Not much comment on this one beforehand as not to give too much away. Just saying that this is set about two months after Grandpa's death to get the timeline straight.
The constant rolling of the waves rocked the small boat, making the hammock I'd just woken up in swing softly from side to side. It might have been a pleasant sensation when the gentle but steady movement of the boat had lulled me into sleep, but now, upon waking, it felt more like nauseating.
A delicious smell of frying bacon wafted in from the tiny galley where Grandpa was obviously preparing a hearty breakfast for the two of us. Maybe eating something would help against the queasiness. I just had to get around to finally opening my eyes that were still squeezed firmly shut against the sunlight that was blinding even through closed lids.
I visualized myself getting up, splashing my face with cold water, then walking outside in the shorts and singlet I'd slept in to say good morning to my grandfather and tuck into a plate heaped with …
My stomach rose at the thought of food. I clapped a hand to my mouth and struggled hard to open my eyes but found I couldn't. The hammock was swaying worse than ever, and I knew I was going to be sick right here and now although I made a great effort not to.
No, no, please don't let me ... I thought desperately.
And awoke with a start.
My eyes popped open for a second before I closed them again tightly to ward off the dazzling shafts of sunlight that seemed to pierce my skull with a searing pain.
I had seen enough to realize that I was not on a boat and not in a hammock either. The world around me was not moving at all. That swaying was right in my head.
I groaned as it became clear that the aroma of sizzling bacon was unfortunately not a part of my dream but very real.
Moaning again, I turned over to grind my face into my pillow. Which proved a bad mistake. A very bad mistake. My head was swirling even worse than before.
"Awww, shit!" I whispered into the cotton pillowcase, pressing my nails hard into both temples, hoping to ease the throbbing that had settled in the place where my brain used to be. Of course it didn't help in the least.
I let one arm dangle out of my narrow bed as if to stop my world from spinning madly by touching the floor, grazing the hard edge of the wooden frame lightly in the process.
A fierce raw pain shot through my forearm, entirely unwarranted by the fleeting contact with the wooden surface.
Slowly, some images of the previous evening made their way upward through the muddy waters of my memory. There had been drink involved. A lot of drink.
The taste of stale beer seemed to linger in my dry mouth even now. I shuddered and swallowed and tried not to think about anything remotely alcoholic.
Some more scraps of recollection emerged. It was the morning after my twentieth birthday. I had been out with Billy who had invited me for some bar hopping in town to celebrate the occasion.
And celebrated we had. Celebrated life. Celebrated our friendship that had survived the loss of Billy's brother in the same storm and the same shipwreck that had cost my grandfather's life. Drank more than one toast to their memories and then some more to better times to come.
This served to explain why my head felt twice its size but not why my arm hurt like hell.
Another distant image drifted into the back of my addled mind, a very tall, very broad, very tattooed guy with a bushy beard that more than compensated the fact that he had very little hair left on his head.
Drunken teasing, a raucous bunch of sailors buying us round after round, some inebriated singing at Pat O'Malley's crowded bar, a bit of good-natured pushing and shoving outside the bar, a narrow dark alley dimly lit by a miserable streetlight.
The last thing I remembered clearly was walking down a few steps on insecure feet, stumbling, Billy catching me before I fell, the two of us collapsing on the cold stone steps, breaking into a fit of mad laughter.
I had no idea what had happened after that and when and how I had got home.
I turned my head very, very slowly to the left and tentatively opened one eye, squinting down my side, taking stock of what I saw and felt. Obviously I'd had the good sense to at least take off my shoes and pants before falling into my bed with my shirt still on, which was what gave off the stomach-wrenching whiff of cold cigarette smoke that I'd suddenly become aware of.
What was worse, it wasn't only wrinkled and smelly and sweaty but also smeared with something reddish brown in the front. I tried to remember what I had been drinking other than beer or what else I had been doing that might have accounted for the stains, an exercise that made me dizzy yet again. Dammit. I hadn't known that thinking could actually hurt. I swore I'd never again touch any drink other than water or lemonade and closed my eyes.
After a while, my mushy brain made a connection between the stains and the burning pain in my arm and the vague recollection of light glinting off some metallic object. Had the companionable jostling turned sour in that gloomy alley, I wondered, ending with someone taking a knife to my arm, and was that headache not just a plain hangover but the result of getting hit over the head?
