Not An Exit

by Shaun O Ceallaigh

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The HiAce van eased to a stop in the train station car park. Ossian’s uncle said nothing. In silence, they emerged into the morning light and slipped behind the van. Ossian took his time, soaking up his surroundings: the row of commuters’ cars, the boarded-up station house, the pinkish sky over the town below, and the scattered lumps of dog shit. Not awe-inspiring, but still home. And he’d miss it.

Uncle Benny heaved the rucksack from the van and handed it over. “There you go. Now, do you have everything? Money? Ticket? Passport?”

“Yeah, I have everything.”

He lowered his gaze. He wanted to avoid a scene. That’s why he’d not let his mother come. After all, he was moving to England, not China.

“Well, see yeh,” Uncle Benny said, jumping into the driver’s seat.

The HiAce rolled away, spluttering exhaust fumes, leaving Ossian alone. That’s it? That’s my fond farewell? Well, fuck him. He threw the bag onto his shoulder and hurried on.

The platform was virtually deserted. When he stepped forward, the gate snapped shut behind him and an old couple on the steel bench overlooking the track spun, each holding a sandwich to their mouth. They shot him a disgusted look.

Ignoring them, he strode in the opposite direction. The platform stretched thirty yards beyond the station house, separated from the car park by a stone wall. Not a soul around. After walking a stretch, he dropped his bag and stopped to wait.

Across the tracks, small birds chirped, darting between hawthorn and blackberry bushes. Beyond these, a ploughed field sloped towards town. Ballyanthony, its cluster of buildings – even with the surrounding ghost estates – looked small. Spring scents soaked the air, and a light mist clung to the river – a cloud fallen from the sky.

“How’s things, Ossian?”

Startled, he turned to a girl standing beside him. “All right,” he said, not recognising her. Where the hell did she come from?

“I’m Sandy, Sandy Heart. Like, I’m Jerry Heart’s sister.”

He nodded, trying to think of something to say. “It’s…good to see you.”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling a blonde plait. “I’m just going shopping. I need some stuff in the city, like, for school and that. I can’t believe Easter is over. I hate school. I’m going into fifth year, and I can’t wait until I’m finished. So, like, where you going?”

“Dublin.”

“Cool. Are you, like, working up there, or something?”

“No,” he said, suppressing a smile, “I’m getting the boat to Liverpool.”

“That’s cool. I wish I was going. When I finish school, I’m going to America. New York, maybe LA. I haven’t decided. I have it all planned. I’m gonna get a job as a buyer for a magazine, like – I have it all thought through. Why did you pick Liverpool?”

“Eh, it was easiest.”

“Yeah.” She sprang away towards the platform’s edge. “What time is it? Where’s the train? It should be here. How long have you been waiting?”

He looked at his phone. “Ten minutes.”

“Hmm, do you think it’s gone? Like, there’s no one here, it might be gone.”

“When I arrived, a couple was waiting below.”

“Cool, I’ll go ask. Hold tight.”

She bounced away.

He looked down the track. Fuck. The next train was at midday. Too late. He’d miss the ferry. He picked up his rucksack, twisting the handle.

Sandy returned, her trainers scuffing the platform, both hands buried in her school jacket. “Naw, it’s not coming.” She glanced behind her. “Those relics said it was cancelled.”

The hairs on his neck prickled. “What?”

“Yeah. Bummer, right?”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to get to Dublin. I’ve been planning this for months. I…I need to get to Dublin.”

“Yeah, I wanted to buy some shoes. It’s a downer, all right.”

He dropped his bag and flopped down beside it.

“So,” Sandy said, “are you heading home? We can walk together.”

“No. You go.” He let out a long sigh. “I’m going to sit here a while.”

“Oh, eh…okay. See you later, Ossian.”

He stared at his shoes. What the hell am I going to do now?

After a long spell sitting in silence, he got to his feet. It wasn’t the end of the world. He’d get the train tomorrow. Everything would be okay.

