Free Beatlebone by Kevin Barry

three.
    He’s been set down in a freakhouse; he eyes the blithe fiend Cornelius hard. But Cornelius just beams and aims splashes of brandy to each of their mugs, the three.
    We go in deep out here, says Joe, and we go in all the way.
    I have you, John says.
    No stranger to the screaming himself, Cornelius says.
    I understand so. But would this be along the lines of the California technique, John?
    Well…
    To scream is only the start of it, Joe says, ’round here.
    His hog arrogance.
    Oh yeah?
    In fact we’ve gone a long ways past that ’round here.
    Go on?
    Around here, John, we get the rants on.
    The rants?
    Is fucking right. Have you ranted, John?
    I can’t say that I have…as such.
    Joe Director purses his lips in regret; the bloody Lancashire of him.
    The rants bring us all the way inside, John. And that’s where we need to go, isn’t it?
    Best of luck with it, John says. I’m just on the way to me island.
    Upstairs—the sound of a vaulting climax, and Joe lifts shyly an ear-cup for it.
    Youth, he says, and smiles.
    This is it, Cornelius says.
    The vaulting cry lands; now there is a dull sobbing.
    You set some people down on your island for a bit, John?
    I did, yeah…years back.
    I knew some of those people, John.
    You did?
    Oh yes, I did.
    You by any chance know which island is mine, Joe?
    I’d possibly know it by its air, John. I’m to understand from those people it has a very particular air.
    Cornelius?
    Yes, John?
    When are we going to get to my fucking island exactly?
    But Cornelius just smiles and shows a palm for patience and sips his brandied tea.
    Joe Director gets the kettle on.
    I’ll brew up fresh, he says.
    The sitars waft. A hurdy-gurdy, too. A clavichord? What’s he mean, fucking particular? John wants to be a million miles from this place and he wants to be sat just where he is.
    Outside—
    low snaps of wind come from the sea to whip at the hedges and the pines.
    In the Amethyst—
    the dim jangle and spit of sitars,
    the vaulted grunts and spasm breath of the fucking, renewed,
    the brown burn of freebase, bitterly.
    Tell me more about the rants, John says.
    ———
    The life in New York runs along very tidy lines. He doesn’t leave the apartment much. He doesn’t need to—it’s the size of fucking Birkenhead. He plays with the baby. He’s that good the baby and sleeps like a turtle—he is that sweet in the shell. John looks out the windows. John barks at the cars. John eats sushi from cartons and watches the late movies in bed. Black-and-whites, he does all the movie voices—shut the fuck up, John! He gets eel juice on the sheets. He makes lots of plans. The days sail by and not ungaily. He sits on his backside. He sits in the great fortress high above the plain where the savage injuns roam. He’s the Freaky Sheriff and he has a very beady eye. He bakes lots of fucking bread. The yeast and warmth of the kitchen on a cold winter day with the city under its heaps of dirty snow outside—he’s cosy as a bastard in the womb. He is that happy he gurns and sings. And the days pass by and the nights and he cannot sleep if the wind is high and he looks out to the park and along the treetops the greens of the treetop fairies fly—hello? Words that come from out of the blue—arboreal. Which is lovely. He listens to the birds at dusk and all their newsy chatter. Like biddies at a bus stop. He gets nervous when the days get longer. He watches his weight. He doesn’t drink booze and he doesn’t do dope. He eats brown rice and baked fish and steamed veggies. He is decidedly on the leanish side—he turns side-on to the bedroom full-length for a profile check. He makes lots of plans. He smokes fags. He looks at the rain above the city and the lights caught and blurred inside the murk of the rain as the night comes down and it’s an eerie docklight—he is home again. He develops certain arcane theories. He doesn’t leave the apartment much. He makes certain occult connections. He gets