Velvet

Nessa was humming gently at the top of the main staircase as she observed the mass of humanity that was ravaging Dún Glas. Ever since she and Cat had left the pub in Enniskerry, the night had taken on a buzz that was surging through the swirling lace gown of people, and it could only escalate. There was no part of this big shell without music, blasts of it overlapping like anarchic, aural tidal-waves around the rooms and grounds. The whole place had been wired up to blast Ciaran M's personal selection as loud as humanly possible.

When they entered the property earlier, the driveway swung them steeply down the side of the mountain, washing them up suddenly in front of the main doorway, as if from the watery depths of Loch Glas itself, nestling silent beside the big house.

Dún Glas had been recently purchased by a German film maker who had decided to cash in on the Republic's generous tax breaks. Günther Braun had made his mark with a string of campy movies that bordered on sexploitation before he began to get artistic in the early eighties. When his art sank like a stone, he sold out bigtime and got into producing in Hollywood, subsequently raking in the big money. The entire family was mad, supposedly. And if the purchase of Dún Glas cost as much as was estimated, it stood as a monument to that fact. His son Erik's only stipulation was that he be allowed to have a major rave there before renovations started. That way, nothing worthwhile could get damaged, and all his gurrier Dublin and Eurotrash pals could celebrate the full moon in style.

The eccentric, Art Nouveau dramatics of the place lent a carnival feel to the festivities. People were already naked in the lily pond, and it wasn't even midnight. There was a self-styled neo-punk surrealist techno band called Porky on the patio round the side, with a whiskey-covered vocalist sporting braids and raw scratch wounds screaming in what the band claimed was Icelandic. Nessa was more intrigued by an individual on the far side of the veranda. He was leaning against the wooden rails, his face bearing a certain tolerant interest that friends listening to other friends play bad music tend to effect. She found herself smiling at how he wasn't managing to entirely hide a degree of amusement. He was dressed in a dark maroon synthetic affair, which made her smile as well. A staring match ensued. Welkin — that was what his eyes were. She had been looking for something to apply that word to since she'd discovered it two days previously. Heavenly, of the sky.

Around the back of the house, she caught sight of Cat, luminescent in her turquoise satin mini-dress. She was gesticulating wildly, her voice drowned in the crashing music, from the stone steps at the back of the old kitchen. There, a cluster of people were lolling around in various stages of advanced fucked-upness. Cat, despite her good intentions, had landed a man with an outrageous amount of mood-altering chemicals on his person, an older guy in shades, a sort of cross between Iggy Pop and David Hemmings. He sat watching her as she stood, or rather swayed, in the middle of the lawn, face skywards, smiling, apparently mesmerised by the glittering dome.

"- We're getting very close to those stars, Cat!" warned Nessa.

"- There's so much energy here tonight, you know - the whole bloody place may very well take off at warp nine any minute!"

"- Wow," said Cat, her spiralling brain fascinated at the thought. "- You think so?"

"- Very zen," muttered a maroon-garbed figure who had just rounded the corner.

"- Hey! Here comes Hamlet . . ." said Nessa, as Cat surreptitiously handed her a generous dosage of small, cute white tabs.

"- No, I was Hamlet in another life . . ."

"- Like shite."

He looked a little crestfallen at this, so she handed him two little moons, from the fistful Cat had given her, which cheered him up again fairly fast. They wandered into the house, now crammed with a glittering herd of people.

Paper garlands, and huge origami butterflies fluttered on the stained-glass window half way down the main staircase as they stood in the large hall area. Under the stairs, a Cecil B. De Mille-scale table boasted an orgy of champagne, the pearly green bottles matched one to one with cartons of orange juice and Tipperary water. They drank a lot. No alk, they agreed — fuck hangovers.

