What Are Friends For?

“What just happened?” I asked.

Conor shrugged. “Funerals aren’t what they used to be.”  

           “You can say that again.”

           “Funerals aren’t what—”

           “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood.”

           There we were: me, Conor Wickham, Noel Collins, and Justin McAteer. If someone had been watching, they would have seen four middle-aged men standing outside a crematorium.

           “It wasn’t what I expected,” I said. “What did you make of it, Noel?”

           “It didn’t take long.”

           “No, it didn’t. A few words from your man with the wart and, whoosh, job done.”

           “Was it a wart?” Conor scratched his bearded chin and gave me one of his mock-serious looks. “Maybe it was a mole.”

           “Too big to be a mole.”

           “Big for a wart, if you ask me.”

           “He should get it looked at.” Noel took out a handkerchief and started cleaning his glasses.

           “I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

           “That’s probably why he keeps it,” Justin said.

           “What do you mean?”

           “He’s looking for attention.”

           We were all in suits. Off the peg clobber apart from Justin’s charcoal grey number, made to measure. Bespoke, don’t you know, for Mr. McAteer. The freshly laundered white shirt set off his tan. A tan in the middle of October in North Dublin, dirty grey sky pressing down on our heads. It must have cost him a packet; two weeks in Saint Tropez didn’t come cheap. The other two were as pasty-faced as me, skin the colour of mashed potatoes. 

           Conor loosened his tie. “At least they kept a lid on the mumbo jumbo.”

           “Davy wasn’t religious,” I said.

           Noel nodded. “You wouldn’t call him pious.”

           Justin snorted. “He won’t be disappointed there’s no after-life.”

           We were there to pay our respects at the passing of David Maguire, Davy to his friends, and we were his friends. We had met at university. I played five-a-side with Conor and knew Davy from lectures. Conor had gone to secondary school with Noel. We crossed paths with Justin in the college bar and coalesced as a group.

           “We can’t stand here like spare pricks,” Conor said. “Let’s go for a pint. There’s a boozer up the road.”

           We walked away from the morbid building, four abreast.

           Connor looked over at me. “Rotten job that.”

           “What?”

           “Funeral director or crematorium emcee—your man with the wart.”

           “It’s a vocation,” Noel piped up.

           “Do you think,” Justin said, “when he was a kid, he thought to himself, when I grow up I’m going to burn people?”

           “Cause I’m a warty fucker.”

           We had a good laugh at that. Trust Conor to lighten the gloom. Six feet two in his socks and big shouldered though any muscle had turned to flab; a heavy paunch hung over his belt. Always the joker, but there was more to Conor than that. He worked for a multi-national chemical company and ran the research department.

           “What do you think Davy would have made of it?”

           Trust Noel to turn maudlin. A born mechanical engineer, lugubrious and unimaginative, who spent his days poring over technical drawings. He thought in straight lines.

           “Christ, Noel, you’re a miserable bugger.” Conor kicked a stone along the pavement. “Davy would have declined the invitation.”

           When Conor called to tell me Davy was dead, my insides had turned to liquid. I couldn’t take it in, unthinkable that I would never see him again. Davy the charmer, often bad-minded but never mean-spirited. Complicated, wise and wild, a natural leader with no interest in leading. All that gone, a life foreshortened. Utterly senseless.

           Conor started laughing. “Do you remember Davy’s story about the kid with no ears? The worried father asking a mate to praise the poor little bugger and build up his confidence.”

           I could picture Davy telling the story, his hand gestures and wicked smile.

           “The helpful mate sizes up the nervous kid. Aren’t you the fine young lad, he says. Be sure to look after those bright blue eyes. If you ever need glasses, you’re fucked.”

           “Davy was a gas man.”

           “He was that.”

           Not yet three o’clock, the pub was quiet. Two wasters stopped playing pool and eyed us up and down. A couple of old codgers leaning on the counter watched horse-racing on a huge TV screen. Tables with fake grain and mismatched chairs were scattered about the linoleum floor. A framed picture of Flann O’Brien in hat and Crombie hung on the wall beside the bar.

           Justin looked around the room, a sneer creasing his tanned face. “You’re not likely to find this place in any tourist guide.”

           Conor went to the bar, always the first up and usually the last. We sat at a table. I pointed to the picture of Flann O’Brien.

           “Davy would have approved.”

           Conor brought the drinks down on a tray. Three pints of Guinness and a gin and tonic.

           “Don’t worry,” he said to Justin, “they have Gordons, and there’s even a slice of lemon in there.”

