I must say, I hadn’t expected this. Was Sloot, I found myself wondering, a modern Irish tragedy? Hayden’s life had certainly entered the realm of the Ancient Greeks. Granted, he wasn’t high born in the Aristotelean sense if we’re going to stick to rigid definitions. Perhaps, rather, he bears out Stern’s most oft-quoted dictum: ‘For what is comedy but tragedy with loose trousers?’
The sound of loud snores vibrated from the tape.
‘Well there’s your answer, Hayding. That’s Eddie’s considered response to the daddy question.’
‘Inscrutable or what?’
‘Oh yes. Very Zen.’
Hayden’s animated voice cut across the snores.
HAYDEN: Jesus, that’s it, isn’t it? You are my fucking father. My dear old fucking da.
‘And so it came to pass, Hayding.’
‘Troot will out.’
‘He was your dear old naughty word da.’
Hayden paced the floor, stunned into silence. He also paced the floor on tape. But ranting.
HAYDEN: I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, you fucking old fucking fuck. I’m going to burn this place down with all your so-called masterpieces. That’ll fucking larn you.
‘The merest smidgeonette of professional jealousy there, poot-être?’
‘It’s nutting to be ashamed of, Hayding.’
‘Perfectly acceptable in the arts world. Not to say de rigueur.’
‘You were impugned.’
‘Impugned, Hayding. His only begotting son. Him wit his genius and you wit your leprechaun suit.’
Hayden sank into the sofa as they leaned over the gadget and pressed tiny buttons with their equally tiny fingers.
‘We cut a bit here. Opening drawers. Riffling, riffling, riffling.’
‘Wit accompanying voiceover rant. A veritable tesaurus of naughty words.’
‘Next bit. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin.’
HAYDEN: Are there no fucking matches in this house? I mean, Jesus! Does no-one fucking smoke anymore?
SOUND OF DRAWER BEING PULLED OUT AND SEVERAL OBJECTS SPILLING TO THE FLOOR. A DERANGED CACKLE.
HAYDEN: Is this a hacksaw I see before me, the handle towards my hand?
SOUND OF CELLAR DOOR CREAKING OPEN. FRANTIC SAWING AND MANIC GRUNTS.
HAYDEN: Artist Descending into Hades? He’ll descend into Hades all right. His son and heir will see to that.
SAWING CONTINUES. GRAVELLY SNORES IN THE BACKGROUND. ANGRY SOBS. THE FRONT DOORBELL TINKLES. SAWING CONTINUES. DOORBELL TINKLES AGAIN. HAYDEN GROANS DRUNKENLY. SAWING STOPS. DRUNKEN FOOTSTEPS. DOOR OPENS.
BRAM: (MUFFLED) Late shift. Thought I’d drop by, see how you – bloody hell, had a few scoops, have we?
VOICES MOVE CLOSER.
HAYDEN: Juss a couple. Pour yourshelf a drop there, with you in a tick. Bit of a job to do first.
SAWING CONTINUES.
BRAM: You seem a bit upset.
SAWING INTENSIFIES.
BRAM: So, like, what exactly are you up to?
HAYDEN: What do you think I’m up to? Isn’t it obvious what I’m fucking up to?
BRAM: Fair enough. Tell you what. Why don’t you just leave it there for now, hoh? Take a break. Quick snooze maybe. You can always get back to it later.
‘Oh, very emollient, Hayding. Good old Abraham.’
‘He finally manages to settle you down. Cut to –’
A knock on the door. Hayden sat mesmerised. What now? What could possibly add to his misery? Another knock.
‘That’s not the tape knocker, Hayding. The tape is stopped. That’s the now knocker.’
Hayden snapped out of his mesmeric state. ‘Oh, right.’
He went to answer it. Bram. ‘Late shift. Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier. Good gig?’ He followed Hayden into the living room. ‘All over, is it?’
‘Well! If it isn’t little Abraham!’
‘You’ve certingly shot up. And wearing long trousers to boot.’
‘Quite the young gentleman about town.’
Bram heard this as white noise. Hayden was staring at him. Why? What had he done? He’d only just arrived. Hayden pointed an accusing finger at him.
‘You knew all along. And you never said – you never said a word.’
Bram had his more-confused-than-usual face on. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Knew what?’
‘I sawed through the ladder. I. Killed. Eddie.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Bram. ‘But sure you knew that. I mean, you were there at the time.’
Hayden stared at him, incredulous. ‘I was stocious,’ he all but wailed. ‘Flootered. Steaming.’
The three aunts nodded their heads in unison.
‘As drunk as a skunk in a bunk wit a monk, Abe.’
‘But,’ – Bram was totally stupefied – ‘that’s why I suggested the plot backwards device. You know who did it, so you work back.’
‘That was the novel, Bram,’ said Hayden, his voice plaintive. ‘That,’ he sighed, ‘was fiction.’
‘Was it? Oh. Right.’ Bram scratched his wispy head. ‘Was it?’
Hayden ignored him. He’d gone to a place beyond understanding. The three aunts put their mini sound system back in the handbag.
‘So there y’are, Hayding. You managed to kill your very own daddy.’
They suddenly looked concerned.
‘Ah, will you look at him, the poor boy.’
‘You’re like the Wreck of the Hesperus, Hayding.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have told him.’
‘But don’t worry, Hayding. There’s no shame in it. Stalin twenty million, Hayding one.’
‘See? You’ve got to put tings in perspective.’
‘And while we’re on the subject, Hayding, how’s this for a double whammy?’
