Thoughts after Casey's bridge

The two of us would stay as we were for a while I daresay, there being an exchange of some type between us, I know not what exactly, checking one another over perhaps, making our deductions, and I would by then have probably come to a full halt. I would thus have been the very picture of antithesis to all his fierce wet flaying about and it would probably have been in this that he saw his salvation, in that it can seem that outwardly inactive men are completely at the beckon call of whomever would have need of them, as if there could be no inward functions at work, or that they could be tired out, or have other goings on. It goes without saying that it would heap despair upon despair for the man as the time began to pass and, to him, it seemed that I were simply standing there idly and as if my mind were not in fact reeling and taking in all there was to. He would have been by then dirtied by all the shite you find at riverbanks. Lolling around as he'd be, the gooey strands of it dragging from his chin to the reeds, not to mention all the other muck he would've kicked up from the bed in his frantics, swimming around him in clouds, albeit thinned, naturally, from all his splashing. There are fish that are attracted and also those that are repulsed by such disturbances and so traffic ways of marine life would already be established in currents around his self. Then there would be the mucus that he would have had no call to keep in check in such circumstances, which would subside without a thought and swamp his lips, flavouring the lapping water. If he were crying there would've been tears too. His sphincter could also have let go by now, but let us not plumb those depths. No, I would never have gone in there for anything, I would have thought to myself, and as I might begin to list in my head the variety of reasons he might have had for trying it, fulcrum seconds would tick by for which all the world might say nothing was being done by me. I would have by then, however, all the world knowing nothing of the matter, deduced something at least very close to exactly how wet the mans pants would be and how they'd swathe around between his kicks and grip at his skin, never would they feel more present than right then, and then there would be the general increased weight of all his clothes, and I would likely wonder if, human beings composed of some vast percentage, something like 60, of water themselves, he himself would not bodily have swelled also. Or would it be more like ashes to ashes, and his flesh would retreat to allow the surrounding water mix with his own in a gentle giving way. But it would never have looked likely from where I'd be standing. And then again at one stage I might have been carried away with it all to the point of saying fuck him and his snot and his wet pants, I will stay and watch him die. And as he would grow more and more rowdy in his panic I could rock back and forward on my heels, or crouch for balance, hands in my pockets, and take in everything, scrutinizing also the tar macadam and the first wisps of undergrowth that sprout from underneath it to flourish into the reeds he bucks so wildly to grip himself on to. And no one would be there to tell me of the good in it, or if there was bad in it, of that either, and thus it would all transpire until he at last went under and I was able finally to drag myself back up to full standing height and carry on as I had been.

I am told it is contrary to the law to remain at the scene of a car accident without offering a hand if no help is forthcoming from anywhere else. What it is exactly that I could do, in the state I'm in, would be beyond me. Perhaps comfort them in their final throes. Yes, I can imagine myself doing that. Maybe even being good at it. Prevent any undue lapsing into hysteria, like biting tongues, or leaning over to bring them cushions or aid them in any wayward prayers. I could also begin cleaning the place up around them so as not to interfere with prospective traffic. I could dutifully mop up spilt petrol and shrapnel and bodily fluids which could all be deposited in neat pools to the side. I can see them now. That is to say, I could if I had a mop with me. This doesn't go the same for a boat accident. I can ignore any I might come across because I may have just eaten, or at the particular time be suffering cramp, or the hint of cramp or be mortally afraid of the water, and perhaps even with good reason. I may have had an incident by a pond in my youth, who's to say. I may have caught my leg under a stick and roared and roared for my papa as the tide rose around me. The silt would've notched a line around my thighs. Do ponds have tides though? Perhaps. Or I may have just awoken and, being unable to distinguish one way or the other how long I had slept, I would thus have natural qualms about how long ago I had eaten. Thus I may watch boats go down and whole families expire without lifting a finger, and I fancy it would be the same also with planes, at least those at sea.

I'm sure I had a reason for that man being in the water. I wouldn't have gone on and on about it for so long aimlessly. Even I have my standards. Let us try and remember how he looked, maybe this will hint at something. I remember him as looking fatherly. Not along the lines of my own father, who looked if anything more husbandly than fatherly, but rather as conforming to an idea of a father closer to a stereotype. By the time I would've first made him out his hair would've been matted flat, wetted down onto his skull and perhaps even riddled with things of the pond, larvae or algae, had I only a set of binoculars I could have inspected him thoroughly for all this, but I make it out in my head as being walnut brown and of medium length, splayed out in a bristling fringe at the very least when wet, naturally the day to day styling would be indiscernible. But no! Was there a parting? Too late for that now. And he would've been middle aged. Perhaps there might even have been facial hair, and it mightn't be a bridge too far to put it that despite all the furore there was an undertone of stick-to-itiveness fastened around the jowls. The riverbank, though, would have been too far out from the path to facilitate someone simply falling in, unless he were taking a piss, or he was some kind of wandering idiot or was trying to find where it was that the sleeping birds hide themselves as I have often thought myself. Hunters must know.