           I raised my pint. “To Davy, a toast to his memory.”

           “To Davy, one of a kind.”

           “A man you won’t meet every day.”

           “Not any more you won’t.” Conor banged his half-empty glass on the table.

           “A bit of decorum please.”

           “Would you ever lighten up, Noel.”

           Across from me, Justin sipped his drink. I wasn’t sure what he did for a living; a mover and shaker, an entrepreneur always on the qui vive for opportunities to exploit. So assured and in control, no situation would ever get the better of Justin McAteer.

           “The enormity of death.” Noel shook his head. “A free spirit like Davy, quenched just like that.”

           “Pile of ashes now. I’ll miss the bugger.”

           Conor’s gruffness didn’t ring true. We were all unsettled by Davy’s death, and I decided to say what was on my mind.

           “Crazy way to go.”

           “How so?” An abrupt response from Justin, almost tetchy. Something was bubbling beneath that calm exterior.

           “Hit and run isn’t exactly what you’d expect,” I said.

           “And what would you expect?” Justin countered. “Heart attack? Cancer? Dementia? Can you picture Davy, gaga and dribbling into a plastic cup?”

           “The suddenness of it.” Noel was back to shaking his head. “There’s no arguing with death.”

           Conor grabbed his glass. “Davy is better off where he is now.”

           “You don’t mean that.”

           He ignored me and drained his pint. “Your round, Noel. Break into your wallet and get the drinks in.”

           Noel went to the bar. We sat in silence. I stared at the wet rings around Conor’s glass.

One of the old codgers shouted at the TV.

           “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Noel said when he returned with the drinks. “Why did he leave Dublin? Davy was a city boy. Moving to that ramshackle cottage out in the bog, miles from anything. It never made sense.”

           Conor lifted his pint. “He wasn’t himself after Susan died.”

           “You’re right about that,” I said. “Heart attack, no warning—it ripped him apart. No wonder he locked himself away in the back of beyond. The house in Clontarf had too many associations with Susan." I picked up a beer mat and started tearing it. “Quitting teaching was a bad sign. It had never been just a job to him.”

           “The students loved Davy.” Noel pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Voted best teacher year after year. He’s left behind some legacy.”

           The last time I saw Davy, he was in town for an appointment with his solicitor about Susan’s will. We arranged to meet in Mulligan’s. As I sat waiting for him, I brooded over my dead-end existence. Back in Dublin after twenty years traipsing across Europe with nothing to show but a collection of unfulfilled intentions. No career prospects, getting by on bits and scraps, translating instruction manuals and other bumf. What I really wanted was to write and express my ideas. I had confided in Davy many times, poured out all my hopes and uncertainties.

           He had listened, his expression serious, and his response uncompromising.

           “You owe it to yourself to do what interests you. Don’t look for excuses or sell yourself short. The last thing you want is to be riddled with regret.”

           I showed him rough story drafts, and he encouraged me to keep at it.

           “Any fool can read, but not everyone can write.”

           The suggestions he made were tactful and astute. I should lose this or that passage, rework and rearrange different scenes.

           “Decide what it is you want to say, get hold of the reader and bring him with you. It’s in your hands. Plot a course from A to Z, and peer down those mysterious roads. That’s reward in itself. Don’t think about failure or success. There’s integrity in trying. Do it because you have to do it.”

           I submitted stories to magazines, and received form rejections; four rejections that day, and two the day before. Sitting in Mulligan’s, I decided to discuss it with Davy. His words always had a galvanising effect, providing me with the impetus to keep going.

           When he walked into the pub, I abandoned all thoughts of bringing up my problems. He wore a shapeless, torn jumper and stained jeans. Unshaven, his hair greasy, he avoided eye contact and showed no inclination to engage in conversation. I asked how he was finding country life. He stared at the bottles behind the bar and didn’t answer.  

           “Hell isn’t other people,” he finally said. “I can’t stand my own company. It’s unbearable, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

           Sorrow and seclusion had transformed him. I asked about his neighbours. He muttered something about a Dutch woman who lived on a nearby farm. She brought him cooked meals, but he repelled her overtures.

           “There are days when I don’t move an inch, not so much as a muscle spasm. I barely even breathe.”

           I had nothing to offer him, no advice or wise words, but I understood what he meant and what he was going through.

“Waves of disgust wash over me, and all I can think is what a fucking mess.”

“My round, I believe.”

           I felt the table move and looked up to see Justin smoothing the sleeves of his suit and adjusting an expensive-looking cufflink.

           “Same again, gentlemen?”

