Present day, Cushendall, County Antrim, Ireland
A sudden downpour falls through bright sunshine that April afternoon when I arrive in the sleepy village of Cushendall in County Antrim. As the iron key turns to open the heavy door, the old tower leans and creaks hello. The fat spiders twirl in their spinning webs down in the dungeon. The raven winks from the rafters. The spirits stir and flicker.
The caretaker is a butcher. He has left a letter on the kitchen table, a leaflet that is a potted history of the village and the tower and instructions for how to switch the water on and off. It is all so welcoming and friendly:
Welcome to the Curfew Tower
This tower was built in the 1800s
It was built as a prison to keep riotous people,
now it is a haven for artists and writers,
another kind of riotous people
You’ll be safe to stay in here
Call me if you need anything,
you’ll find me in the butcher’s and
my number is here . . .
But the cold door key is in my cold hand and the shape is cold and the feeling is cold and I am thinking about the key and the door and the cold. Am I safe now? Safe from what? Safe in the tower. Am I imprisoned? Isolated? Or protected in a fortress? What is this and which is it? Can it be neither? Can it be both?
I look at the key, big and cold, and tears spring to my eyes. My eyes see things all blurry. Is this real? Was any of it real? The key feels real. The walls, the cold old walls. Yes, the thick and sturdy walls of this tower feel real. Why am I here? Am I being punished? For what? No. Not at all. This will be home for a while, I guess. Wait! I cannot just leave myself in here . . . Hang on, this cannot be right? What will I do in here on my own? Be calm. All I have to do is stay here in the tower now and read and write and have a little think . . . The Desk? How can I finish this book without The Desk? How will I write this without The Desk? These stories were always inside you, inside me, inside here. And not inside The Desk? No. Not inside The Desk, inside my own head. Tears are welling up in my eyes.
One long silent moment. I have a slow realisation. Not The Desk? Not The Desk? Just the desk, a desk? What are you saying? So, does that mean . . . I am alone? Am I alone?
Was I always alone?
I think I am alone.
Alone with my own head.
Oh it’s so quiet and empty inside here now. I mumble to the empty kitchen. What am I going to do with my own self alone in here? I sit at the table. A twiddle of the thumbs. Now what? Well? Are you just going to sit there in your coat at the kitchen table? Come on, Wolfie, I say to myself, make your mind up, are you coming or going? Are you staying in or going back outside?
I glance around and find the kitchen is homely. There are tins of tomatoes and beans, bags of pasta and rice. Look where I sit, now this will be a good sturdy kitchen table to write at in the mornings while I have my breakfast. I knock on the kitchen table as you might a door. I knock a-rat-a-tat, yes, that is a good table for writing, isn’t it? And there is tea! Look! I get up and walk over to the sink and fill the kettle to make tea. Nice tea. Tea makes the world all alright again. Oh shit. I sound like my grandmother. The sound of the kettle click, the sound of the teaspoon in the cup, the sound of the dripping tap, the gurgling of the water in the kettle, these new sounds. This is home for now, just for a while. Outside the barred kitchen window there is a robin in a pot of lavender in the garden. The old window rattles with the wind. I read somewhere that the robin is a symbol of spirits passed, that they carry comfort and messages from the dead. These pretty red-breasted birds often appear to people when they are grieving, when people are in mourning they come to bring comfort. Well, look, here is your robin, Wolf. I start to cry again, it’s a strange cry, like a child cries when it is overtired with a scrunched-up nose. I don’t even know why I cry, a feeling, a stone in the chest, the weight of it makes me cry.
Has Mrs Death gone now?
Has Mrs Death left me?
Where did she go?
Will she be back?
I don’t know any more. I miss her so much.
I miss Mrs Death, does Mrs Death miss me?
When tea is made I leave the kitchen and walk along the corridor and towards the first set of narrow and winding stairs. There is a raven above the dungeon door and I say kraa-kraa-kraa. The raven isn’t real, or is it? The dungeon door is open, a black mouth, an alarming gaping darkness. I walk into the dungeon. It is cold. I sit in the gloom and drink my tea for a while. I have put myself in prison.
My first thought: who has been here before?
If you sit in a prison, you think, who was here before me? Were they innocent? Were they guilty? Did they die in here? Were they changed and reborn? Did they walk out of here a new person? Who decides how long they stay in here? And what is law and what is wrong and right and what is guilt and what is innocence? Who decides who is imprisoned and who is free? Who keeps the key and keeps us captive? Do we imprison our own selves? Like me right now sitting in this dungeon and sitting in a cage in my head. I sniff. It smells dusty in here. What is the meaning of freedom? Who is truly free? I ponder on all of this for a long while, sipping my tea, and the tears that fell have dried on my cheeks.
I leave the dungeon to walk along the corridor and climb the narrow wooden stairs. The steps creak with each step. The tower is strong and square, a window on each side. I gaze down and out of the four windows. I look north, south, east and west; I can see everything from up here, I feel like I am in a lighthouse. I peer at books on the shelves and art and paintings left by the last visitors here. I look around the room and think about setting up a good place to do some writing. There is a green desk by the easterly window that’ll do nicely. But then I decide to go for a walk to see the sea and check out the beach. I decide to write a poem on the tongue and to record it, looking out at the sea and the sky. I lock the door and leave the tower. The fat robin stares from the lavender. I nod to the robin, We
will be friends, I tell it, don’t you worry, I will feed you toast crusts every morning. The robin makes as though it has heard and understood, it nods and hops along the wall before perching back in the lavender. I pull the old creaky gate to and head down towards the beach.
Outside and walking I go: Left leg, right leg, one foot in front of the other.