No, the only conclusion that we can come to is that he fucked himself in there intentionally and at some point too late changed his mind and wanted to get out again. Can it have been that were I to have come across it, it would've been a suicide attempt? The idea grows more comfortable in my head every time I think about it. Yes it would be just like me to have witnessed a suicide. The suicide of a father. Looking back on it I may have shouted something to him on this very point, had I only but known. What that might be I would have to think on. I wouldn't want to irritate the man in his final moments. So perhaps he wouldn't have been after my help at all, and was just going down as naturally as he could. Even suicides cannot simply enter the water and descend to the bottom stock still like planks, the reflexes rebel against the head and kick up a blue bloody murder trying to salvage something, launching out grabbing limbs in every direction, but the head knows and will have thought ahead enough to place himself too far from the bank for remedy, lest he be able to scamper out and have to walk home, his head in his hands, having to explain his wet clothes to his wife and offspring. No, that will have been his greatest dread, bobbing there, having to come up with an excuse and then gather the pluck to try the same thing next week, but have to think of somewhere else for fear that I appear again. Perhaps it wasn't even his first time, and the dread only arrived when he would have seen me, in case I was the type to rush over and attempt something rash. It's a good thing I would've let him alone so. Two or three incidents like that and he would for sure have given up the water route altogether and gone in for something more like finishing himself off by ingesting mixtures of cleaning fluids, or varnish, paint thinner, topical creams and soap. And then have to see out the hours passed wallowing in the puddle of his own blood-spattered vomit, his eyelids peeled back right back off their charges for the pain.

As to the corpse, assuming it was his second or third attempt one can safely imagine it would've by now been weighed down. Heavy rocks wired to the ankles and waist and bollocks and elbows thus making it all but impossible to fish out try as I might, and I would, stickler for a challenge that I am. No, even if I returned the next night with rods and nets it would be beyond me. I would dredge up many a thing but none of it would be any part of him, save, perhaps, the odd shoe, or watch, or rosary beads. I daresay at the same time that there are locally known places to go to successfully scour for the shoes of suicides, and even the carcass belonging to them. If one was privy to such essentials it would be possible to take ones rods and nets there instead and fish out corpses and all their wares until sunup and never look back for the sackloads of accoutrements you could drag away, having to lurch along the side of the road for the weight. Not to mention if, say, it interested one to take appealing parts of the body, such as the finger with a ring, or an ear, with a ring. As with all things, though, there's the doing it and the saying of it and trudging around up to the arse in swampmud trawling for bits and bobs would probably ask hours and reward with very little unless you knew your spot. The best thing would be to watch the father hurling himself in, rocks and all, so as to be able to judge where to plunge the rods and how far apart to fasten your nets. To know where to go to watch a suicide and have ones nets and equipment readied comfortably in advance. I am sure every town has its bridge. Probably the same one young couples take walks along, hand in hand, pointing out landmarks to one another with the free hand and pausing to let some keepsake or note slip down into the torrent on a whim, in moments where the least act seems to carry eternal momentum. They would clasp each other and discuss the people in that last restaurant and laugh, just as if those same people didn't have their bridges. Then by night, fondly reminiscing over the afternoons he would stroll here with his Molly, our husbandly father, would slouch over the precipice and set about turning things over and over in his mind one hopefully final time.

I would've had to perch myself for maybe the better part of an hour or maybe more, watching this silhouette leaning over the railings, not even sure that this was the right one, it being impossible to make out if there were any rocks. Perhaps it would simply be some abandoned lover, who allowed the wrong thing slip down into the torrent that afternoon, who would then stumble off home, hands in pockets, myself none the wiser as to whether it had been my man or not, and left to kick stones at the backsides of wildlife until I would run out of patience. No, that would never do. I fancy any respectable suicide would distinguish himself by attending the same spot some nights in a row. I could even get to know the man, watch him come on his way, the way people know each other on morning trains. Almost to the extent of saying hello. He might take me for a fellow suicide too, lingering along the banks as I would be. But no, I would have to be crouched at some vantage point. All until one final night, stones dragging in his wake, he would slip noiselessly over the rails, but for the stones, which would instead kick up an almighty clang against the iron and rob it all of any sense of grace whatever, for a morsel of grace is the least, the very least, one can ask at such points, and yet it would be patently ridiculous to muffle the stones by some or other wrapping technique, how stupid he would feel stood there with his stones in cotton wool, only possibly explained to any potential passers-by as part of a scholarly experiment, or artwork, and finally cast himself in. And that would be me set to work, nets and all. The drop could only take moments, moments, so it's moments I would have to scuttle out of whatever den it was I was in and take a grip on things. I can well see myself, having arrived at the bank, crestfallen at having to pack my things away empty handed owing to the fact that our husband had chosen the other end of the bridge from which to drop, for no reason but whim. To pre-empt this, after much pacing on my own part, the necessary conclusion, the only one I could possibly have reached with all this noise, springtime being the hive of activity it is around our waterways, would be the placing of some form of bait, for want of better terms, to bring our ambling suicide to a stop where he can make himself useful to us. This could be anything. A note. A dead animal, a hare perhaps, brimming with burst wares, together with its own stick with which to poke it, or better, wearing a child's hat, so as to provoke curiosity. A tactfully selected advertisement. No, a note.