           He sauntered to the bar. Noel stared at me through baleful eyes.

           “What was Davy doing living in the middle of nowhere? He was asking for trouble.”

           “You’re falling behind.” Conor nodded at my glass.

           Justin examined the picture of Flann O’Brien as he waited for the barman to pull the pints.

           “The Guinness is all right in this gaff.” Connor lowered his glass and leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember that time we were in Detroit? When we took the wrong turn. That was fucking scary.”

           “Our great road trip,” I said. “Christ, that’s more than twenty years ago.”

           It had been Davy’s idea. He had just announced his engagement to Susan. I was planning a move to France. Work was taking Conor to a chemical company in the north of England. Noel had started a job with a construction firm and dithered over leaving the security of his parents’ house. We saw less and less of Justin. It was a point of transition, a suitable juncture for a shared adventure before we took our divergent paths. We flew into Toronto, then drove down to Niagara Falls, and over to New England and Boston. Our return journey took us in a loop and through Detroit.

           “I’ll never forget that traffic light.” Noel raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I thought it would never change.”

           Connor puffed out his cheeks. “Those guys in the bandanas were off their heads.”

           “Jumping on car roofs,” I said. “Then, coming at us with baseball bats. I was sure we were goners.”

           “Do you remember Davy giving them the finger?” Connor raised his middle finger to Justin and grinned. “Laughing like a madman and revving the engine. He was loving it.”

           “He nearly ran them over when the light turned green.”

           “Sure, Noel, while you were rolling up the window like your arm was on fire.”

           “They would have killed us.”

           I bought a round and more followed, our recollection of past events far-fetched and disjointed. We lost track of time, dimly aware it was late evening, the streetlights visible through the window. The pub filled, the noise increased, but it was no more than a background hum, so engrossed were we in rehashing our memories.

           “Justin, you’d been to see Davy a week before it happened.” Noel brought us back to grim reality. “What was he like? Was he very depressed?”

           “He was quiet, subdued, but nothing you could say that was out of the ordinary.”

           I noticed Conor was watching Justin closely.  

           “Surely he would have seen the car coming,” Noel said. “He lived in the middle of nowhere.”

           “I’ve no idea. Look, it was a tragic accident. There’s no point surmising how it happened.” Justin reached for his drink. “If he’d stayed in Clontarf, he could have been run over by a bus.”

           A buzzing came from one of Conor’s pockets. He pulled out his phone and checked the screen.

           “I’m going to have to take this.”

           Justin bought more drinks, including a gin and tonic for himself. I’d never seen him drink so much.

           “Shit, shit and shit again.” Conor slumped onto his chair.

           “What’s wrong?”

           “Family crisis, afraid I’ll have to leave this sad gathering.”

           Conor had married a divorcée and inherited a ready-made family that included nine-year-old twins. I found it hard to reconcile the boisterous, heavy-drinking Conor Wickham with the put-upon family man.

           “And I was just getting into my stride.” He emptied his pint in two goes and placed it gently on the table.

           Noel stood up. “I should be heading too. I’ll walk with you part of the way.”

           Conor gave him a dismissive look. “Suit yourself. I need to go for a piss.”

           Noel waited by the door. Next thing I knew, Conor put two glasses on our table and raised another in a toast.

           “A little brandy, in memory of Davy.”

           They were double brandies. I took a mouthful and felt the burn in my throat.

           “Sorry to abandon you guys. I’ll be in touch.”

           Conor downed his brandy, clapped me on the back, shook hands with Justin, and pushed Noel out the door.  

           The booze began to bite, my brain awash with Guinness and brandy. Someone took the two vacant chairs. The barman removed the empty glasses.

           “You see that picture of Flann O’Brien.” Justin turned in his chair. “How many people here have read The Third Policeman? Whoever put it there must think it lends gravitas to this shit-hole.”

           I nodded, not interested in getting onto that topic. Instead, I said, “It’s not like Conor to pull out of a drinking session.”

           “Knowing him, he’ll keep going when he gets home. All’s not well in the house of Wickham. Family life hasn’t worked out for him.”

           I stared at the floor, seeing for the first time the leaf pattern on the linoleum.  

           “As for Noel,” Justin continued. “Have you noticed how morbid he’s become, obsessed with death? All that insecurity and people pleasing can be very toxic.”

           He tapped me on the arm. “How are things with you?”

           I swirled the brandy in my glass, instinctively on my guard. “I just can’t get beyond what happened to Davy.”

           “Don’t let it get to you. Conor’s right, Davy is better off dead.”

           “Why do you say that?”

