Isolde Terrace

Sunday morning there was a knock on my door.  It was Lavery.  He was wearing a navy pullover and white trousers, his golf get-up.  And standing behind him was Phyllis.  They both came over rather unsettled.  Especially Phyllis.  She was staring away at nothing in particular. 

            Is her older brother here? Lavery asked me.

            He isn’t. 

            Okay.

            Why – is he not in the house? I asked, with some surprise.

            Lavery looked back at Phyllis.  He grimaced.  It was funny to see them together knowing their acrimonious history, not to mention hearing Lavery inquire after Oran bearing in mind his browbeating antics in the past.  Obviously a grave situation was upon us all. 

            Someone set their house on fire, he said. 

            Now I was only one street away from Isolde Terrace but it was still very early on a Sunday (9 or thereabouts) and I had not been out of the place yet so there was no way for me to know of the frightful blaze that had occurred at No. 15 just a few hours earlier.  Grave, indeed, things were.  I was loathe to bring the two of them into my abode – my private nature made it so I would hesitate even to share in a key-locked diary details of where I lived – but I felt these circumstances asked for some sort of sit-down.  I brought them both into my home – to the kitchen only – sat them down at the table and heated up the kettle hoping there were enough bags left in the tin for tea. 

            It felt odd to see Phyllis in my kitchen.  I hadn’t imagined either of the Berrills would ever set foot in my house.  I didn’t think they would fit.   Phyllis remained silent inside.  Thank God she was too preoccupied to offer the biting commentary I’d envisaged on the various rings and stains upon which I’d bestowed the gift of longevity.   She was in a world of her own.  Severely changed from the person I saw last evening.  At the vigil, she seemed extraordinarily confident to me, even when faced down by the mob.  But now a look of deflation.    

Tea made and distributed, Lavery proceeded to explain, in a dull but conscientious manner, what had transpired at the Berrills home and how Oran had disappeared to somewhere. 

It was the dead of night when it happened, he said.  They were both upstairs in their beds when a bottle came through the back window and landed in the kitchen.  Your common-or-garden incendiary device.  The Molotov special.  And from there fire quickly rushed in and took over.  The whole downstairs was engulfed before they woke up and knew what was going on.  Both had to hang from their bedroom windowsills and drop onto the street.  It’s lucky the pair of them are freakishly long.  And in good health as well.

            How did you get involved? I asked Lavery.

            I heard about it this morning, he said.  In my position, you’ve got to make sure you hear about these things before everyone else, if you’re doing your job right.  I have wee birds in my ears all the time.  In fact, haven’t I already stuck Fitzy on it?  How I came to be here now, well, I was driving through town this morning anyway, heading out for my Sunday tee off at the Royal, and thought I’d have a gander at the house as I was passing.  I can tell you the place is in an awful state.  Saw a few rescued bits and bobs on the pavement.  And this one here standing outside in a mess.  So I stopped to see.  I’m not a total bastard, you know.

            Good man yourself.

From the rage suddenly flaring up inside me, you’d think my own place had been attacked, or perhaps my perspective as perennial houseguest of the Berrills (or potted plant, more or less) had accorded me some mistaken claim to the premises.  The heart sank to great depths knowing all the stuff Oran and Phyllis had in there and from recalling the fervour of their attachments.  The devotion to their collections.  Which were now (for the most part) ruined or rubbed right out of existence.  With all that plastic it’s a wonder the fire didn’t take out the whole street.  And those books.  Oran’s books.  Books they’d retained from the time of their parents.  Many of which were certainly worth a heap of quid.  It was unconscionable that the factions of this town, who were no doubt to blame, had gone this far.  This miserable new crowd of Gullivers seemed to have the old methods in mind in navigating their current squabble session.  The old days of battering and skewering and clouting your adversary (who was usually a near neighbour you had some aggrandised grievance with) were to all appearances gone.  These days a nicely placed rumour did the job well enough.  Someone’s good name tarnished was safer than using the stick or the blade.  But now they were looking to raise the hostilities a level higher.  I could see it that day in the pub.  In the eyes of those fellas at the bar.  And in those of the Colreavy prick.  Mad with bloodthirst. 

            Had to be Caitríona Colreavy’s husband, I suggested to Lavery.

            What?  How do you know that?

            Something in his eyes.  Sure he’s a Gulliver, isn’t he?  Chief of them probably.

            Stop that now!  You can’t go around accusing people of things like that.

            That’s what they’re doing, isn’t it?  Blaming Oran and Phyllis on something that has absolutely nothing to do with them.  Come on, that young chap was a fool. 

