Lord Randall my son?
The voice of the voiceless
'...ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken'
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall my son?
O where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man?"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randall my son?"
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I dined wi' my true love; mother make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
Ah well, here I am. I'd no idea the figures would add up this way, but they have. I played my cards close to my chest but, somewhere, I've miscalculated. How does Annie put it? Yeah, "It's a thin line between love and hate."
Heh... listen to those words...
The sweetest woman in the world could be the meanest woman in the world,
You can make her be that way.
She might be holding something in
That's really gonna hurt you one of these fine days.
Kinda reminds me of my old friend, Jack Fate.
You know, I once knew a woman who looked like you,
She wanted a whole man, not just a half,
She used to call me sweet daddy when I was only a child,
You kind of remind me of her when you laugh.
What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?
Indeed.
I take another look. The cards don't lie. Or change face. They stare back at me.
Busted.
What does one do in such a situation? You deal with it, I suppose. I've done so up to now and we've always come through.
What the fuck. These things are meat and drink to me. I am, after all, a professional and a hard man to boot.
You close down, sell everything, move into the bunker and wait for the fallout to clear.
What could be simpler?
A lot, I guess. It's all a gamble.
The stench of booze hangs heavy in the slow air and fresh blood smears the floor...
A sweetheart like you....
You been to hell, baby? You looked down the barrel of a big gun? You taken as little as you can? You found others haven't a clue? You found them forever holding it against you?
You want to ask yourself those questions and think about them before allowing that poison to drip from your tongue?
No, it's not a question. It's a demand.
There's a knock at the door.
Damn. As if I need this.
I move to the door... but don't open it.
"Hello."
"Mike."
"Hey, how're you?"
Shit, there is no way he'd be able to handle this. I've seen it many times but, like so many, he lives in another world. Yeah, all I get to see are dark eyes. Hollow eyes, actually, the dead-eye sockets of real-world ghosts...
'She wanted a whole man, not just a half...'
"What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randall my son?
What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?"
"I gat eels boiled in broo: mother make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randall my son?
What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"
"O they swelled and they died: mother make my bed soon,
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
"Drop five-hundred feet now, son. You have to fly under the radar. These bastards will blow us away without second thought."
Ah, shut the fuck up. I know every radar installation from here to eternity. I've flown beneath the range and scope of each one so often they know I don't exist. Don't tell me how to fly beneath the radar.
I drop five-hundred feet. Blood spatters the glass. He wipes away the sweat and breathes more easily. Some colour returns to his face.
"Sorry, I know you've been here..."
"Don't worry about it. Really."
"Thanks."
Anyway, what the hell.
I take my case to a Higher Authority.
Marek is at the door. He giggles as I walk past so I knee him in the groin, rip the placard from around his neck, read it and, in front of those rushing past, scream at him.
"What's this, you mad fucking Polack bastard? Unemployed. Wife and four children to feed. Please help. God bless. For Christ's sake, Marek, get a grip on yourself. You got a drink?"
He shakes his head. "I do have a potato."
It makes two shots of vodka.
"Where's the man?" I ask him.
He looks confused, glancing at the doorway I'm about to enter and at the street.
"Our man, Marek." I belt him across the back of his head.
"Out stalking, you deranged scum," he spits back at me, nursing the fresh welt marring his shaved head. "Looking for girls."
He calms down, looks me in the eye. "Screw you, anyway. The lights of the land of plenty are gonna shine on the truth some day, my friend, but you ain't gonna see them."
I ram him up against the wall and, holding him to it by jamming my forearm against his throat, rifle his pockets. Two more potatoes. Marek falls to the sidewalk, his clown costume intact.
I knock back the potatoes and walk through the imposing doors.
"You're a saint, Marek," I call back at the crazed Pole. "When they finally let you in up there, toss me a coupla spuds, would ya?"
He grins.
"You dumb bastard," he shouts.
"Yeah, you too. We're joined at the hip."
They tell me the cards are good. Well, they are from their point of view but, Jesus, as far as I'm concerned, they couldn't look uglier. I'll have to ante up. I could murder them all but I kill the idea instead.
Yeah, when Lady Luck's running against... nah, she smiles; it's plain luck or fish that run.