So they filled empty champagne bottles with juice instead, and went vociferously in search of Elvis, shouting his name up and down the staircase, even acquiring a few apostles in the effort. But try as they might, they could find no manifestation of the boy from Memphis. The sound of Deus Ex Machina prevailed, the music's bass booming as urban, nasty and out of control as Elvis must have been in his final days, with his sad, hairy carpets, six televisions and his gold fucking piano.

Any attempt at dancing was foiled by their apparently organic attachment to each other. At this point they were walking as one individual, mowing into people together, turning corners together, and falling down together.

"- I want you as my courtly love!"

"- Your Courtney Love?"

"- Courtly, courtly!! You know - like the poets . . . Jesus . . ."

"- Oh, right, right. But courtly lovers never actually did the business. That was the point."

"- You mean, a ride is out of the question?"

He gave her a look that metamorphosed all her carefully developed anti-suckered-again barrier cells into a swirl of fine, pastel ribbons around her breasts.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him outside, in the direction of the lake. The full moon stared down, scattering her light over the ancient waters. They found a nook that looked out over the breeze-blown waves, which were lilting in against it. He sat beside her, staring up into the sky.

"- It was deliberate, you know."

"- What?"

"- The full moon. Erik arranged it on this date so everybody would be as crazy as possible to make for a better party."

"- He was right. Everybody seems to be pretty happy."

She reflected on the accent. Belfast, Derry — maybe sometimes it was difficult to distinguish. But Cheeky Catholic Boy or Black Proddy Bastard, that was the question!! Not that it was politically correct these days to even think that, however. Said his name was Den. Could be a fucking Buddhist for all she knew.

"- So what's glas?" he asked.

"- What?"

"- Loch fucking Glas - what's glas?"

"- No Irish, is it?"

"- Oh yeah, well, I've been learning Irish lately, you know, over with Father Dessie on the Ballymurphy Road. Me Da learned it in the Kesh . . ."

"- Oh really?"

"- No, not really. I'm a black Proddy bastard from the Shankill Road with no fucking Irish."

"- So what are you doing down South seducing innocent Catholic girls?"

"- Ach, just my wee contribution to the Peace Process . . ."

His thigh closed in over hers before she could decide which to believe. That accent, it was the damn accent that was her undoing. Then, in a succession of several impossibly suspended moments, she managed to perfectly observe his descending face, in the minutest detail, his hair falling onto her cheekbones before their lips touched.

Once sub-velvet, he engaged in that quaint pastime of young men the world over — twanging her suspenders. She closed her eyes, laughing, then just smiling when she felt his hand thigh-guided as if magnetically, towards a true black lace moment. Sometimes a girl had to be thankful for an expensive underwear fetish . . .

"- So anyway, Nessa, are you coming with me? I'm going to Inismór tomorrow."

"- Certainly. We'll just stop by my house and I'll pick up my Lear Jet . . ."

"- No, really, tomorrow night, there's going to be a scene up on top of Dún Aengus. It'll be brilliant."

"- Who is it?"

"- These Galway people. They're mad. Nearly as mad as Mayo people."

"- I'm broke . . ."

"- Ah, for fuck's sake, you're only young once. If we can get over the mountains as far as the Naas road and pick up one of them rigs, the next stop west is Galway city."

"- Em, okay."

It seemed okay.

On the way back up towards the house, her head was a little woozy, but generally she felt good. There was still a moonlit shimmer to things, she had that gorgeous sensation of moving in slow motion like a playback-ballerina. They caught a lift with some people back to the main road, which, high above the fjord-like valley of Loch Glas, seemed to stretch out over the wide boglands like a single ebony, twentieth-century ribbon in an ageless sea of emerald and saffron gorse.

They strolled along the side of the road, their voices strange in the utter silence. A light mist was layering slowly down over the land around them. Loch Glas was pretty much the edge of the world, as far as civilisation went, not too far from Enniskerry as the crow flies. But once you got up over the first climb of hills, the bogs levelled out higher up into nothing but lonely land and diamantine sky, so empty and quiet that they could be the last souls on the planet.