Dear Debbie,
I think it would have been the very least you might've done to at least have appeared washed last evening. It isn't like we haven't talked about this before, you and I, and taken our vows on the matter. I had even foregone the mentioning of it, just from faith in you, in both of us, but you have crushed it now and there it is. I can add it to the list of all the neglects you heap on me by the week, not least the smell..
or

Dear Pippo,
We did everything we could but the mule died. There is no use going back over it again and again in our minds. We have come along way that mule and ourselves, but it can't after all be said that part of the value of the thing wasn't which of us would be right over how long it would last.

No, the first was better.

not least the smell from you, which comes and goes in gentle tides, and might even carry an element of charm were it not for the distracted look always on your face that tells me you've forgotten to wash rather than taken it on as some kind of statement. Were it not so hot we might have forgiven you, but owing to the tightness of the confines..

And so it might continue. Along just such pointless lines until time came to drop the note and bring himself over the edge. But how long does it take? One couldn't wait too long after the body hits the watery surface lest the currents fuck up all previous planning. On the other hand, it wouldn't do to fish the man out alive and have to undergo the embarrassment of putting him back while he coughed at you annoyedly. It would have, in fact, therefore to be verified; his passing. This could be done with a brick, dropped on the chest. There would then be a pause of a few moments as I awaited a reply. In this period I would have had to ask myself if he had still been gurgling breaths upon being dragged ashore. No matter, as my mother would say when serving up ugly food, it all looks the same in the end. At which point I would give up any pretension to mores and begin stripping the corpse. And if he still gurgled? Am I to pretend to myself that it would go unheeded and I would be a one to up and escort him back to his bridge for another try? After all that? And me with hardly a night to make it home and see to the goat. And hardly a night to make any attempt at getting myself laid somewhere. And hardly a night to spread out before myself gaily, devoid of appointment or occasion and anything but the tarmac on which to wallow and stab at with the heel. How I could unearth wildlife with these stabs. Worms and their ilk. I have unearthed cables too, no pun intended, back when tarmac was laid quickly just before the rush hours. No, it would be to lead myself astray to begin saying that I was ever one to take any high ground. I would strip the corpse in either case, gurgling or no, and if yes, then drop the brick again. But strip the corpse of what? I would have to ask him to stop gurgling while I thought. Even while I inspected. It isn't every day one is served up a whole person at ones disposal. Shoes I always need, so the shoes would be in. It stands to reason there could be a tie and if so then that too. Nobody gets gold fillings anymore so there would be no dentistry called for thankfully, what with me deploring the trade. What does go into fillings now? Is it mercury or am I thinking of thermometers? Not that I would have the slightest ability to identify mercury if it was taken and poured into me, but nonetheless. I am sure there are almanacs on what can be wrought from a corpse. Bone fetches high prices does it not? But is it the particular bone of animals. Prized for its exoticism. I fancy so. Naturally, the bone of a husband would be past the pale in any case, but how and ever. We digress. I would wish at this point that the gurgling would really stop once and for all, and could well begin wondering exactly how one would distinguish if there was some type of post mortem gastroentric work at play? I am told corpses must be plugged for the farts at funerals. Drowned ones must be drained too, but this is just speculation, lest they lie there bubbling. Yes, it would be difficult to say how much annoyance I could take before slitting the thing for some peace and quiet. Probably a lot. I have a high threshold for annoyance. I might even have time to investigate the mercury first. Slit along the gullet. Surely this, if anything could, would put an end to it. Wouldn't it preordain a knife being brought, however, and if one hadn't? If one hadn't it would be left for me to tear the thing open. By whatever means. Fair or foul. I can picture myself gripping on the Adam's apple and tugging, nails tucked in faithfully. Or head down, in puncturing with the mouth. That would bring relief. Slowly closing down the chops in a squeeze. I could see that. It could be the closest thing I might ever experience, not being a seafaring man, to that image I always held dear, of the pure exultation that's to be gotten from hanging on for dear life to a mast or some such upward protrusion, weathering the lashes of a cruel south sea storm, as the waves up and bullwhip you over and over in the face and all over for hours if not days if not weeks. And to be standing there upright against it and never capitulate. I could stay and allow the seepage just empty out over me as I bit, draining the lake water and throat phlegm and the contents of the pulse. It would be far too late by then to start getting particular over stains. I would have hidden in some badger snatch for hours in any case, arse caked in anything they dragged in there or left. I have never been the type to wave away responsibility at the mention of a stain, try as they may to have brought me up so. I could empty the neck and might even at this stage, give leeway to nuzzling in with the rest of me, up to the cheeks, tongue readied for discovery. You could be sure by now the gurgling will have abated. It is one thing to identify internal organs in illustration and a whole other in practicality. This is why, I assume, doctors command such high salaries. For me, I can suppose, the individual parts of which the neck is comprised would seem so much mulch, tucked up astride and intertwined with itself that prodding for anything I might recognise would be a complete waste of energy. It would be an easy thing to allow the fluids drain away down my own throat nonetheless, and probably a worthy exchange too. Quite how long I could keep this up is difficult to ascertain. I can assume that the hearts of carcasses stop beating almost immediately. If I found myself having to swallow too much I would know something was up. I fancy I could ingest pints before thinking about any other routes. I think it's not too much to say that by this stage the limbs would have seized in place. This can be told from how my own animals die, with things always seizing bolt straight, particularly forelegs, also necks. Hind legs tend to crouch into positions like the early stages of a yawn. Can we assume his hind legs could do the same, jostling his hips involuntarily to the side and hugging the calves up to beneath his rectum, his forearms stretched rigid to bring out the flourishing contours, so hidden day to day? It would seem a fair assumption. And also the neck, stiffened into early stage rigor mortus, and me having to scrounge around within. It could be tricky. Yes I could see myself getting easily frustrated. Starting to tear hopelessly at the thing, which would never do.