Outside, I stand on the sidewalk, waiting for a miracle.
It's raining. The barman across the road has cranked up the radio and I grab snatches of Lord Randall floating through old swing doors, across the slick road and above the hiss of fast-moving traffic.
A thin scarlet mist falls.
Here Comes Uncle Ernie
"O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall my son!
O I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man?"
"O yes I am poisoned: mother make my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
He's not too shocked by the mess. After we clean up the blood, wash down the walls and dispose of the evidence, he sits outside, on a chair in the sunny garden, reading the weekend paper. I sit inside and watch the Grand Prix, cursing Lady Luck.
Later, we're standing on the other side of the road watching the cars go by. Although shaken, he discusses the possibility of buying himself a Mercedes.
The sun is out and it's warm.
God, the other night I had some strange dreams, but they can keep.
I phone my spiritual adviser, Father Christopher.
Why the hell he keeps cropping up, I don't know. It's starting to piss me off.
Anyway, I want some answers.
"Monastery."
"Forgive me father..."
"Fuck off, Golby."
"Yeah well, fuck you too. Listen, Father, I'm really fucked."
"Fish fucked frugally."
"You heard that one?"
"What?"
"Fish-free truly."
"Yeah, of course..."
"Where's it from? I want to know. It's been in my head for years but I don't where it comes from. It was supposed to be some kinda Zen koan thing..."
"Yeah, yeah, I dunno. What you want?"
"I'm fucked, Father."
"Yes, my son, I know that, you know that, we all fucking know it, but I'll tell you what's new."
"Eh?"
"Well, I can't do anything for your fucked-ness but I can at least give you the good news."
"What?"
"Your ordination papers have come through."
[The tape blurs at this point. Graphics and sound quality are low. We can make out that the conversation continues. Golby is pleased that he has been ordained a priest in the Church of Rage. There are vague references to vestal virgins, sacrifices, matters of a pornographic nature and several lurid photographs, but nothing that has any bearing on this particular story. It as if the tape is being crudely doctored. It clears abruptly.]
"So what does this all mean?"
"You're in Heaven, Bunkie. Get used to it."
Heaven? It's a cross between a casino and a Days Inn but, with the poet rotting in the real world and purgatory threatening an exercise bike, heaven is as good as it gets. As Brother Steven puts it:
The building, heaven, goes on as far as the eye can see, into the clouds. In the lobby in the morning an enormously long white tablecloth appears, with coffee and one lemon Danish, which renews itself endlessly. Angels are everywhere, dancing.
Oh, shit, I think to myself.
There's only one step down from here, baby, | It's called the land of permanent bliss.
I am stunned. I look at the receiver, feeling giddy. The floor becomes fluid, sticky. Suddenly, I feel the rage surge through the floor and well up into me, flooding my being, drowning the world, choking my heart and making my eyes bleed.
My words seethe down the line, reminding me of the hiss of the cars, the reddening blush of the welt on Marek's head, the sibilant white noise of the running tape and the slow, spreading pool of blood.
"Listen to me, you dumb little nickel-and-dime, dollar-a-day rent whore," I bawl at the Good Father Christopher, "There Is No Way Things Are."
I float up, up, up...
...bathed in a white light...
...shapes, people, hints of voices...
...relatives, people from a past I know but do not remember...
The banging at the door is insistent.
"Open the fucking door or I'll blow the lock off."
It sounds like a kid. I open it.
Officer Cartman knocks
on Heaven's door
"There's a time and a place for everything," says Officer Cartman, idly smacking the head of his baton into the palm of his right hand. "For now, you will respect my authoritaaay."
The blood becomes a river flowing to the sea.
I decide to follow it. Under a Vanilla Sky.
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it | I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it, | I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin', | I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin', | I saw a white ladder all covered with water, | I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken, | I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children, | And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, | And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
Bob Dylan | A Hard Rain's A-Gonna fall
Note
With thanks to RageBoy, Stephen Prickett, Jack Fate, Officer Eric Cartman and John Polkingthorne's t-shirt. Marek too, if he hasn't already returned to Heaven where, as Mark Woods pointed out some time ago, Jesus and Barthelme finally come together.