When the truck arrived, it was kind of obscene in its loud bulk, rampaging into their vision like a monster, all metallic filth and black rubber.

The driver swung open the door.

"- Where are yez off to?"

"- Galway."

"- Headin' for there meself, yez are in luck."

"- Brilliant. Thanks."

They swung up into the cab, Nessa feeling as if she floated up, but probably not. The smell inside was greasy, personal and had that machine oil waft of most work vehicles. Several empty Guinness cans lay on the floor, clanking around. Paper napkins, a copy of The Sun, and some crumpled McDonald's wrappers. The guy seemed jovial enough — a pint of plain/four kids at home man with Costa del Sol tee-shirt and an over-wrinkled face punctuated by the kind of silly moustache that was trendy in 1973. He looked like he might have listened to Motörhead.

"- Lovely night for a walk — did yez come far, love?"

"- We were just down in the valley. Visiting a few friends you know."

"- Grand job. Just over from the Noggin Inn meself. Great craic. And now yez are off to Galway?"

"- Aye."

"- From the North, are you?"

"- Aye."

"- What's your name, so?"

"- Brendan."

"- I'm Tom. Howaye."

"- How ya doing."

Silence ensued for a while as the truck began to pick up speed, taking them way beyond the edge of the world — you'd never imagine the city was only about fifteen miles away. Tom was belting down the boreens like Mad fucking Max, or at least that's how it seemed to Den.

"- Pretty big rig for the wee roads, yeah?"

"- Ah fuckit, you have me there. I'm not supposed to be on them, of course. EEC regulations and all that crap. But I do like the scenery, you know?"

"- Aye. It's beautiful around here."

It was beautiful. So desolate, so completely untouched, except for a few ghosts, maybe. It was lucky the moon was out, since there no longer seemed to be any streetlights. And they were lucky to get the lift. As Nessa relaxed, she decided to pay no attention to the speed of the truck, and just let herself sink against this Den. Or Brendan, whoever he was. She was too tripped out of her teabags at this point to care. She quivered with an ineluctable shimmer of desire when his arm brushed against hers, and she even lost track of the conversation. Until he gave her a puck in the ribs, and she came around suddenly.

"- I don't know what you mean."

Den's face seemed creased with horror.

"- The Black & Deckers, you know that's what they use, right?"

"- For what?" She was a bit lost.

"- For the kneecappings, petal, you know. The punishments up above. Your boyfriend there should know all about that. I heard they just use the plain old Black & Deckers, for fuck's sake. You do be wondering which drill bits they'd use, you know?"

"- I dunno, friend."

"- Ah now, don't friend me, like. I've been round the block a few times, and I don't like smart alecs. You must have a few yarns."

Den was staring out the window, fiddling with a loose thread on the truck's door upholstery. He wasn't saying anything. Nessa was beginning to sense a slow, cold feeling sneak into her velvet cocoon, cutting a little jagged hole around the edges.

"- Sure, we have a few yarns down here ourselves, these days, do you know? The whole fucking country has gone to the dogs. Half of that is due to your lot coming down here and gangstering in on the drugs. Now the country's riddled with fucking junkies. It's disgusting."

"- Yeah, it's gotten very bad alright," Nessa murmured out of desperation.

"- Bad, love? It's a madhouse. Decent people can't go out in the street anymore. My wife mugged in Mary Street like downtown fucking Bosnia! And she's a wreck now after the young lad. A fucking smackhead — my son! And the cops are arresting the young fellas, not the crooks — they're afraid of the crooks for fuck's sake."

"- Yeah."

"- If I caught any of them Nordern bastards that got him, I'd drag them up to the Square in Tallaght and rip the skin off them live, one by one. And that'd be too good for them!"

Nessa was covered in an icy layer of liquid, it felt like a chemical, she was afraid it was going to seep under her skin and rot her organs like sulphuric acid, like in that Nikita flick. This guy was making her feel sick, and the sick was feeling like acid too. It was too scary.