            Well, he was after a job, said Lavery.  That’s no fool in my eyes.  There’s plenty round here could be doing with some of that young man’s drive and ambition, misguided though he may have been in his efforts to bring it all off.

            Yes, I replied.  What sort of guidance had he thinking the Scouring Tout pieces were genuine?

            Therein lies our problem.  We never did issue a disclaimer.  We should really have stated that what appeared in the article was fiction and should not be trusted.  What a pity.

            Pity us for assuming the readers were wise enough in the head to recognise that, I said. 

            And most of them were.  Are.  Okay,were. 

It’s wonderful we have such phenomenal imaginations in this town and everything, but . . . at what cost?  Huh?  We can’t handle the whitest lie without a brand new pandemonium.  Nobody’s safe when everyone’s too far gone faithwise.  Disaster waiting to happen.  Especially with these factions on the go.   I’m not surprised Oran’s in hiding. 

            Then, and not before time, we got a word out of Phyllis.

I’m not sure how he will handle losing his stuff, she said.  It’s gone. 

Her face was blank and stoical as she said this.  It was like she was mouthing a prepared statement for the press.  A mere coincidence Lavery and I happened to be newspapermen. 

When did you last see him? I asked, like a good reporter on the job, even though that was not my particular forte in the news business.

            Last night, she said, with a bit more cognisance in her voice.  He walked off.  The guards helped me get a place for the night.  But he up and scarpered.      

Then a flash went off in my head.  It was rare that I had an especially novel idea to share and even rarer for that thought to influence, or be capable of influencing, a whole series of events in a day, but it happened that a thought sailed in on my flash and onboard was the conversation I had had recently with Oran in which the Pompadour Cinema was mentioned.  His positive memories of the place had stayed with me.     

Here’s a thought, I said.  He might have gone to the cinema.

To see what?  said Lavery.  Fuck all on at the moment.  But what would I know?

I know there’s a new Shelley Long showing because of Cudden’s review, and apparently it’s okay, worth a watch, but that’s of no consequence right now.  What I mean to say is I think Oran might have gone to the Pompadour. 

The Pompadour?  He’d have to have broken in.  That place has been boarded up for years.  What makes you think he went there?

It’s just a hunch.  It came up in conversation the other day and you’d want to see how his eyes lit up.  I can’t see him straying far from the town.  I can’t see him leaving the town at all, in fact.

Phyllis brightened upon mention of the Pompadour.  Same energy in her response as Oran.

We used to go there a lot when we were younger, she said.  That old cinema.  He loved the place. 

Okay, said Lavery.  We’ll go then on the off chance he’ll be there.  But I need to be at the course by one. 

Lavery stood up.  A filled-out grin on him like it was the first time he’d been picked for the main squad.  Look at us, will you, he said.  Crack team.  On the case. 

 

We got into Lavery’s car.  He took us past Isolde Terrace slowly so we could get a look at the house.  It was in terrible shape.  A few baked and chewed up books lay by the doorstep --- but what about the others?  The rubble on display didn’t come close to what I knew the Berrills kept in the living room alone.  In addition, there were these grotesque melted forms stood up against the wall at the front of the house, DVDs and records which had merged together horrifically in the fire, looking for all the world like petrified monstrosities, or creatures seized in some cosmic fusion nightmare.  To upset the heart further, pedestrians walking past showed little concern for the Berrills’ misfortune and looked generally inconvenienced by the detritus of someone’s life on the ground.  One thing which had shockingly survived it all however was the Portrush Flyer mug I’d given to Oran.  It was sitting on top of the now backless and busted TV set, unharmed, undisturbed, and completely unenlightened about the previous night’s commotion. 

            I checked Phyllis in the backseat, also looking out the window at her ravaged estate.  Fixable, she said, assuredly.  Her eyes were kind of hopeless. 

             

 

Taken from THE CARRICKPHELIMY DEMOCRAT, October 2nd

A fire broke out at a north Carrickphelimy home in the early hours of Sunday morning.  Fire services were called to an incident at a house on Isolde Terrace at around 1.15 am.  The occupants, a co-habiting brother and sister in their late 60s, were able to escape without injury, but the blaze caused extensive damage to a greater part of the building.  The ground floor was almost completely gutted.  The total damage sustained is thought to be in the tens of thousands since the residents, members of the Berrills family, long renowned in the area for their antique dealing and auctioneering, stored an abundance of valuables at the property, most of which was destroyed in the inferno.  Information as to the cause of the fire has yet to emerge, but a team of Garda investigators are currently making enquiries in the area.