When the next wave of nausea had abated, I sat up and perched on the edge of the bed awkwardly, planting my legs firmly on the ground which helped ease the dizziness a little.
Finally I dared look at my arm and couldn't suppress a curse as one glance brought the missing memories back. I'd have some serious explaining to do when Grandma found out about this.
Maybe I'd stand a chance to delay it for a while if I took some precautions. I just didn't consider myself up to any explanations now, still feeling like I'd been hit by an oncoming train.
I took off the shirt and flung it down on the floor, threw on the dressing gown I never wore under normal circumstances and shuffled downstairs, hoping Grandma would be outside feeding the chickens so she wouldn't get wind of what I was up to.
I was lucky indeed. The kitchen, which still reeked of that pesky bacon, was empty, and I cast a quick glance out of the window to make sure Grandma was busy in the chicken pen. I rummaged through a drawer of the kitchen cupboard, found and pocketed what I needed and was off to the tiny bathroom before she came back.
I bolted the door and sank on the old stool in the corner, leaning my pounding head against the cool wall tiles, feeling unpleasantly hot. All the activity had set my head spinning once more. My stomach lurched one final time, then I couldn't hold back any longer and threw up into the washbasin.
This at least mitigated the sickness, although I cursed as I scrubbed the basin that Grandma always kept spotless. Just what I'd needed at a time when I was barely able to walk straight.
Having cleaned up both the washbasin and myself, I set about taking care of my arm, gingerly administering some of Grandma's famous cure-all ointment I'd nicked from the kitchen. I feared the strong smell of the stuff would make me barf again, but I held my breath as good as I could and there were no further incidents.
I thought about putting on a protective bandage as my arm was so sensitive to the lightest touch, but as it seemed to have stopped bleeding long before, I didn't deem the additional effort worthwhile. I'd just have to avoid banging into furniture again.
I went back to my room and got dressed, carefully buttoning the cuffs of my shirt to make sure everything was covered up, hoping the fabric wouldn't chafe against the tender skin too badly. I wasn't quite content with the result. If one looked closely – and Grandma would if she somehow came to suspect anything was wrong – the traces last night's outing had left behind were vaguely visible through the thin cotton sleeve. To be on the safe side, I put on an old navy knit sweater over the shirt, although it was far too warm for the unusually mild late-October weather we had.
But still, better to feel hot than to be grilled by Grandma in that state I was in, I decided. My head didn't seem about to split in two any moment now as it had when I woke up, but I still felt every heartbeat pulsate unpleasantly in my temples.
Hoping a mug of strong tea might help cure my hangover, I took my battered self downstairs. Grandma was standing by the flour-strewn kitchen table, kneading bread dough, and looked up as I walked through the door.
"Good morning, Mick!" she said cheerfully.
"Mornin', Grandma", I mumbled, trying to keep up a normal appearance.
"Did you have a good night out?" she inquired without stopping her forceful treatment of the bread dough. Her face was inscrutable except for the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Seems so, from the look of you", she added quizzically. "If only you hadn't had that last beer, huh?" The corners of her mouth kicked up into a knowing indulgent smile tinged with a tiny bit of gloating.
"Don't mention beer … ever … again", I muttered and went to fill the kettle while Grandma chortled in the background. It was the first time I heard her funny little laugh since Grandpa went, and I was glad that it made an appearance. But did it really have to be my self-inflicted misery she laughed about?
She chuckled even more when I dropped the tea tin, scattering crumbs of tea all over the floor, and stifled a very rude curse.
"Sit down, you unfortunate boy, let me do that. You shouldn't overexert yourself in that state you're in", she said, playfully punching my arm as she walked past me. Tears shot into my eyes as the pain flared up again, and I bit back a tortured yelp. I even forgot about my headache for a moment. Gritting my teeth, I dropped down on one of the hard kitchen chairs and tried to breathe regularly and deeply.
Grandma didn't seem to have noticed anything, busying herself with sweeping up the mess I'd made and brewing the tea.
Little later, she placed a steaming mug in front of me. "You should eat something, too", she said.
My answer was a tormented moan as that wretched bacon came to mind again.
"Just a bit of bread", she coaxed. "You'll feel better with a bit of food in your stomach."
