Notes from a Coma (18 page)

I picked the letter up inside the door and saw his name on it; then I saw the Department of Justice stamp in the right-hand corner. My first thought was what the hell has he been up to now? … As far as I could remember JJ had never received anything other than a polling card from the government. He was at the table, eating a bite of breakfast when I handed it to him. He read it at arm’s length, chewing a piece of bread, then folded it back into its crease and handed it to me without a word or expression on his face.

I couldn’t believe it.

“Tell me this is the wrong address, JJ,” I said, a moment later. “The wrong man, the wrong house.”

He just sat there looking at me with this blank look on his face.

I threw up my hands. “Mother of Jesus. Are you fucking crazy …?”

We had it out hammer and tongs then, one of the worst rows we’ve ever had. I had thought that these kinds of arguments were behind us, that we had moved beyond them into some sort of man-to-man understanding of each other. But then this crops up, of all the frigging things.

Of course I lost the head straight off.

“Do you have any fucking idea what the hell you are letting yourself in for with this?”

Of course I was roaring now and knew even as I heard myself that if I kept it up this would be the end of the conversation. Keeping my wits about me was what was needed now—a clear head and a sharp wit. I had to meet him on his own ground if I was going to make any headway.

“Well?” I said, waving the letter in the air. “Well?”

He leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples. I could sense one of his speeches coming on. But he just shook his head.

“If you’re going to start ranting and raving we’re not going to get anywhere with this. Of course I don’t know what I am letting myself in for. That’s the nature of the whole thing.”

“For the love of Christ, JJ, think about this …”

I spread the letter out on the table and took a step back from it. The government seal, the green harp at the top of the page—that was the bit I couldn’t get over. How could an official document, a government document, land on a person’s doorstep with news like this, news that might just as well have come from another world. Had everyone gone off their heads?

“… JJ, let’s consider this. You’re only out of hospital a few months. You’ve got the all-clear and now you want to go and sign up for this fucking thing.”

He said nothing, just sat there knowing full well that I would talk myself out if I went on long enough. And of
course he was giving me every chance and, true to form, I took it.

“What the hell do you think you’re going to do with yourself for those three months—count sheep?”
^*

He looked me square in the eye. “Nothing I say will make you understand this. I don’t have the words for it myself much less anyone else.” He drew his hand across his face. “These thoughts,” he said after a pause, “these dreams, this constant mind-racing and mindrot … now this ghost. It just wears me down. A break from myself, that’s what I need. Just to take myself off somewhere and forget myself for a while.”

It made no sense to me; it made no sense to me then and it makes no sense to me now either. This idea of forgetting himself … someone as smart as JJ trying to forget himself … and after all he’d been through … There was something here that flummoxed me but I hadn’t the turn of mind to put my finger on it. Keep to what you know I told myself—or at least what you think you know.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. I needed something solid under me.

“JJ, when people are down in themselves they don’t go
signing up for this sort of thing. People take up hobbies, they go on holidays, they do other things … But this …” I stabbed a finger at the letter. “JJ, you’ve spent the whole of these last ten months recovering, trying to find your way back to yourself and now you want to do this. Throwing away all you’ve worked for—all we’ve worked for, I might add.”

That surprised me—it was out of me before I could check it and I regretted it the moment the words left my mouth. This sense of having a claim over him just because of my part in his recovery … A mean sort of feeling you never know you have until someone threatens it. Of course he picked up on it straight away.

“Don’t start that,” he said. “This is not a question of ownership.” He smoothed out the form and pushed it across the table to me. “Your signature, this is where your name goes. Next of kin.” He drew his finger along the bottom of it.

If ever I had a serious mind to stand in his way then this is the moment when I should have done it. This is where I could have quit the room and put a stop to everything. But of course no more than JJ himself I could never walk away from an argument either. Sometimes I think this fondness for a scrap is one of those things
I’ve given him, this hunger to see every argument through to the last word, this wish to be the last man standing. I know that that’s my way; is now and always has been. And then sometimes I think it’s something we took from each other …

“My next of kin. You have to sign this release.”

His tone of voice—it was like he was asking me to sign for a bill of goods and expected no problem, just sitting there with no expression on his face, the cup and plate on the table before him.

“And I suppose I’m the last to hear about this?”

“The only other one who knows is Sarah.”

“And she’s going along with this as well, this whole fucking—”

“—She’s not thrilled but she’s not ranting or raving either.”

He motioned to the form once more, tapped his finger on it.

I shook my head.

He was calm, with the quiet look of a man who’d already won the argument. He was giving me the impression that I had slipped up somewhere along the way and that it was only a matter of him bringing me back through my own words and having him show me the flaw in them. But when
he spoke it was nothing like what I’d expected and it was probably the only other question I could have answered no to.

“Have I ever asked you for anything before?” he said.

The morning of the press conference he was standing at reception with a small bag at his feet and a bottle of water in his hands.

“JJ … you’re on your own?”

“Kevin … yes, I thought it would be better to keep it simple. No reason to get anyone involved at this time.”

“Yes, keep it simple.” I motioned to the big man beside me. “JJ, this is Detective Sergeant Dermot Melia. He’s my security but I’m handing him over to you for the next two days.”

