with that of your hagiarchic senility must have been a thunderous contrast, the ascent to piety sudden and even distressing. Was it?
– You are hinting at anoxic anoxœmia? Perhaps.
– You admit you were a debauched and abandoned young man?
– For a pagan I wasn’t the worst. Besides, maybe it was the Irish in me.
– The Irish in you?
– Yes. My father’s name was Patrick. And he was a proper gobshite.
– Do you admit that the age or colour of women didn’t matter to you where the transaction in question was coition?
– I’m not admitting anything. Please remember my eyesight was very poor.
– Were all your rutting ceremonials heterosexual?
– Heterononsense! There is no evidence against me beyond what I wrote myself. Too vague. Be on your guard against that class of fooling. Nothing in black and white.