She turned to get the bread knife and cut up the leftover chunk of bread, then she lovingly arranged the slices on a plate, complete with butter and strawberry jam, all the while giving me that piercing motherly stare until I finally picked up one piece of bread and took a wary bite. It was surprisingly good, a nice, sweet, comforting taste that dispelled that awful cottony feeling from my mouth.
Suddenly I realized that I was indeed hungry now the nausea had subsided and quickly devoured the first slice of bread, taking a few large swigs from my teacup in between bites while Grandma resumed her work.
I was beginning to relax and my head started to feel slightly better. Just when I'd let my guard down, Grandma pounced.
"Where is it?" she asked, sharply, out of the blue. "And what is it?"
Darn. Somehow my cover had been blown.
"Where is what?" My attempt to sound genuinely baffled appeared paltry even to myself. My eyes widening in fake innocent confusion probably didn't do anything to bolster my credibility.
"You're not trying to pull the wool over my eyes, are you? I know. And I know that you know what I'm talking about." She dealt her bread dough one last blow with her fist and stood towering over me, floury arms akimbo. "So don't give me that puppy-dog look, Michael Carpenter. It may work on the girls but not on me."
"Grandma …" My voice trailed off uselessly.
"Don't 'Grandma' me. I know, and I want to see it."
I felt my face flush with embarrassment.
"Grandma … I …"
"You what? You were too drunk to realize what you were doing?"
That summed it up nicely, but I wouldn't say so, not to Grandma. Bad enough that I wouldn't be able to hide the consequences of that jolly night on the town from her in the long run.
"Uhhmmm …"
I tried to play for time with that non-answer against better judgment. I might as well get it over and done with, as she certainly wasn't going to let me off the hook, but I couldn't muster the courage just yet.
"Come on, Mick, my lad. Spit it out. I know that Billy Mulligan came home with a half-naked mermaid on his chest. Fiona almost had a stroke when she found him this morning, snoring on the kitchen sofa with just his shoes and shirt off. She says she was so mad at the stupid boy that she couldn't keep herself from slapping his face to wake him up and give her a piece of her mind."
She paused, but only to take a deep breath before she continued. I knew what was coming next.
"What's more, she says Billy wasn't the only one who got himself tattooed last night. My God, I wonder what the two of you were thinking! Do you want to look like seedy sailors for the rest of your lives? Do you think that's romantic or what? It is not! It can be dangerous! Heaven only knows if those needles or whatever they are using were clean. I hope to God they were! And tell me, young man, is it true that it was actually you who talked Billy into doing such an idiot thing?"
I put the last bit of bread I had just wanted to shove into my mouth back down on the plate, shrinking into my chair, staring at her helplessly. I didn't bother with any attempt at defending myself. It wouldn't be any use now anyway.
She stabbed at my chest with a pointy index finger.
"Now let me see what you've done to yourself. I do hope you've at least shown some better taste than your friend across the street in picking your motif! Naked mermaids, my eye!"
I looked up at her desperately, blinking slowly, still hoping to find a way of delaying the moment of truth.
She stared back at me, unblinking, and I caved in, pulled the sweater over my head with a deep sigh, then rolled up the sleeve of my shirt in resignation, hitching it up over my elbow, to hold out my arm for her to peruse the blue shapes on the blotchy irritated skin. I looked the other way meanwhile and waited for the instant she'd ultimately explode at me, bracing myself for another wordy rant or worse.
The bulky tattooed guy we'd met at the Irish bar near the port turned out to be a former sailor called Nick who now worked at a local canned-fish factory and supplemented his meagre wages by moonlighting as a tattooist. He was a gifted storyteller and a kind soul despite his somewhat intimidating appearance.
Billy and I had been reminiscing about our lost loved ones between drinks all evening long, getting tearful one minute and howling with laughter at the memory of some childish trick we'd once played on unsuspecting Jack the next.
As we sat with Nick on this last leg of our tour through various bars in town and found out about his side job, the bold thought of doing something unusual in Grandpa and Jack's honour crossed my mind and refused to go away.
I voiced my idea to Billy who was all for it immediately, as was his nature.
"But it has to be something special", I insisted. "Not just a run-of-the-mill anchor or something else everybody has."
"Oh, it will be", Billy grinned.
I stared at him incredulously when he came out of the little chamber at the back of Nick's dingy quarters with a bloodshot mermaid adorning his pectorals.
