Sweeney’s News
written by: David Milner
Seen him hanging around the kebab shop, or the Jerk Chicken Island place. It was skateboards, outsized headphones, easy laughter, full of life to come. Didn’t know the kid.
Seven floors up from ground level, Sweeney sits, steaming mug of tea, as usual, at the small table by his window. He is watching the night roll in, or the sky relinquish its light, take your pick. He feels the cold more inside than out these days, but sure as eggs is eggs the heating won’t be going on until the stroke of 7pm. A practical, if not a principled, man Sweeney wore thermal underwear, and padded through his flat in thick woollen socks, nursing his righteous grievances and cursing the directors of utility companies and the tyranny of the shareholder. No more than four hours of heat on a good day for Sweeney! Below him, the reassuring twinkle of light, emanating from vehicles, streetlamps, retail outlets. The pulse (and the fate?) of the city running through him.
Didn’t know the kid. Until he was a dead cover star. Across the print media: local, evening, and national tabloids, Sweeney had bought them all. Multiple copies. The least he could do. Jared. A budding architect, enthusiastic chess player, the papers had it. Pupil at the local Academy. Jared. Stabbed in the neck. Matter of metres from his doorstep. 15 years of age. Sweeney couldn’t bring himself to throw the newspapers away. Had to hide them all when the police called (yikes!), how was he meant to explain to them why he had so many? Door to door, in search of answers, getting only the neighbourhood omerta. What do they expect? A fair-haired Inspector, chewing a mint, like he had a head cold coming on or something, preoccupied with his phone. And a female DC. And she comes out and asks if Sweeney was working? Was working, she came out and asked this to his face! Wouldn’t take a cup of tea or coffee, thank you. What kind of world are we living in? What training these cops getting they don’t know how to behave in someone’s home? Pair of them got nothing out of Sweeney.
Vigil at eight o’clock. Candles will burn. Someone will sing. Soft and low, vibrato. Sweeney won’t attend. Too much sorrow on show. He doesn’t know what to do with the emotion. The monotony of a family in turmoil. Tears you can only turn away from. Hackneyed words available and come out right or wrong, same difference, falling flat. A child killed. Sweeney feeling older by the minute. Useless. Couldn’t bring himself to throw the papers away. Needed the connection. Before it all becomes too late.
It’s nearly eight, and the mourners are milling. So, Sweeney gathers the Chinese-style lanterns he has made from the newspaper cuttings he has kept and takes them into the cold night air of his balcony. More than a dozen of these – well, Sweeney knows they are lanterns! He’s opened a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. Has a swig. Lights the first lantern, which sort of staggers to the ground in a burst of flame. The second burns his fingers and blows back into his crotch. But the third… takes flight… as does the next and…
And just about everyone knows the identity of the perpetrator. The thoughtless idiot responsible for Jared’s murder. Only a brave fool would speak this name. The female detective left her contact details, so she did – should anything come to mind? Jane her name. Jane with a Y? he’d almost asked. Not a bad sort, trace of a Midlands accent. Had her work cut out. Not much more than a kid herself she looked in his myopic eyes. Should anything come to mind? Well, Jane with or without, whaddya gonna do with Sweeney’s news…? Scratching toward the light.
For love or something similar, Sweeney floats his lanterns in the dark.
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