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Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Dermot Healy
  4. Praise
  5. A GOAT’S SONG
  6. I. Christmas Day in the Workhouse
  7. 1. Waiting for Catherine
  8. 2. Walking the Triangle
  9. 3. A Taxi Through New York at Midnight
  10. 4. Shangrila
  11. 5. The Nomads
  12. 6. Christmas Morning
  13. 7. The Love Object
  14. 8. The Cockatiel
  15. II. The Salmon of Knowledge
  16. 9. The Death of Matti Bonner
  17. 10. The Fenian Ledger
  18. 11. The News at Six
  19. 12. The Summer Home
  20. 13. The Outsiders
  21. 14. As Gaelige
  22. 15. O’Muichin and the Cléirseach
  23. 16. The Salmon of Knowledge
  24. III. The Hares
  25. 17. The Mourners
  26. 18. The Greatest Man in Ballyconeely
  27. 19. Oh No, Don’t Stop the Carnival
  28. 20. The Illustrated Sons of Ireland
  29. 21. The Sea
  30. 22. Through the Downhill Tunnel
  31. 23. The Irishman
  32. 24. Madame George
  33. 25. What Did Shamey Coyle Do When He Left Prison?
  34. IV. The Musical Bridge
  35. 26. Flying in Belfast
  36. 27. Crossing the Musical Bridge
  37. 28. Searching for Jack in Yeats’ County
  38. 29. Guilt–tripping
  39. 30. Corrloch
  40. 31. The Cuckoo Mocks the Corncrake
  41. 32. A Time of Big Seas
  42. 33. Popular Songs
  43. 34. Happiness

The emptiness struck again. It seemed, as he stood in the cold back room of the bar, all the props that had been used to preserve the illusion had been withdrawn. The emptiness seemed perpetual. Yet he felt something would give, something would break the cycle and allow them to be their natural selves again. Even if that self was diminished.

He wanted to beg forgiveness but did not know how. He must wait for her letter to arrive. He sat down. He got up and phoned Eddie. “Look,” he said, “forget all about what I said.”

“I will.”

“You didn’t tell her?”

“No.”

“Sorry about that, Eddie.”

He thought some form of death was approaching, one that he would survive, and after that he would know his limitations. Whatever he expressed now would be visited on him later in some recess of his mind. He stood and looked at his hands. They were pulsating again. He smelled the damp from his clothes. The corridor was forming.

The next day he woke to a land with no horizon. He found that the whole house and landscape was reduced to a mere dot in time. He did not think he could survive one minute. Then he survived the minute only to find that the clock had begun another. And then he knew, with a sense of furious sadness, that this would be followed by another minute, and another, and throughout each one he would be like he was now, only worse, for each second would – though the same in the mathematical sense – have increased in psychical length.

He was trapped within ever-increasing particles of time that were the same in shape and distance and size, and yet their interior was endless. His despair became greater than ever his passion had been. His mind was making each second into an eternity.

He was gripped by single hallucinations.

A dog, his dog, vomited a wad of fat on the doorstep of the house. It lay there steaming.

He wrote to Catherine. Please come back to me. I want you. I am sober, he wrote.

He dropped the letter off in Corrloch and went into O’Malley’s bar and bought a bottle of vodka. He walked across the fields with the dog and lay down on the old bed.