"What on earth does that have to do with your brother?"
"Oh, you know, Jack only ever had eyes for Eileen ever since he met her. She's nice and all but so drab and pudgy … and booooring. She looked like thirty already when she was fourteen, fat as she was even then, and now she's twenty-five and looks like fifty, fatter than ever and dressing like her own grandmother. I wish he'd had a really pretty lady at least once in his life." He drew a curvaceous outline into the air with both hands and grinned. "Should've had a bit of fun, the poor boy. Not just plain old marital duties."
"Lord, you've really got a dirty mind, Billy", I groaned. "As if your brother ever wanted any other woman than Eileen."
"Would you rather I'd tattooed her on my chest?" He puffed up his cheeks and spread out his arms to mimic a figure of considerable bulk.
"Uhhh, NO! And now stop it!" I rolled my eyes in exasperation before I went through into Nick's small cabinet to get my own indelible memorial image, which would bring to mind not only Grandpa and all the little facts and stories he'd told me but also the third victim of the storm beside Jack and Grandpa. Our little lady.
The surprisingly bright light of a battered desk lamp reflected off some metallic object on the table in the middle of the tiny room. I averted my eyes quickly from the scary instrument, admitting to myself that it had been a pretty daft idea to come here after all. The whole shabby place wasn't exactly fit to inspire confidence. I gulped and felt like running away on the spot.
Alas, too late. Nick had come back from the corner where he'd been washing his hands and gestured at me to sit down, a knowing half-grin on his bearded face. "You ain't scared, are you?"
I didn't waste any breath answering.
It took a long time until he was finished. It hurt, and it was not exactly a pretty sight. There was even a bit of blood that I hastily wiped off on my shirt.
I staggered outside. Billy was sitting on the steps outside Nick's basement dwellings with his shirt open in the front and the white cotton singlet he'd been wearing underneath crumpled in his hand.
I showed him the frighteningly large image that covered almost the full length of my left forearm, grinning weakly. "Here's my own shapely lady. What d'ya think?"
I didn't hear Billy's response as the world turned black with tiny stars dancing before my eyes.
Grandpa, I thought, clutching the rusty metal railing to one side of the stairs, waiting for the dizziness induced by booze and pain to pass. Can you see me now? I've done this for you. I paused as if to allow him time to answer.
At the back of my mind, I heard him laugh at me for getting such foolish ideas and at the same time felt him pat my back for having the courage to really go through with it, even if it had been a rather stupid undertaking in the first place.
Oh, darn, Grandpa. I don't know if that was a good thing to do. Honestly, it hurts like hell. And I'm not at all sure about how it looks.
A full-bellied baritone laugh echoed through my mind as I flopped down on the steps beside Billy, wondering how I was supposed to make the long way home.
Grandma came closer and grabbed my wrist to turn my arm into the light from the window, jerking me back into the present.
A small, surprised gasp was all that she uttered as she bent over to look at my forearm.
Taken aback, I turned to see she had gone quite pale. "Oh, Mick", she breathed and drew a careful finger along the edge of the image.
"Don't tell me you actually like it!" I tried to sound light-hearted, not sure what to make of her peculiar reaction.
Her tone was not joking at all, she was still staring at my arm in a kind of daze and said softly, "A seahorse. Of course, you'd get a seahorse. After all it was him who got you interested in those little chaps in the first place, telling you all there was to know. No wonder you got obsessed with them." After a moment's silence, she went on, "You did it for him, didn't you?"
I nodded, and she smiled, a wry, wistful little smile.
I grinned back, relieved.
This earned me a severe look, and she deliberately gave a steely edge to her voice as she said, "Don't you think I approve of this after all, young man. I certainly do not. But still, this is … this is ..."
"Better than a naked mermaid?"
"Well … yes. But ... only just." She squinted at the seahorse in mock disdain.
We both laughed.
"Do me one favour, though", she said.
"What?"
"Well, two , in fact. No more tattoos. And promise me you won't roll up your sleeves when the pastor and his wife are coming to dinner on Sunday, no matter how warm it gets."
Inside my head, I could hear Grandpa say, There you have it again, my lad. Your grandma won't take no for an answer when her eyes are like that. And she's pretty damn right about that.
So I simply nodded and picked up the last slice of bread.