"- Em. What did they do?"

She got another puck in the ribs from Den, but all he was doing was staring out the window, he wouldn't even look at her.

"- They get these young fellas in under their control, you know? And gairls too, of course. There's more junkie young ones on the game around Dublin these days than you ever saw. Children, almost."

Despite the fact that she could see every pore in Tom's face — and they all seemed to be exploding — Nessa felt like he was talking from very far away, but still, she couldn't manage to shut out his voice.

"- Well, if a young fella fucks up, they take him, somewhere like a garage, or a car-park, you know. So they strip him off, wrap his arms down around his waist with masking tape, so he can't hit back, and they thrash him, a gang of them. Leather belts, usually. Hurley sticks sometimes, or maybe the bosses' fucking golf clubs. This is what Dublin has come to, with the heroin. And the cops do fuck all. Fuck all."

"- Did he tell you why they did it?" This time Den broke the silence.

"- No, son. He's dead."

The silence this time was hard and vicious, and came at Nessa from two angles. Den wasn't touching her any more, and her head was full of a naked boy in a dark space being beaten around under a light, bloody and screaming. She just hoped yer man didn't cop how out of their heads they were. The fact that it wasn't on smack was immaterial. She was so sick now she was afraid she was going to puke up all over the dashboard. Then they'd be fucked. Tom slowed down, suddenly, in a lay-by, and when the engine stopped, he lit up a cigarette with some relish, and smiled broadly at Nessa.

"- Yeah well, I'm kippin down for a while now, meant to do it in Enniskerry, but it's better to get half way over the mountains, that way you do avoid the traffic in the morning."

He had apparently calmed down.

"- Fair enough."

"- So you can kip right back here with me, love, and Head-the-Ball there can slip into the back of the rig, he'll be grand."

"- What?"

"- He can fuck off round the back, that's all."

"- Em, no, actually. He's my boyfriend. I havta sleep with him, you know?"

"- Aye, that's right — we'll be grand on our own."

Tom laughed. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"- Who do yous think yez are? Let's not fuck around here. Yous are gettin' a lift off me to Galway, right? This is Dublin, right? So there's a bit of an exchange to be made."

"- Listen, we thought you were just going to give us a lift, like. No fringe benefits."

"- Fuck off, you. I'm talking to her, right?"

"- But, I don't want to do that."

"- Hey, sweetheart, don't be embarrassing me. Anywhere in Europe a mott takes a lift anywhere, you ask anybody, the fare is a done deal. I don't care if yer fella is sitting there, he can go and take a wank in the bushes, me and you kip here in the cabin."

"- Look, we're going to get out here, okay? We didn't know that when we got in."

Tom started up the engine, and they just about had time to tumble out in a panic before he started off down the road. Nessa promptly threw up on the grass, on top of a cluster of little sheep shits and a Crunchie wrapper.

"- You're alright. You're alright."

She composed herself, and took a drink of water from out of the stash in the rucksack.

"- Is he fucking mad or are we, for Jesus' sake . . . ."

"- Don't worry about it, it's not that cold. We can get a bit of sleep, maybe, and we'll be okay in the morning."

"- Den, he's stopping!"

"- Fuck."

The truck had stopped a little down the road, and the lights had gone out. Only the moon lit the valley now. For a few minutes, no sound disturbed the night, it was eerily silent. Then he started reversing, slowly.

"- What the fuck do you think he's up to?"

"- Maybe he's got a heart after all."

"- Get a grip, Nessa."

"- I can't run in these platforms!"

"- Just stay put, settle down."

She was exhausted. The buzz wasn't exactly wearing off, but it was pulling down a gear, into that slow-motion soon-sleepy deal.

Tom was spectacularly contrite.

"- Listen, I was a bit hard on yez. Sorry. Bit on edge tonight, you know? They found another poor fucker executed in Finglas this morning. Gets to me, do you know? Yez can sleep in the back, if yez want. Sorry for the hassle, right? Sorry for scaring you, love."

