We present an extract from Estelle Birdy's debut novel Ravelling, published by Lilliput Press.
Ravelling centres around the lives of five teenage boys in the Liberties area of Dublin. As the novel opens, the five Leaving Cert students attend the funeral of Jack - a homeless man they all knew - that takes a dramatic turn...
The priest raises his voice a bit and pulls the microphone closer, as the sniffling from the first pew turns to sobbing.
– I had the privilege of meeting Jack on several occasions in recent times. He was a young man with a big heart. But life took its toll, as for so many, and he was no longer able to cope.
This is a time to pull closer …
The wailing grows louder, bouncing off the walls, drowning out the poor priest. Sadie’s crowd sit taller in their seats, lamenting not having come further up the church, probably.
Outta nowhere, at the front, Candy’s up out of her seat.
– Don’t leave me, Jack! She lashes herself over the coffin, sobbing.
– What the f**k? Karl says, under his breath.
The priest pauses for a second, takes a couple of steps forward, thinks better of it, and retreats back to his mic. He’s mumbling something about the community of God but no one’s listening now. All eyes on the girl. The mother stands up, shrieks and clutches her chest. For the love of fuck. Candy, thrown by the competition, by the looks of it, hitches her dress up even further and paces up and down alongside the coffin, like a cat about to drop kittens. The mam gets louder, shriller.
– That stained glass won’t last much longer if this keeps up, Hamza says.
The young one stops and starts fumbling with one of the coffin’s leather straps, struggling with the buckle. And just like that, she throws the leg over, giving everyone an unmissable flash of white knicker.
One of her hold-ups snags on the wicker basket. It tilts and slides a little to the right. The mam stops her screeching. For a bit, the creak of the coffin, the rattle of the metal trolley and the thud of heavy platform shoe on stone – as she hops about with one leg caught on the wicker – make this kinda music beat that echoes all over. And then she does it. She twists and turns and she’s suddenly lying face-down on top of the coffin. The priest looks frozen to the spot. There’s gasps and screams. The trolley shakes. The coffin slides a bit more, then does a nearly ninety-degree spin and starts to wobble, Candy clinging to it.
The lads shoot out of their seats. Benit launches himself at the base of the trolley, gripping the legs. Deano and Hamza grab the girl’s arms. Others slide the coffin back into place, just as the breathless undertakers arrive. Without so much as a glance in the direction of the mother and daughter, the grey men tighten the coffin straps.
– Sit down and don’t fucken budge, Deano says, through clenched teeth, into Candy’s face.
One’s as bad as the other. The mother glares at the daughter, dry-eyed. Sandra, catching Deano’s eye, mouths, 'Thank you’, and gets back to fidgeting with her soggy tissue. Her kids gawk at the two women across the aisle, then whisper amongst themselves. The priest, still looking stunned, half-smiles at Benit when he says, brushing himself down:
– Right, you get on with it there, Father.
The two guards sit back down and Gerry, catching Deano’s glance as he gets back to his pew, gives him a good-man-there-now garda blink. Back in their seats, the five ofthem look straight ahead. Jaysus. What can yeh say? The priest fiddles with the mic and backtracks.
– I met Jack on many occasions in recent times. A young man with a big heart. Life broke him.
The air is heavy with the smell of burning wax and somekind of perfume that’d make you puke. At communion time, the lads stay where they are. A woman on the balcony starts singing ‘In the Arms of the Angel’ in an opera voice and some-one beside Deano sniffles. Deano doesn’t look but Karl’s shifting about like he needs a shite, and then he coughs. Benit starts whispering to Hamza again:
– Your folks know you’re here?
– No.
– They think you’re in school? School’ll be looking for a note. You gonna tell your folks you were in a church, fam?
– We’re Pakis, not aliens like. We’re okay with churches.
And, you know, going to our mates’ funerals. What are you on about anyway, I’ve had to sit here through all of your communion trainings and shit?
– Forgot you were here.
– Nice. Yeah, and the funerals.
Yep, all the funerals.
– There’s loads of non-Muslims in Pakistan anyway.
– No way fam. You’re not all Muslamics?
– There’s about twenty billion non-Muslamics lurking in
Punjab. Christians, they get everywhere.
– Boys, keep it down, yeah? Deano says.
– Like the rest of this crowd? Hamza says, eyebrows raised.
But he shuts up.
Ravelling is published by Lilliput Press
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