Dead Man Talking

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Roddy Doyle

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Books in the Series

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A fast, funny, spooky tale for Quick Reads, from the author of The Commitments and The Guts.

  Pat had been best friends with Joe Murphy since they were kids. But years ago they had a fight. A big one, and they haven’t spoken since – till the day before Joe’s funeral.

  What? On the day before his funeral Joe would be dead, wouldn’t he?

  Yes, he would …

  About the Author

  Roddy Doyle was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of eleven acclaimed novels including The Commitments, The Snapper, and The Van, two collections of short stories, Rory & Ita, a memoir about his parents, and most recently, The Guts. He won the Booker Prize in 1993 for Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.

  ALSO BY RODDY DOYLE

  Fiction

  The Commitments

  The Snapper

  The Van

  Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  The Woman Who Walked

  Into Doors

  A Star Called Henry

  Oh, Play That Thing

  Paula Spencer

  The Deportees

  The Dead Republic

  Bullfighting

  Two Pints

  The Guts

  Two More Pints

  Non-Fiction

  Rory & Ita

  Plays

  Brownbread

  War

  Guess Who’s Coming for the

  Dinner

  The Woman Who Walked

  Into Doors

  The Government Inspector

  (translation)

  The Commitments

  For Children

  The Giggler Treatment

  Rover Saves Christmas

  The Meanwhile Adventures

  Wilderness

  Her Mother’s Face

  A Greyhound of a Girl

  Brilliant

  Chapter One

  I met Joe again the night before his funeral.

  Let me explain.

  When I was younger than I am now, I knew a man called Joe Murphy. In fact, I knew him before he was a man. I knew him since we were kids.

  We were best friends.

  But I hadn’t seen Joe in nine or ten years. We’d had a fight.

  A big fight.

  I know what you are thinking. At least, I think I know what you are thinking. ‘It must have been about a woman.’ But you are wrong. The fight had not been about a woman. It had been about a horse. It had been about a horse and three women.

  But the story isn’t really about the fight.

  I don’t know where to start.

  I can start in Joe’s house, the night before his funeral. Or I can go back to the time when we had the fight. Or I can go all the way back to the time when we were two small boys playing football.

  We were best friends, kicking the ball against the side wall of Joe’s house. We were both going to play for Manchester United and we were never, ever going to fight.

  If I was reading this story, I would want to read about meeting Joe the day before his funeral. Because it is a bit mad. It is not something that happens every day, is it? If it was the day before his funeral, Joe must have been dead.

  That is what you are thinking.

  And you are right. He was dead.

  He was dead. But then he started talking to me.

  I don’t know where to start.

  I don’t even know if I want to start.

  But I have to.

  Chapter Two

  Everything was normal.

  I drove home from work. I’m a printer.

  I was a printer.

  I drove home and parked the car. I went into the house and kissed my wife, Sarah. It was what I did every day.

  ‘How was work?’ she asked.

  ‘Grand,’ I said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Grand too,’ she said.

  Sarah worked down the road, in the local supermarket.

  We had the dinner – fish and chips. Sarah had got the fish and chips on her way home from work. She had texted me. Chipper? X. I had texted her back. For sure – lol. X.

  ‘Lovely bit of fish,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the chips are perfect.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  It was not the most exciting chat we ever had. But I need you to know that it was normal.

  At least, I thought it was normal.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a pint,’ I said.

  ‘Grand,’ she answered.

  This was how it was every night. I went for a pint, just one. And Sarah watched crap on the TV. Then I came home and we would both watch crap together.

  I stood up.

  ‘See you later,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your pint.’

  I got my coat and went to the front door. I put my hand on the handle.

  I heard Sarah.

  ‘Pat!’

  Her voice was high. She sounded scared, like she had just seen a mouse or something.

  ‘What?’ I shouted.

  ‘Pat!’

  Now I was scared. I went back to the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She was standing now. She was holding her mobile phone.

  ‘It’s Joe,’ she said.

  ‘Joe who?’ I asked.

  She shouted at me.

  ‘Joe!’

  She looked pale. Her hands were shaking.

  I understood now.

  ‘My Joe?’ I said.

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  Joe had been the best man at our wedding.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s –’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Pat, I’m so sorry.’

