Notes from a Coma by Mike McCormack

from, just like I’m telling you the same thing JJ. Fuck off, you and your big ideas.”
    “Badgering the prosecution, Your Honour.”
    “I’ll badger the cunt right enough.”
    I could feel JJ stiffening beside me. He’d gone too far this time. He should have seen the signs. Owen was standing over us glowering, his face swollen with frustration and temper. He took a step towards JJ and then took two steps back. He swung up the bottle.
    JJ said, “Take it easy, Owen. I was only thinking out loud.” He held up his hands. “The prosecution rests.”
    Owen lowered his face into JJ’s. “Fuck off, JJ, I’m not listening to any more of this shite. I’m going to bed.” Owen moved towards the bedroom and JJ got up to follow him. I pushed him back.
    “No, JJ, I’ll go.”
    Owen was sitting on the side of the bed sobbing, the glass held between his legs. “Why is he always like that, Sarah?” he asked. “Why does everything have to be about him?”
    “That’s the way he is, Owen, you know him, he can’t let anything go. Can you walk home?”
    He shook his head and lay back on the bed. “I’m too drunk, my knee is too sore.”
    “Then stay here tonight, I’ll set an alarm for you. Eight o’clock, that will give you six hours.” I reached for the bottle but he clasped it closer to his chest. “Give me the bottle, Owen.” He lurched up in the bed and drained off the last of the whiskey then fell back on the pillows.
    “Go away, Sarah,” he slurred. “Go away.”
    When I got into the kitchen JJ was leaning on the sink looking tired and sorry.
    “Is he OK?”
    “He’s fine, he’s asleep.”
    He threw his hand up in a sorrowful gesture. “I didn’t mean anything.”
    “You don’t know how hard it is to listen to you sometimes. You can be so righteous.”
    “I can’t stop it, Sarah, it’s the way I am. I didn’t mean anything.”
    “You did, JJ. But not in the way you think.”
    I tidied up the tins and glasses and JJ looked in on Owen. He was lying on his side, breathing deeply.
    “I’ve set the alarm, he’ll be OK. Come on, it’s time to go.”
    We walked home hand in hand that night. A big summer moon hung over Carramore Hill and the fields were bathed in this deep blue light; it was like walking through a cobalt bottle. JJ kissed me at the gate and told me he’d call me the following morning. Watching him walk away that night I don’t think I ever saw him looking so sad.
    JJ got a call from Owen’s mother the following morning—Owen hadn’t turned up for work. Peter Monk had been on the phone to her, where the hell was he? JJ told her he’d get him. He hopped into the car and called for me. I picked up the keys of the chalet and sat in beside him; JJ was effing and blinding.
    “You’re sure you set the alarm?”
    “I’m sure. Maybe it didn’t go off.”
    “Maybe. Maybe he’s hung-over, the hoor, him and his Wild Turkey.”
    “His knee was bad. It’s not like him to sleep in. Owen is as good as his word, hung-over or not.”
    “He better have an excuse. Peter Monk is in Lachta, up to his oxters in seven acres of grass.”
    There was no sign of life in the chalet. The curtains were still drawn and there was no cup drying on the sink. JJ threw open the bedroom door and shouted in.
    “Owen, you lazy bastard, rise and shine.”
    I could see over JJ’s shoulder. Owen was lying on his side, facing the window, just as I’d left him. I went over to draw the curtains. JJ drew a kick on the bed.
    “Come on, you lazy hoor, get up.”
    When I turned around JJ was down on one knee over Owen. His face was blank and his left hand was poised a foot over Owen’s shoulder. Owen’s face was blue and open-mouthed, a small pool of black drool staining the sheet under his cheek.
    “Owen!” JJ turned him on to his back and shook his shoulders with both hands. “Owen!” He struck him hard across the cheek and Owen’s head spun slowly through ninety degrees. “Owen! Wake up to fuck!”
    I