It would certainly have taken at least a spell on a rack, a hanging, drawing and quartering, and possibly the taking of what was left of her and the pouring of it, for a spell, into one of those medieval iron maiden things to make her admit it.
In fact, even if you augmented the hanging, drawing and quartering, utilising, instead of horses, maybe donkeys who are known to be stubborn and who, because of that very stubbornness might just not be arsed to do the quartering, even with the inducement of a carrot. So that we wouldn’t actually be talking about a quartering at all here, but maybe a two-thirding or a halfing or even just a shoulder whacked off and trailing down the road, and even that depending on the actual number of donkeys and number of carrots.
No, none of any of that, even, would make her admit it. And even if you were, in a fit of evil or frustration to replace those same donkeys with, for example, domestic cats; that wouldn’t be arsed either way and who would, for the absolute bald craic of it, maybe pause halfway through the quartering to lick themselves in public, with the leg up the way they do, thus rendering them the most cruel, the most vicious and all the horses and donkeys standing round agog and neighing and braying an ‘Oh my’ at the audacity of it.
But still, no, even in that humiliation she would not. Admit it, that she actually quite enjoyed working in this place. Because that wasn’t what you do. You don’t admit it; that while she didn’t skippy skip to her bar work, like a loon, the shifts she did in there stayed somewhat her self-hatred, her most Capricorn of attendants, she found.
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She was on the quiet shift. There was nothing to do but busy herself with a beer towel or find patterns in the knotty walnut of the bar top. It was one of those places in Belfast with a completely different clientele for different times of the day. Like they did shifts. At some time, there had been a redecoration, an upgrade of faux Tiffany but these oul’ fellahs all in a row and bobbing into pints, had just … stayed. These were quiet, strange, discomfiting men who spoke only to a barmaid’s breasts; kindly, gently, moving their eyes from left to right as if not wanting to upset either breast in the act of giving one more attention than the other, like the very attentive fathers of twins.
Their position in the pub tolerated with the proviso that they made themselves less incongruous as the night went on to prevent looks of horror from the younger clientele. Then at some point they were to leave and move to another shift in another less glossy bar. Thus, restoring the equilibrium in their wake; a fully immersive and authentic experience for the youth what do live on th’edge.
This day though, she noticed that between the bobbing men had appeared a finger, waving in the air in a beckoning motion. She tried to ignore it and polish a pump but it was some finger; stained yellow from birth, almost glowing, flitting about between the shoulders of the men as if painting some sort of a halo up there in the ether. She went to look over the shoulders to see what the finger was attached to. But then, as if reading her thoughts and saying “not so fast, missy”, it pointed to the other end of the bar. As the finger cleared the row of white bursting shirts, she noticed it was attached to a very small man who seemed to be in the process of engineering some sort of assignation. With herself.
Somewhat shocked, she found herself lowering her head to him, for the finger had beckoned her thus and God he really was small. Bitty. And now, she found, with the tall bar between them, and even only empty bar stools behind, his stature induced in him his own personal echo. Like he’d fallen down a well. So now, with her proximity to him and his hand now cupped and his special echo reverberating its way through the peachy fuzz hairs in her ear, she knew she would, when he had gone, have to stick her own finger in there and wiggle it to expel a massive itch.
He was telling her that he’d always found her to be a nice girl, she’d always been very civil to him and he appreciated it. This took her by surprise. For she, unfortunately, had nary a nano of a recollection of ever having seen old incendiary finger before. In fact, she now found herself grateful for the position of her head, reverb be damned. Because he could not now witness the flicker on her face that would have betrayed that fact. And this flicker might even have induced a flicker on his face, he now furnished with her flicker and the two of them flickering away at the knowledge, undoubtedly new to his ego, that he was not a memorable man.
But that flicker, which was too many flickers in fairness, was rightly rendered flickered into black by what he said next. What he said next would make him memorable to her in the future, no flicker about it. He said that, yes, he had always found her to be a nice girl, so he felt it only right to give her a warning not to go into the men’s toilets tonight because someone was “getting ‘got’.”
She shot her head back. Like a bullet. Like a bullet, not unlike that bullet, which was, apparently making an appearance that very night in the men’s toilets and also probably in the vicinity of some miscreant’s knees. For that was what “getting got” meant. In 1990s Belfast. And this tiny, acoustically generous but otherwise unmemorable article may, or may not, have been telling the truth.