  She started to cry. And so did I.

  She hugged me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again.

  I was glad she didn’t say more. She just held me.

  ‘How did you find out?’ I asked her.

  She held up her phone. I had not heard it ringing when I was going out of the house. But I didn’t say anything. I forgot about it. It was not important.

  ‘You are cold,’ she said.

  But I was not cold. She was. I was shivering – because I was holding a very cold woman.

  I let go of Sarah. I stepped back and looked at her, carefully.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

  She seemed stiff – solid. Like a statue. A statue made of ice. Green ice.

  Then she moved. It was like she moved just an inch. I think it was the light coming through the window. The sun was low outside. It was nearly night, and the sun had gone into my eyes. It had made me think that Sarah looked like ice. But now she was back to normal.

  But I know now. Nothing was normal.

  Chapter Three

  I went for a walk.

  Sarah didn’t want me to. She looked wo
rried, even a bit angry.

  ‘I need to get some air,’ I said.

  I needed to move. I did not want to stay still. Walking helped me when I needed to think.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘Okay?’

  ‘To the pub?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  She looked happier when I said that.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t go drinking.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said.

  I was not a big drinker. But I used to be. It worried Sarah, sometimes. She was afraid I would become a big drinker again.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I said. ‘Just around the block.’

  ‘Bring the dog,’ she said.

  It was our joke. We did not have a dog.

  I went to the kitchen door. I stopped.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘To Joe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just that he died.’

  ‘Who phoned you?’ I asked.

  She looked down at the phone.

  ‘It was a text,’ she said.

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Karen.’

  Karen was Joe’s wife. I had not seen Karen in years.

  ‘She had your phone number?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone must have given it to her,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Okay.’

  I went to the front door. I put my hand on the handle.

  It was strange. The last time I was at the front door, I had a friend called Joe who I had not seen in years. I was not thinking about him. Now, just a few minutes later, Joe was dead, and I could think of nothing else.

  ‘Bye,’ I shouted.

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  I walked out of the house.

  Chapter Four

  It was cold that night. It was dark now too. The sun had gone down, behind the houses. I shivered as I walked. I felt sad and guilty – and a bit angry. But, really, I didn’t feel anything. I was numb, I think. I felt like I was jet-lagged.

  Memories jumped around in my head. It wasn’t a line of pictures and sounds, or like a picture album. My memories of Joe were all mashed together.

  One big Joe. The child, the adult and the dead man, all in one.

  I’d be thinking of the two of us playing football and Joe’s adult voice would say, ‘That never happened.’

  It was raining now. I didn’t care. The cold rain cleared my head, a bit. I am bald, so the drops of rain smacked right onto my skull.

  I was cold and wet but one warm memory began to grow.

  I was in a dusty place. It was dark, but there were thin lines of light. The dust danced in the light. It was brilliant – and hot. Now I could feel Joe. He was right beside me. I knew where we were now.

  ‘Attics are so cool,’ said Joe.

  He whispered, because we were not supposed to be there. We were in the attic of my house. My mother had told me never to go up there.

  Our eyes were getting used to the dark.

  Mam had gone to the shops. My dad was at work and my big sisters were out, doing the stupid stuff that big sisters did. Me and Joe were the only ones in the house. But Mam would be back in a few minutes.

  We had climbed up on the ladder. We had carried the ladder – a big steel one – from the back garden.

  ‘There’s no floor,’ said Joe.

  ‘What?’

  We both looked down. Joe was right. There was no real floor. Just thin planks of wood.

  Joe put his foot on one plank.

  ‘Careful,’ I said.

  He put his other foot on the plank beside it. He moved.

  ‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  I watched him do a funny walk along the planks. He went through the light and dust.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  I followed him. He was right. It was easy.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Joe asked.

  He didn’t whisper now. He nearly shouted. His voice crashed through the dust.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘A dead body?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Hope so.’

  There were boxes up there, and old clothes scattered around.

  Something moved.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘A mouse!’

  ‘A rat!’

  ‘A ghost!’

  My foot came off the plank. It landed on something, and went right through. I was falling.

  ‘Joe!’

  He grabbed my jumper and pulled me up.

  We looked down. My foot had gone through my mam and dad’s bedroom ceiling. We looked down through the hole.