‘Your mammy wasn’t your mammy.’
‘Gas, hoh?’
Hayden flumped onto the sofa. No. It wasn’t gas. For him, at least, it was the opposite of gas. He put his metaphorical head in his metaphorical hands. In reality, he sat staring into nothingness. Catatonic.
‘Ah, will you look at him. The poor boy.’
‘It’s a lot to take in, Hayding. But it’s very simple at root.’
‘Your mammy who isn’t your mammy wanted a babby. Your daddy – ditto – wanted one too.’
‘A small boy. Just like him.’
‘Hayding Junior. It’s a man ting.’
‘So they done what you do.’
‘Copulacious activities over a lengty period.’
‘Nutting.’
‘Tried everyting. Kama Sutra. Naughty fillums.’
‘Still nutting.’
‘Resorted to the inexplicable power of prayer.’
‘“Oh Lord, we don’t believe in a deity, benevolent, biblical or udder, but if you could see your way to giving us a babby or, if you will, to bringing fort issue in the case of McGlynn and McGlynn –”’
‘“– we’d be happy to reconsider in the light of said munificence.”’
‘More nutting. So, in steps, Eddie. Unattached male. Blood relayshing. High sperm count.’
‘Language please. There’s a schoolboy present. Kindly remove your ears fortwit, Abraham –’
‘– although on second toughts, he has to learn some time.’
‘Very true. Ears as they were, Abe. Only don’t say we told you. Anyway, Hayding, your daddy didn’t want the fruit of your mammy’s womb to come courtesy of his younger sibling brother doing the actual deed.’
‘The shame, Hayding. The shame. It’s anudder man ting.’
‘But wait. Furder complication.’
‘Shortly afterwards – the will of God according to the received wisdom of the time – your mammy had a hysterectomy.’
‘The Big H. Bote parents infertile, which brought your dearly beloved aunties into the mix.’
‘To wit ourselves.’
‘And we know what you’re tinking. Isn’t that a bit incestual?’
It hadn’t been what he was thinking. It was now. How much more chilling could one family saga get?
‘Relax, Hayding. Dere’s a biblical precedent – tink Adam and Eve – so it has the Almighty seal of approval.’
‘Besides, it was all very discreet. Nutting fornicatious. They decided on Eddie’s naughty stuff, artificial insemmilation.’
‘Exackly. You were a test tube babby.’
‘And besides, look at you. You turned out well, all tings considered.’
‘Anyway, Hayding, one of us was the surrogate mammy. Only we can’t remember which one on account of we tink we’ve got dementia.’
‘Hard to tell any more. Could be just the passage of time’s wingèd chariot. It plays havoc wit your mental facilities.’
‘But the babby. No records, it goes witout saying. Ireland in those dark times, Hayding. It remained, until this very moment, a closed fambly secret.’
All three possible mothers beamed up at their equally possible son.
‘So in conclusion, Hayding, there you are.’
‘One dead da, tree mammies.’
‘What are the chances of that?’
This set them off on a fresh fit of giggles.
Hayden glared at them. ‘What? Why are you laughing?’
‘Oh, nutting, Hayding. Stop it, Dottie.’
‘Dodie.’
They continued to ripple with repressed mirth.
‘You killed your da, Hayding. Very Oedipal.’
‘Wait for it, Hayding. All togedder now, ladies.’
‘Oedipal Schmoedipal. Who cares, as long as he loves his mammies.’23
And they were off again. Bordering on hysterical.
Hayden stood up and towered over them. ‘Not funny. Besides, this whole story is patent nonsense. You’re all well into your nineties. Work it out. You were well past it when I was, well, you know. Conceived.’
‘Not so, Hayding. We may have lied about our age.’
‘Difficult to remember after all these years, what wit the dementia and the passage of time from one millennium to anudder.’
‘I mean, everyone’s an octogenaireeing these days, so we may just may have tought – why not skip the eighties? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, ninety.’
‘Real ages wit-held.’
‘But to address the point at issue, Hayding. When you were born, we were fruitful and abundant.’
‘Well, one of us was.’
‘QED.’
Hayden sighed and sat down again. This explained why his parents had moved to Waikiki without him. They weren’t his parents. Either of them. It must have been eating away at them all that time. No wonder they were cold and distant.
And – Eddie? Had he really killed his own father?
He put his head in his hands. Real head, real hands. The three aunts moved protectively closer.
‘Ah, will you look at him, the craytur. What’s the matter now?’
‘There, there. Tell your mammies.’
‘I – I don’t even remember the trip over, let alone killing anyone.’
‘I gave you a lift from the airport,’ said Bram. ‘Remember? I dragged you out of the Nautical Buoy at midnight. You were pretty Scrabstered to be honest. Dropped you off at Eddie’s. Didn’t see you for the rest of the week, until –’
Hayden shook his hands-held head. ‘I don’t believe this.’
The three aunts fell uncharacteristically quiet. Almost meditative.
‘Believe it, Hayding. What was it the immortal bard said?’
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave…’
‘… when first we practice to conceive.’
Bram chuckled quietly. ‘Well, that explains the visits to your one anyway. The head doctor.’
Hayden ignored this. He looked, instead, at the three miniscule women d’un uncertain âge, all now beaming up at him. He was reminded of the French horror classic, Les Tantes, in which – but it didn’t bear thinking about.
So he didn’t.
23 Prof. Larry Stern, Beyond a Joke: Comedy and Irish Mothers.