The definition of an unreliable narrator is a situation in a narrative that occurs when the narrator’s credibility is somewhat compromised, leading the reader to question the truth of the account. A doubly unreliable narrator or narrators might occur in a situation wherein not only is the narrator’s credibility in question but the narrator narrating another bit of an oul’ narration to the narrator might be somewhat compromised and all.
She wheeled the vomit bucket out from where the vomit bucket lurked and it already smelled of vomit. Three students had been ordering pints of cider, lager, Pernod and blackcurrant and vomited them up, nonchalant like, right beside where they sat. She first had to clean the vomit from the vomit bucket from the last time someone used it and couldn’t be arsed to clean it, and then wash the floor. The students sat and watched. One had the strains of a beard round his mouth. Tinged with purple. She mopped up sick that smelled of aniseed and jam.
What she definitely did not do was think about what just had happened. For, up it had come, thank God. The thing. As if a computer program had buffered itself into action. From deep within, the thing that is “do fuck all” took over. The only instinct and appropriate action of inaction applicable when one has lived in a constant state of “some things that should never happen, happen often and are brushed off because it is necessary that we are numb”. Buffering, like a ’90s computer game of a dumb cartoon dog in a baseball cap with meaningless tasks to fulfil and an incongruous karate chop. Like navigating through rapids clinging to a twig made of salt.
The time was upon her to cling to “do fuck all”. Even maybe whilst wagging a tail. Or smiling and thanking the man for his information, which is what she had done. All the time desperately trying to manoeuvre herself past the bad code, the glitch that threatened her “not thinking” as to the tiny truism that her safety might not actually be at the forefront of this man’s generosity. That an increase in his own standing may have been his goal.
As he backed off, winking, she kept close the knowledge that the female staff never cleaned or went into the men’s toilets anyway. There were two male toilets, one on each floor, so which one was he referring to? She could have interrogated him. She then wondered, still clinging, with pixelated teeth now, would this reliable or unreliable cherub of mercy think now that this information constituted a conversation? And. Furthermore. Steady! On the subject of “information”, there was her lack of a reaction. What if a lack of a reaction might also constitute the returning on top of some sort of aforementioned information? The information being that she was a calm sort. Who, on the receiving of horror, was not prone to clutchings of despair, merely moderate attacks of frenetic domesticity? And then, what would he do with that information? Run back, all pleased and tell his “people”; his very actions surely illustrating that he knew “people”.
She absolutely would not think about that because, like a level up (ascending ping!) of the calm robotic leaving of a vicinity in the event of a bomb, it was already in her, this blank, blank ware. Like crossing a street past a lone car in case it had a device inside and blew up. Like the ability to identify where a bomb had gone off using the direction of the blast sound, the wind factor and the way it reverberated up the Lagan. (Karate chop!)
She did find that she had to forcibly stop herself from studying people’s knees. Stop that. Knees do not announce themselves. There is no such thing as a guilty looking knee.
What she absolutely definitely would not do was to run and tell her boss. She may even have let out a snort at the thought. Maybe that’s what you would do. Maybe in another land. In another iteration, based say on a pedagogic motion movie picture or such, that’s what she would do. THE RIGHT THING; you or she would take that information, all innocent, to that man who she thought a dick, and he would, in turn, impart all that to the cops who would maybe do a stake out kind of a thing outside the bar, with doughnuts, and apprehend the gunmen. And she, in this alternate world of warfare might be even a hero or get her face in the paper. “In the paper” as if anyone would be desirous of the like of that. Even if it didn’t, in fact, turn out to be in the form of an obituary, which it very possibly would if she as much as opened her fucking mouth. The word “fucking” inevitably applied as a prefix to the word “mouth”. The same word also a prefix to the word “quiet”, the words “know what is” and “good for you”. “Bitch”. (Descending ping! game over.)
She wasn’t even really a barmaid, if truth be told. She was a mere glass collector who had been upgraded, or was in the process of being upgraded, or indeed had been in the process of being upgraded until that there Sandra had made herself known. That there Sandra; one of those people who, even though she didn’t have a clipboard because this was a bar, walked around like she had a clipboard and who, even though she wasn’t a supervisor, liked to inform you of your weekly shift. And had, one time, informed her that she had been put on the smaller bar for one night. As a test. Then the till a 20 short at the end of the night … no doubt swiped by Sandra … there being no way that was give out in change.