JJ held out his hand. “Security?”

“Just for these two days, you’re public property now, JJ, we have to look after you. Let’s sit down for a minute.”

We moved to two armchairs inside the windows. The mid-morning crowds passed by outside. JJ stretched out his legs and drank from his bottle. He looked pale.

“Have you eaten? … You look a bit nervous.”

“More tired than nervous … I hate that train journey, hate journeys of any sort.”

“You’ll have a few hours to yourself this afternoon. Try and get some sleep before we move out. Do you have a mobile?”

“No, I hate those as well.”

“My God, I thought they were a fifth limb for your generation. Take this. There are two programmed numbers, mine and Dermot’s. Dermot will be down here at reception if you need him. The number is purely back-up, just in case you get separated.”

“It sounds like a military operation.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. This is where it begins and it has to go by the numbers as they say, no screw-ups. Have you read the handout?”

“I should know my own biog by now.”

“Just so you know what they know because that’s where all their questions will come from. We’re holding on to it till the last moment. They will be given it about half an hour before you make your entrance. Try and stick to the facts this evening—remember that you’re in charge here. The trickiest moment will be when they ask about your motives.”

“Don’t worry I’ll keep it simple: no philosophising or theorising, just the facts.”

“Exactly. They’ll know from your biog how smart you are and that’s an invitation to debate, they’ll try to trip you up. Don’t give them an opening. Give them as little as possible in your best manners. Forty-five minutes, that’s all it will come to, then we get you back here and you can be on your way home tomorrow.”

“I have all these clothes with me, I’m not sure what to wear.”

“Come as you are, keep it simple. Go and get some sleep now. I’ll order some dinner and get it sent up to you. Remember, Dermot will be here if you need him.”

“What time?”

Dermot handed him his bag. “Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up.”

The thing about press conferences is that you try to anticipate two things: who the questions are going to come from and what specifically they are going to address. That way you make sure all the answers are stacked on your side of the table from the off. Of course you’re never going to have all the angles covered but the more eventualities you cover the better the impression you make. We were the ones making the impression that evening and we had our homework done.

When we arrived at the empty conference hall I got him to sit behind the table on his own. I took a seat in the center of the room and tried placing myself in the mind of those who would be seeing him for the first time. He was wearing his blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, looking taller and thinner than he really was; with his height and dark looks I knew he would physically dominate the table. Those journalists were going to meet a young man with the sort of features and cheekbones you see in those glossy scent advertisements, the type of face the new Ireland doesn’t wonder at any more.
^*

“How does it feel up there?”

He spread his hands flat on the table and looked around
him. “I’m looking forward to it, it will be a relief to get this out in the open and have the whole thing under way. The sooner the better.”

“I’ll be there on your left. Have you your wits about you?”

He nodded. “So long as I’m not sitting on them.”

He didn’t show any nerves beside me that evening. Halfway through my opening statement he rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up to his elbows—the country lad breaking out in him. For one moment I thought he might spit in the palms of his hands and say something like, “OK, lads, let’s get down to work.”

My opening statement covered once more the origins and rationale behind the project. Then a short intro into JJ himself. This was just a ploy to give him time to get his bearings, a soft entry into the whole thing. When I finished I turned to him and asked him if there was anything he wanted to add. As we’d planned he just shook his head and I opened the discussion to the floor. A security correspondent put his hand up and identified himself.

“Good evening, JJ, I wonder could we have some word from you as to why you wanted to volunteer for this project. I wonder if you could say something about that.”

JJ nodded and leaned out on his elbows. He spoke quietly, without hesitation. It must have been impressive hearing him for the first time.

“I’ve given my reasons in my application, I think you
have that there in front of you … As it says, I want to go to sleep, to take my mind off my mind. These last couple of years haven’t been a happy time for me. I want to go to sleep so that I can get a rest from myself and my thoughts. It is a fairly simple idea—all I want to do is lie down and get some sleep.”

“Have you any fears?—the whole project seems risky to put it mildly.”

“I’m more curious than afraid. Of course there is a degree of fear; I would worry about myself or anyone else if they were not afraid going into something like this. But at this moment I have to say my curiosity outweighs my fears.”

“Have you any worries for your health?”

“No, this project has been researched. When it’s got to the point where people are being used as guinea pigs then you have to presume that all the angles have been covered. Of course anything can happen in something like this but in answer to your question, no, I have no worries.”

Everything was going smoothly up to this, everything running to predictions. The coaching we put him through was standing to him. But then, as we’d predicted, a question about his background. It came from one of the red-top journalists.

“JJ, your background, an adopted child coming from a single-parent family—do you think that has anything to do with your decision to volunteer for this?”

It didn’t faze him. He moved into it without hesitation.

“The reasons for my decision are laid down in my application and they have nothing to do with my background. Yes, I am an adopted child from a single-parent family and
in that I consider myself very lucky. All children are born but I was not only born I was chosen also. That makes me feel very special. Nothing in my life has made me feel I have lacked for anything, least of all love. I have no grievance or issues with being an adopted child. That is too easy, too cry-baby.”