As he came around the station house, the old couple were still sitting on the bench. They glared as he approached the gate, mouths pursed and eyes squinting, watching until it snapped shut behind him.

That night, he couldn’t bear the atmosphere at home. At eight o’clock, he headed for The Corner Bar. A quiet drink was needed. When he pushed open the door, he found the place deserted – every table free – the window blinds lowered. He took a seat and waited, staring at his reflection in the bar top.

“Thank fuck! Company at last.”

He nearly leapt from the stool. The booming voice wasn’t the bartender’s, it was Danny Evans returning from the lavatory, a damp patch on his slacks – the old man obviously had a few.

“Young Dorgan. Ossian Dorgan, isn’t it? I know every cunt in this town, I do.”

The tubby, bald man positioned himself at the centre of the bar and waddled onto a stool. “And how are things, young Dorgan?”

“Shite,” he said.

“Ahh, that’s a shame. Place is quiet – I’m the only one here all day. Town is dying. Everyone buried or abroad. But we’ll keep each other company, you and me.”

Ossian’s face burned and he turned and bolted towards the door.

“Hey, hold on, boy, have a drink,” Danny shouted, but he continued out into the night.

As he surfaced from beneath his sweltering duvet, surrounded by Arsenal posters, he recalled the previous day with a groan.

He dragged his legs over the side and sat there, wearing only his boxers, a fog idling in his head. He’d no energy. Then it rushed back to him. He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled a zip-lock bag of weed from the back pocket. A big bag. How much was that? The previous night came into focus: running from the pub, bumping into Filly Forrestal, and the rest.

Shit. He examined his wallet and found it two-hundred-euro lighter. Jesus, what was I thinking? I’ll have to stash it.

With the bag of weed hidden under his bedroom carpet, he trudged into the kitchen. His mother gasped, holding a tissue to her mouth. As he sat at the table, he quizzed her with a look.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love. It’s just…we have to say goodbye again. When you’re gone, I’ll be lonely. This is probably the last time I’ll see you eat breakfast. What would you like?”

“Uh, just cornflakes.”

“Right away, Sweetheart,” she said, reaching for a bowl. “Why don’t you forget about England for today?”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m already a day behind. I’m leaving this morning.”

She held the tissue to her nose, whimpering.

“Did you ask Benny to drive me?”

“Oh, em…I asked, but he said he couldn’t. Sorry, love.”

“How come? He’s not working.”

She turned her back to him, clutching the tissue to her face. “Oh, God,” she said, before running from the kitchen.

He rose from the table and retrieved the cornflakes, checking his watch as he sat down again. It took twenty minutes to walk to the station. He cursed his luck. He’d have to eat fast.

As he entered the car park, he wiped the sweat from his face. A silver BMW was parked in the corner, but the place was empty – not a soul to be seen. At the gate, he noticed an A4 sheet taped to the wall. It read:

ALL TRAINS CANCELLED DUE TO MUDSLIDES

ALTERNATE BUS AVAILABLE FROM KILKENNY STATION

He braced himself against the gate. What will I do now? Why is the world against me?

With no one around, he walked out onto the road. Fuck it, I’ll hitch a lift. He set off back into town. Someone will give me a lift. How long can it take?

Two hours later, his optimism had ebbed. All manner of cars, vans, and lorries passed: Small Nissan Micras, driven by beady-eyed pensioners; people carriers, with scummy mummies behind the wheel; massive articulated lorries, with fat, tattooed drivers – they all sped by without a glance.

People hitchhiked. So why would no one pick him up? He’d had a shave the day before, a smart haircut, and his clothes were clean and tidy. Why would no one stop?

He looked at his watch. Crap. At that moment, a loud droning sound drew his attention. A yellow Honda Civic, spewing smoke, growled towards him. He stuck out his thumb. The car, with two young men in the front, shot past. He dropped his hand, defeated again when the skid of tyres made him flinch.

The yellow car had stopped thirty metres away. They were waiting. He snatched his bag off the ground and began trotting towards them. Someone was bound to stop. Good people existed.