It is a windy afternoon, above me a hazy sky and a taste of salt. There’s nobody around, not really, it’s dead, dead quiet. I walk and listen to the world, to birds, to seagulls and a distant crashing of waves. I walk down the lane and towards the sea. Take it all in. Breathing in and exhaling, in and out, whilst watching the froth and crash of waves. This is a magic place, the colours are beautiful, the sage, virides-cent sea and pale lilac skies, with a shock of yellow gorse on the cliffs and banks. I keep walking and take the high road up the cliff path, up and up and upwards to get a panoramic view, higher and higher, up and upwards towards the church ruins. Slippery. Be careful. Should have worn boots . . . yes, but I don’t own any boots. It is all very well saying should’ve worn boots when even I know I don’t even own any boots even, even . . .
I walk slowly, take it easy, stopping once or twice to look back down at the bay of Cushendall beach. So still, so peaceful. I gaze ahead and out to sea. In the far-off distance one can just about make out the Mull of Kintyre. I reach a peak, a curve in the cliff face. I sit on the edge, on the soft green grass, the lush and new springy grass. I need a smoke. I look for a cigarette, something to smoke, did I bring smokes? Do I have any tobacco left? I cannot remember. I feel in my jacket pockets, ripped pockets, the pockets of the jacket lining are destroyed, my things get lost inside the jacket lining fabric, I tut, and no, and then, hang on, maybe in my jeans, jean pockets, something, and there is something and it is then I find the locket, that silver locket. The silver locket with a rabbit engraved on the front. I put it on, I feel it around my throat. Ha! So there is some proof it was real, it is real. I am real!
Tilly Tuppence, she was real. Martha and Marsha, they were real. They are all in me. It was ALL me and it is real. The desk is real. Mrs Death is real. Not a dream. And not a manifestation, not a hallucination, but a real, real, real, real . . . memory.
Mrs Death, can you hear me? You were real! We were real! Mrs Death, are you going to talk to me? We were all here, all of us live inside me here, all of us live always!
My feet dangle. Rocks. Jagged. Rocks.
There is nothing but miles of air and the thundering waves below me. The water is smashing and crashing at the sharp rocks, miles beneath my feet. A strong sea wind picks up and whips the vivid yellow gorse bushes that line the rough cliff face. My hair is wild and in my face; it’s getting in my mouth. There are thick prickly hedges and the deep sea froths and crashes to rocks below.
I could jump now.
Unwanted thought.
Is that what you want?
Jump.
Unwanted thought.
No.
That was an unwanted thought.
Just one wrong foot.
Unwanted thought.
Just lean forwards.
Just let go.
Give up!
I imagine it.
Wolf. Imagine it.
I imagine falling. Vividly. Why? Just imagine it. Why? Look down. Vertigo. Stomach flips. I feel dizzy. I see the rocks. I see coloured spots. What kills you? What would kill me first? The rocks, the water, the current, the fall, the shock, the cold, the tide, the sharks? Which would kill me? Would it be the rock smashing my head open or the waves dragging me under? Drowning is a beautiful death, isn’t that what everyone says? What if I misjudged it? What if I didn’t even hit the water and landed all crooked there, on those rocks and gorse bushes? What if I landed on the rock and broke my back and had to lie there as eagles swooped down and feasted, picked at my eyes and ate out my liver and kidneys? What if I lived only to be drowned a few hours later as the tide came in and pulled me away under the waves? And what if they never found my body, like my father? What if I leave my clothes, folded neat, so it looks like I dived in, like a mistake, like I’m a healthy joyful person who likes swimming? They would find my phone and shoes and know I am vanished. I imagine that too much. I could do that, I could fall and I could disappear under the surface like my father.
Listen to the ocean. Listen to the water. The ocean never changes her mind, the ocean, she says what she wants to say. Today we shall say what we mean to say. Say what we mean to say. Say it.
I know a lot of living people now.
I hear a voice:
I know a lot of living people now.
She speaks to me:
I know a lot of living people now. And I know living is inevitable and necessary. Without breathing you wouldn’t live; without knowing you breathe this would be endless. That is why you need to breathe. Without breath this would be a never-ending conveyor belt of sensation. You would be nothing without living in your breath. So breathe. Take five deep breaths. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe. To imagine your own life is to be living. To be friends, to be friendly with the knowledge, the knowing that living is now, this should make you try harder to be living, to be fully alive and lively. Surely you know you are alive? You know, you all know, that you’re here and now and only here and now? This should make you want to be good, to be better. You know, since you are here and shit, you may as well give a shit.
To imagine your own life is to imagine that this is all. To visualise the life of your elders, your parents, your siblings, your children, your lover, your world, to imagine these loving lives should make you try harder. In theory. It should make you try hard to be a better person. What a glorious mess this living is. And you can call me Life.
Have we met before?
I’m not sure we have, Wolf.
Yes. Are you alive?
Who, me?
Yes, you. Yes or no? It’s a very simple question I ask. Walk with me, come and walk with Life. I am Life and I am here to be with you. I am I. I am me. I am you and you are alive. I am your Life.
Smell that sea salt on the air. Remember salt is in everything. Take everything with a pinch of salt. Open the windows in your head and let the light in. Let the light in your head pour into your beating heart. Can you feel me? Come with me, Wolf. Walk one step at a time. It is your turn now. This is your life, your one precious life, it is your time to walk with Life, this is your time, time for the time of your Life.
And the light of your Life, I can see it, it is here inside you, you have so much Life ahead of you.
So, it’s an easy choice, yes or no, is it yes or no? Do you want to walk with the living, to really live your one Life or will you continue to pretend to live? Do you live a lie or do you live your truth? Think about it, take your time, take all the time you need, take one day at a time. Do your lifetime in your own lifetime.
It’s a very simple question that Life asks: Will you walk with me?