  ‘I’ve made a hole in the ceiling,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a good big bed,’ said Joe. ‘Will we jump down?’

  Then we heard the door open downstairs. My mam had come home.

  I heard her voice.

  ‘Pat? Where are you?’

  And Joe jumped.

  I was walking towards Joe’s house. I saw that now. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him about the two of us in the attic, and everything else that we had ever done. I wanted to talk about the fight. I wanted to tell him I was sorry.

  But it was too late.

  I stopped walking. I stood – just stood – in the rain. It was heavy now, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even notice.

  I took out my phone. I checked to see if I had Joe’s number. Drops of rain fell on the screen.

  I didn’t.

  I didn’t have his number. That was the worst part. I remembered now, I had got rid of it. I had deleted it. Years ago, after the fight. I remembered telling Sarah that I would never talk to Joe again. I remembered pressing the key, and I saw his name and number go. It was like I had killed him.

  That was stupid. I knew that. I didn’t kill Joe.

  But all those years, I never spoke to him.

  My mam walked into her bedroom. She was taking her coat and her scarf off. She saw Joe on the bed. The noise of him landing was still in the room. She saw the dust and the plaster.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Dunne,’ said Joe. ‘I just dropped in for a chat.’

  She looked up at the hole in the ceiling, and saw me looking down.

  She started laughing.

  I walked home in the rain. There was no one else on the street.

  No one.

  I was the only man in the city. In the world. That was how I felt.

  Chapter Five

  I remember opening the front door. It’s funny, the things we remember, the little details. But I remember it clearly, putting the key in the lock. It seemed to take more effort. My fingers were freezing and stiff. The key felt too big in my hand. I dropped the key. I had to pick it up again.

  I pushed open the door. I was freezing. I wanted to feel the heat.

  Sarah was standing in the hall.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

  It was a stupid question. I knew that when I heard myself say it.

  ‘You were a long time,’ she said.

  ‘I lost track of the time,’ I said.

  ‘Did you go anywhere?’ she asked.

  She meant the pub.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t. I just kept walking.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  It was strange. She was never like this. There was a time, years ago, when I messed around a bit. I drank too much. I stayed away from the house too often. There had been a bit of trouble with the law. (The law won.) There had been one or two other women – but nothing serious. I had changed. Sarah knew those days were over. It had taken me a long time to get her trust again.

  She didn’t trust me now. I could see it in her face. I hardly knew her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her again. ‘Sarah?’

  I moved closer to her.

  ‘No
thing,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  She tried to smile.

  ‘It’s just so sad,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She put her arms around me and hugged me. She was Sarah again, warm and normal. She cried. I put my hand to her face, to wipe away her tears.

  But there were no tears.

  She stepped back.

  ‘Let’s watch some telly,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’

  We started to watch The Killing. Sarah loved murder, when it came from Denmark or Sweden. I watched it too but, really, I saw nothing.

  I wanted to talk about Joe.

  ‘Sarah?’ I said.

  She put The Killing on Pause.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe died,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘I know he died.’

  ‘Why aren’t we talking about him?’ I asked.

  She pointed the remote control at the telly and turned it off.

  ‘Because,’ she said. ‘It brings back bad memories.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My memories are not bad,’ I said. ‘I knew him before you did.’

  ‘That is true,’ she said.

  She looked at me for a long time. Well, it felt like a long time. Then it was like she woke up.

  I have to say this. Sarah was a funny woman. She was full of life. She was sexy, and a bit mad. And the madness made her even sexier. It was nice madness. And she got madder and sexier as she got older. She grinned all the time. She joked. She laughed. She flirted.

  This woman I was sitting beside now – it wasn’t the same Sarah.

  She had the same face, but it was kind of empty. Her eyes were still blue but – dead.

  I thought it was because of Joe. It had knocked the life out of her. It had knocked some of the life out of me.

  She sat up. It was like she had been pinched. She looked at me. Her eyes were bright again. Her smile made those lovely little creases on her face.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she said.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Not tea,’ she said.

  ‘God, no.’

  There was a table near the door, with the bottles on it. She hopped off the sofa and went to the table. She picked up a bottle.

  ‘Empty,’ she said.

  She picked up another one.

  ‘Bloody empty.’

  She looked at me.