As he approached the car – its polished paintwork reflecting the clouds – the back wheels spun, spitting stones, before it sped away.

Something inside him broke. He threw the bag over his shoulder and charged towards town. Not long after, he passed Kennedy’s petrol station and then the school. He marched on, a man possessed until he reached home.

Twenty minutes later, he lay sprawled on his bed, half a joint smouldering in the ashtray.

Leary, the owner of the Corner Bar, covered the pumps with a towel. He’d already lifted the chairs onto the tables and swept the floor. Ossian, the only customer, hovered over his pint.

It had been a quiet night. Old Danny Evans was in earlier. For a change, he didn’t ignore the fool, listening to the drunkard’s never-ending ramlatching. But even Danny pissed off home.

He looked up and saw Leary make a face – one expressing a simple sentiment. In the nicest way, it said, “Fuck off home.” He slipped from the stool, nodded to the owner, and staggered to the exit.

A cool breeze whipped along Downs Street. He squinted at his phone: nearly midnight. Then, with a wobbled gait, he headed home. He hadn’t gone far when the night’s peace was split by a roaring engine. The yellow Honda Civic from earlier was rocketing towards him. It sped past and, as it did, the passenger threw something from the window.

The milkshake struck him on the chest and burst open, spattering onto his face and sending him stumbling as the car thundered away. He wiped the sloppy liquid from his eyes and licked his lips. Chocolate. Another day in town over.

A warm light through the curtains woke him. He squirmed in the bed, his mouth dry and head aching until he spotted the clock and bolted upright. Midday. Shit! He’d slept through his alarm. He leapt from the bed and got dressed, then grabbed his rucksack and rushed downstairs.

He ducked into the kitchen to say farewell to his mother, but she wasn’t there. The previous night’s dishes were drip-dried on the sideboard, but no sign of her. She must have gone shopping. Not even a goodbye.

He strode along the quiet streets, head lowered, determined – at least the rain had stopped. The first port of call: his uncle. He needed a lift, and Uncle Benny would see him right.

“Fuck off!” Benny said, slamming the door in his face.

Stubborn old prick. He slumped down on the doorstep and thought over the situation, struggling to focus against the trickle of cars that skirted the driveway. Will I ever get away? He checked the time: nearly one.

Damn it, I can’t stay here all day. He took a deep breath and got up from the step. If walking was the way, then walk he would. He marched down the drive and started his journey out of town.

He kept a steady pace as cars sped by, his thumb out in the hope someone might stop. They didn’t.

Gaps soon appeared in the landscape – the repetitive house-after-house layout broken by fields, with cattle grazing, sheep milling about, and freshly ploughed soil. Now he was on his way, he began enjoying himself. Something to tell the grandkids: how he left Ballyanthony on foot.

As he strolled along, smiling to himself in the sunlight, a small dog emerged from a narrow lane. A terrier. He stopped and the animal eyed him.

It looked harmless but, just to be sure, he crossed the road, giving it a wide berth. As he drew parallel, the dog bared its teeth. He stopped, more surprised than frightened. The terrier baulked, then snarled, running across the road and blocking his path.

He was ready to kick it when a second dog, a black spaniel, appeared. A third emerged, then a fourth and fifth. Nervous now, he backed away. The newcomers growled, gnashing their teeth. He moved backwards, but the dogs closed in, barking and snapping.

Then they pounced. He bolted back along the road. A collie snapped but a kick sent it recoiling, and he raced on, clearing fifty metres in no time. Across the road, the ditch morphed into a stone wall. Without slowing, he vaulted through the air and landed on the grass, his bag flopping at his side.

Bent forward, he struggled to catch his breath, limbs shaking. He straightened and spotted the five-bar gate in the wall. Shit! In a clamour of barking, the dogs scrambled into the field.

He took off towards a gap in a nearby hedge, cursing the soft ground that had him slowing to find purchase. Near the opening, he glanced back. About a dozen dogs, large and small, galloping towards him. When he reached the gap, the path was muddy – mashed by cattle hooves – but there was no stopping now, so he ran through.