So now she was on a sort of a demotion after a promotion, back to glasses with the odd stint in the main bar when it was quiet. And like now, moving to glasses when busy. Music thumping. “Dancin’ in the disco bumper to bumper, wait a minute, where’s me jumper?” Stone Roses, La’s. The place buzzed in anticipation of fumbled lumbers and spit and all back to ours for blackouts with hot knives and toast. Three Princes. Kill your Television. Sidequest; find empty pint glasses and stack into an almighty wavering stack-like sculpture monster until so high it is precarious and magnificent and waves glass and then dock, wash. Repeat. Empty ashtrays, fetch ice, even chill and almost relax? Really? “It’s all right to say things can only get better, you haven’t lost your brand-new sweater!”
Definitely don’t panic even further and wonder what then if you didn’t tell your boss. Definitely do not for a second wonder if all of this is your boss. Like a joke. Also pay no mind to worrying if they (not your boss) were maybe trying to ascertain if you’re going to tell your boss. If this was in fact a ruse to see if you can be trusted “in the future” for whatever nefarious acts they might want you to perpetrate. If you are indeed a good girl who keeps yer (insert prefix) mouth shut and who could be used by them in their mischief. Think twice about opening the dam to a state of ponderousness that if by keeping yer (insert prefix) mouth shut because ye know what’s (same) good for ye, you’re adding to a joke. Or maybe pointing yourself out as someone who knew even all the words, with all the prefixes, and who could be very valuable in times to come.
The glasses were washed in a sort of a thing from nightmares. Not a dishwasher or anything fancy like that but an upright brush thing which was a lot like an upright brush thing. The glass was slammed down quite violently really and washed in a twirly way. And wrapped round that brush, because nobody cleaned it, were apocalyptic chunks of unnamed probably foodstuffs and so much hair and one time an actual hairband.
OR. What if (stop!) they were from the “other side” and were using this as a ruse to figure out, say, a religion? This was a neutral bar and what if, by her silence she had gone and marked herself as a target for the being of a Fenian who had gleefully and willingly kept her mouth shut with all the prefixes and the extra-long suffix of a “serve the fucker right”. Was her lack of heroism a secular thing? Did Prods have an upgrade on their software? Did Prods know they did? Like a sentience? She leant over trying to get a bit of a breath because she realised she was short of it. then surreptitiously grabbed a glass and pushed it up under the optic and poured herself a vodka as she asked herself was she wandering into the territory of That. Girl. Who?
At a certain point in the night, they brought out food for the patrons. Deep fried, most of it, burgers and that. But she always avoided it because of the two drips. The first of the two drips was from one of the toilets upstairs. She knew it was from there because she’d followed it one night with her mind and realised what was right above. That drip, dripped right into the ice machine down below.
Two things will get you killed in Northern Ireland. Knowing too much or knowing too little. And one more. Being That Girl Who. Every girl knew that under no circumstances would you ever want to be That. Girl. Who.
The second drip was from God knows where. But it was always a funny colour. It dripped on the boxes of food that were stacked up beside the ice machine where the food was cooked that they gave out free. That was why she never once ate food in that place, ever.
It wasn’t hubris to imagine there was an optimal time frame within the course of an evening for the doing of someone’s knees. It wasn’t presumptuous to imagine that the event in question was not, in fact, likely to occur in the last hour of her shift. What gunman would want to make his escape through a Boschian tangle of inebriated, puking teenagers? And that was where she found herself. Suddenly. In her last hour, counting down the end of her shift in 15-minute decrements. Brush out, pan out, bottles dumped, repeat and nothing. Nothing. Nothing? Was that disappointing? That he didn’t show? No? Who didn’t show? No idea? Now. Where the fuck was her scarf? It was a Dr Who one she liked and as she rummaged around to find it, it was not cruel to imagine that just maybe the ones attempting to put a bullet in that man’s leg had got themselves a not completely irony-free case of cold feet.
As she walked home, she ruminated on the complicated nature of war but that’s actually a lie; mostly food. She didn’t half fancy a curry chip. Or chips, peas, mushrooms, onions and gravy but that Chinese on her road had closed down now and the others weren’t as good. She could get a SPUD from SPUDS with mushroom and cheese but she couldn’t handle the woman in that place and her barking what you wanted to the whole room. Chips and cheesy garlic sauce, fish and chips, onion rings, special fried rice.
She could walk to three streets away for a half decent kebab but fuck that, no. It was up Sandy Row, “where the Fenians never go”. And as she neared home she thought, aye chips with curry sauce, but keep the sauce in a tub, even if it meant fiddling with the really annoying lid on the way up the road home.
Abbie Spallen is a writer and playwright form Newry, Co Down. Her plays include Pumpgirl, Strandline and Lally the Scut. and her awards include the Susan Smith Blackburn Prize (2007) and the Windham Campbell Prize (2016).