As to the cock; I am always at a loss for the feeling that comes over me when I see another man's cock. It seems aware to me. Aware like my own one has never seemed, other than that if it had its way it would happily separate itself from the crotch and be alone anywhere else. No the cock is better left be. As with the digestive, urinary and excretory systems, the likes of which make spills deep and broad enough to waste hours mopping up after. It's a safe guess to say it would astonish me the volume of fluids at work pumping around, even then. No, the only thing to do would be to strap the figure down by the joints, tight in place with pins and once done with the neck, carefully, carefully begin peeling for meat. Once done with the neck though, when would this be? I fancy there would be hours in the neck alone. Think of how long I can amuse myself wrapping and unwrapping twine between my fingers, or in between my teeth, then we can double or treble this easily. I could bury my head in up to the ears and gorge myself to the point of vomiting. This would even save me having to eat beforehand. Or even afterwards, and would lighten significantly the load to be dragged back with me. Just how far down the gullet I could go is impossible to say. I know not what fills the crevice just below the neck, but I picture it as hollow. Likely I am wrong.

And who or what would I engage with? For a person has to engage with something. We can be sure there would be plenty of flies so I could perhaps engage with them. Or with some idea of myself as a younger man, which is something I've always had success with. What would I have thought of myself, crouched over, neck twisted to accommodate leverage up around the other's lower chin, would I have been of the type to act like I hadn't seen it coming? Probably, then, yes. And I know myself well enough to say that I'd intrude on the mellow airs at play and ask if I'd ever again be up to looking at people in the same way. Probably not. Not at all. I would be at a supermarket, basket at my feet, gaping horribly at the old lady playing with her pearls and I could see the wizened stretch-marks of her jugular and all the ligaments shifting as she complained about the quality of her ham and I know I could make out the slabs of flesh that sit, as if by magic, as if by accident, scarcely hidden at all by the liver spot tissue dragged up from the collar. And I would ask myself if I wouldn't be back again the next night, praying for some other husband and his cotton wool rocks. I would pause then to wipe my face, there being standards to be maintained even at points like these, and would amuse myself wringing out the handkerchief thinking that if this wasn't it then nothing would be, and wondering if I could lay out the neck flat with pins as in biology class, having apparently lost much interest in the rest of the torso, save the backs of the knees, which no one else would have thought of, a conclusion I would delight myself with.

Biography

I was born in Dublin in 1977, grew up in Greystones, Co. Wicklow. I went to College in Dun laoghare Institute of Art Design & Technology,
studying animation. For the last four or so years I've been working as a graphic designer in Dublin, while writing regularly freelance for magaznes like Magill, Sixmag, In dublin, the illustrated ape, and a number of English magazines. I have also had some poetry
published. Presenty I live and work in Bologna, Italy, and continue to write.