Nessa felt sorry for him. Imagine his poor son. It must have upset him terribly thinking about it. And it would be warmer inside the back of the truck, too.

"- Okay, well, if it gets cold out here, maybe we'll hop in, so."

Den looked rigid.

"- Oh, you don't want to get inside now, is it?" Tom seemed deeply wounded. "- I'm after putting a blanket down for yez, even."

"- Ah no, you're great, thanks a million!" Nessa hauled herself up into the dark space, and held out her hand for Den. He didn't take it, but when Tom went back around into his cubby hole, without another peep, he thought again. It was cold outside now. He climbed up after Nessa, and even smiled.

"- Alright now?"

"- Alright."

He pulled her down on the blanket, and she could see the sky framed by that rig door as he went down. She hummed quietly, thinking they'd better keep it low . . . Then two things happened very fast. The door of the rig slammed shut, and a bolt rammed across the outside, loud and sharp like the devil coming.

Den, still breathless, seemed to hold her for several seconds before pulling back and hammering on the door.

"- This isn't fucking funny, you!!! Fuck up and let us out, you bastard!"

He was furious, kicking up against the rig's walls, slamming his fists uselessly. She wondered whether she should be kicking and screaming too - but she couldn't, she was covered in velvet, it didn't seem like there was anything they could do. She took the boom box out of the rucksack and put on a CD. She had just remembered something, that took a while to filter through. It was grim. But she thought she knew what to do.

"- He's only messing, Den. He's trying to scare us, just."

Den settled a minute, and there were some fumbling sounds outside, and then silence. He started kicking again.

"- You fucking cunt, open the door!"

"- I have four E's left, Den. Why don't we take them, love? In my hand here . . ."

What the fuck was this chick on about? Den felt the razor blade of fear slit through what might have been a heart, if he was together enough to know where his heart might exactly be. The sound of fear was coming out of her too. That sick fuck, he'd kill him. At some point, he'd have to let them out, and then he'd burst the fucker.

"- Listen to me!"

"- What, Nessa?"

There was no answer from the darkness.

"- Fucking what?"

"- Did you see the sign?"

"- Are you turning into a born-again now or what?"

"- Take two, okay, just take two. I have four left. We'll split them. C'mon. He's only messin'. Comere over beside me, Den."

He couldn't see her face, because the blackness was thick as pitch. And it was stuffy as well, but there she was right in front of him, with that seductive trill in the voice again, now, too. Maybe she was right. He took the two tabs, swallowed them down with the remains of the water she offered him. He smiled, in the dark, and imagined that she did too. He reached for her, she helped him.

She kissed him hard, as some kind of vile machinery kicked into operation, a terrible, metallic, merciless screech that attempted to fill her head, but didn't, because she was full of him. Den thought, fuck it. She was the only real thing now, after several E's he should trust wherever they and Nessa took him. Tom was just some gouger.

Bina Shanti's World House Gathering was playing on the boombox, her Indian movie-star voice climbing unprecedented scales, thrown naked and pure against Peter Khan's outrageous, multi-hued mix.

"- Khan is a genius!" Said Den, throwing away her pukey dress.

"- I think she's the genius. He just works around her . . ."

"- So, are you a third wave feminist, or a fifth generation suffragette?"

"- Fuck off."

As they kissed, and the baby moons kicked in, for the first time in several days, he felt a coolness envelope his body, a lovely, floating breeze whose source he no longer cared about. And Nessa didn't, either. The overall effect served to dismiss those two words from her mind, words she had seen, but thought nothing of, on the side of the trailer, which those welkin eyes hadn't seen, and never would.

Outside, the truck's generator raged, vicious, into the empty Wicklow night. Only the moon knew, like Nessa knew, and of course, Tom knew, the meaning of the two words (among others, insignificant), plastered across the side of his truck.

Clear and stark and simple, they could be seen from quite a distance. They read: Refrigerated trailer.