           “It’s what he wanted.”

           I continued staring at the arrangement of leaves on the linoleum, my mind on Davy in Mulligan’s that night and his unremitting despondency.

           “It’s what he asked for.”

           I looked up. “What did you say?”

           Justin took a sip of brandy. “I said, it’s what he asked for.”

           I pushed back my chair, stood and forced my way through the bodies gathered at the bar. I went down a corridor with notices for Karaoke Night, and into the gents. The ammoniac stench was overpowering. A toilet roll soaked in piss floated at the end of the urinal. I leaned forward, swaying in boozed equilibrium, and held my breath. The punter to my left hummed a tune as he zipped up with an exaggerated motion. He shuffled over to a sink, and I heard the rush of water from a tap, then the explosive whoosh of the hand dryer. I concentrated on the wall tiles, Justin’s words playing in my head.

           Back at the bar, I ordered two brandies, crushed the change in my fist and jammed it into my pocket. I looked over at Justin, a remote figure, a stranger sitting at the table. Davy had once described him as an incurable chancer with a ruthless streak.

           I handed him his brandy.

           “I’m going to have some head tomorrow,” he said.

           “Was that meant to be a sick joke?”

           Justin ran a finger along the rim of the glass, his face impassive.

           “What did you mean when you said it’s what he asked for?”

           “He wanted help, and I obliged.”

           “You mean you ran him over?”

           “He didn’t want to go on living and needed assistance to end it. He couldn’t do it by himself. Susan’s death sent him off the rails. He had no desire to keep going. Davy was very clear about that. He gave it a go but couldn’t live with himself, not without Susan.”

           “That’s madness,” I said, surprised by how strident I sounded. “Why didn’t you talk him out of it?”

           “I tried to, and so did Conor, but there was no changing his mind. He’d come to a decision, and it was final.”

           “So, Conor knew what you did?”

           Justin shrugged as if it were an unimportant detail. I felt a sinking sense of betrayal. The two of them discussing such a serious matter, life and death, and I was excluded.

           “Was this a piece of business for you?”

           “If you like. Davy paid me. He insisted on it.”

           “I suppose that will ease your conscience.”

           “It was a contract, Davy understood that. He didn’t want to know when it would happen. He walked the same stretch of road every day, eyes on the ground, wearing headphones so he heard nothing. Knowing him, he was listening to something classical and German. Brahms or Beethoven.”

           Justin spoke slowly, measured and serious. In my mind, I saw him sitting in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. I thought about him standing beside me at the cremation, and the funeral director with the wart.

           “Christ, I always knew you were heartless, but this beats everything.”

           “I tried every argument to get him to change his mind. No way, if I didn’t do it, he’d have found someone else.”

           “Was the holiday in San Tropez worth it?”

           Justin finished his brandy. “We’ve time for one more drink, then I need to call it a night. I don’t know about you, but I’m hammered.”

           Left by myself, my thoughts were viscous, entangled and contradictory. But in the confusion came clarity, a coherent possibility that made complete sense.

           The table inched forward as Justin sat down.

           “To Davy,” he said. “A man who dealt with life on his terms.”

           I raised my glass, swallowed, and came to a decision.

           “If I asked, would you do it for me?”

           “What are you talking about?”

           “What you did for Davy—would you do it for me?”

           “Come off it. You don’t mean that. You’ve had too much to drink.”

           “I do mean it, I mean it more than anything.”

           “I didn’t expect this. Maybe Noel, but not you.”

           “Well, would you? If I asked you?”

           Justin sat back in his chair, his lips pursed. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

           “Are you willing to do this for me?”

           “It’s not that simple.”

           “The same terms as Davy. A contract, that’s what you said. I’ll sign whatever, absolving you of responsibility. Sound mind, my decision, whatever. I’ll pay, I have money put aside.”

           “You can’t just rush into this. Anyway, you’re not thinking straight. It’s the booze talking. You’ll see things differently in the morning.”

           “I won’t. I’m sure about it.”

           No uncertainty, my resolve pure and crystalline. So obvious and logical, I wanted it more than anything, more than admiration or success.

           “It will take time to sort out,” Justin said.

           “That’s fine. I can get my affairs in order, as they say.”

           Someone pushed into the back of my chair, and I spilled brandy on my shirt.

           Justin got up from the table.

           “Time for a visit to the pissoir.”

           I looked up at him and repeated my heartfelt wish.

           “Will you do this for me?”

           “If it’s what you really want.” He straightened his tie. “I’m your friend, and what are friends for if not to lend a helping hand?”