On the edge of the next field, his foot sank in the muck. As he tried to yank it free, he lost his balance and slapped face-down in the slops. The dogs surrounded him. Cold with fright, he wiped the mud from his eyes and pulled his leg free – his shoe remaining in the sludge. The dogs danced around the wet patch, yelping and snarling.

He kept kicking out and swiping as he dragged himself towards the next field, connecting just enough to keep the frenzied animals at bay. At some stage, he managed to get back on his feet, minus a shoe, and set out running.

The dogs picked their way across the mud and continued the chase. He gasped, hobbling forward, his chest stabbing. Then, salvation – in the corner of the field, a copse of trees. He struggled towards them, summoning the last of his energy.

On reaching the trees, the pack at his heels, he leapt into the air and hooked a branch. He scrambled up, hauling his legs behind him. Below, the dogs danced, crazed. He climbed higher until he got himself seated, then pulled out his phone and almost screamed. The battery was dead. What the…? He hadn’t just slept through the alarm; he’d forgotten to charge the bloody phone. His mud-spattered watch told him it was nearly three o’clock. Ok, I’m going nowhere. Nothing to do but wait.

Hours later, with the sun setting, he shook his head and shifted, trying to ease his stiff limbs. The pack of dogs slept on the grass below. Now and then, one would rise, look at him, and snarl. They were settled in.

As he inched over on the branch, an explosion shattered the silence. He clung to the tree and looked around. The dogs were up, searching for the source. He saw it first – a man, dressed in blue overalls and Wellington boots, marching closer, a smoking shotgun held across his chest. In the dusk, the dogs failed to see him until it was too late. A second bang, a flash, a whimper.

The dogs scattered. He looked down at the black collie. It lay on the grass, panting, its tongue lolling. Even in the dim light, the wound was visible, the animal’s intestines coiling onto the grass.

The farmer reached the injured dog and knelt at its side. After a moment, he stood up, clicked two cartridges into the barrels, and shot the animal in the head.

In the roaring silence, Ossian held his breath. Hidden high amongst the spring growth, hugging the coarse tree trunk, he watched the farmer, stunned by the sudden violence – the absurdity of his situation. He waited until the man moved away, back across the field.

Long after the farmer was gone, with darkness fallen, he let himself down. Guided by starlight, he crossed the fields until he reached the main road. Without light, the search for his bag was futile. He tried, anyway, but found nothing.

Later that night, he reached the town centre, exhausted. The hardened muck flaked off his clothes, and his foot ached. He limped along Downs Street, towards home.

A din of voices spilled from the door as he passed the Corner Bar. Sandy Heart burst onto the street. She must have seen him passing.

“Hey, Ossian,” she shouted, flinging her arms around him. “Like, where you going?”

“Eh, hi, Sandy. I’m just headed home.”

“That’s stupid. It’s Friday night. Come have a drink.”

She dragged him into the pub, ignoring his protests. A small crowd was gathered inside, mostly around the bar. Among the patrons, he saw Danny Evans, spitting opinions into the sour faces of an old couple.

Sandy dragged him towards the bar. Someone threw a beermat that skirted his cheek. Following the trajectory back to a corner table, he found the sniggering lads from the Honda Civic.

Finally, at the bar, his mother turned to face him.

“Hi, Honey.” She giggled. “Where’s your shoe?”

Sandy danced at his side. “Buy me a drink – a vodka and Red Bull.”

Ossian, sighing, reached for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He grabbed at his other pocket, but that was empty. What the hell? He stood stock-still and cast his mind back. The fields. All the muck. He must have dropped it. Fuck.

Uncle Benny turned from his conversation with a man in shit-stained, blue overalls. “There you are, at last. Will yeh have a pint?”

He nodded.

“I’ll have a vodka and Red Bull,” Sandy chirped.

He sidled in beside his uncle and leant on the bar. What more could he do? He would never get to England. Never escape the town. He was broke. Stuck at home. With little to be done about it. A pint was about the best thing he could hope for.