The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett
by
Gerald M. O'Connor
Genre:
Coming Of Age
All
families have secrets. Most go untold…
In the summer of
‘96, Benjamin Hackett has come of age, technically. And in the
midst of the celebratory hangover, his world is whipped out from
under his feet. His parents have finally shared their lifelong secret
with him; he’s adopted.
At the age of 18, the boy still has
some growing up to do, and with the help of JJ, his loquacious
consigliore and bodyguard, he embarks on an adventure that’ll put
to bed a lifetime of lies.
Over the course of five days, they
find themselves caught up in the darker side of Cork. But when they
sweep through the misfits blocking their way and finally discover the
truth of it…now that’s the greatest shock of all.
The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett
is a tender tale of heartache and displacement told through a wry and
courageous voice. Set in Ireland, it’s a timely reminder that the
world hasn’t moved on just as fast as we fancy. Now, in this
emotionally charged story, Gerald M. O’Connor explores conditioned
guilt and its consequences in a country still hiding from the sins of
its past.
O’Connor’s
book draws on a time when the Catholic Church in Ireland would
quietly take children from mothers in convents and Magdalene
Laundries and deposit them into new homes, making it nearly
impossible for these kids to find their real parents. Attempts by
children to find their birth parents were often blocked by a dark web
of secrecy and bureaucracy that, in many ways, still continues to
haunt the country today.
Brimming
with unfathomable escapades, a motley crew of characters and a
healthy serving of Irish humor, O’Connor’s book is steeped in
Irish culture told in the inimitable Corkman’s brogue. Set in a
time before the chaos of modern digital culture, The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett
takes a step back, allowing space for readers to escape and think
about the realities of growing up in a family founded on a lie. In
his stylish debut, O’Connor shows an amazing ability to paint
heartbreak and longing that will keep readers thinking about The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett
long after they finish the story.
Advance
Praise For
The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett
“‘The
Origins of Benjamin Hackett’ by Gerald O'Connor is a raucous and
riotous coming-of-age story that is brutal, tender and hilarious.”
–
Paul
D. Brazill, author of A Case of Noir and Guns of Brixton
“O’Connor
doles out killer dialogue that adds oodles of character to this
hero’s journey. Told with the lilt and panache of Joseph O’Connor
and Dermot Bolger in their novels of the ‘90s, Gerald O’Connor is
the new and improved voice we've been waiting for.”
–
Gerard
Brennan, author of Undercover and Wee Rockets
“Visceral
writing that inherits a long Irish tradition. O’Connor’s
narrative contains sharp characterization, and has an assured voice,
while dramatizing conditioned guilt with humor and style.”–
Richard Godwin, author of Apostle Rising, Mr. Glamour, One Lost
Summer and others
“If
you’re expecting the usual coming-of-age tale, you’re in for a
big shock. This is a tale big on heart and one which the author,
Gerald O’Connor, has hied religiously to the advice of Harry Crews
for writers, to ‘leave out the parts readers skip.’ None of those
parts remain in these pages. An auspicious debut!”–
Les Edgerton, author of The Death of Tarpons, The Bitch, The Genuine,
Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping, Bomb and others
Here
is a preview of The Origins of Benjamin Hackett by
Gerald M. O’Connor…Chapter 3…
It
was the sound of hushed murmuring that coaxed me awake. For a moment I assumed
I was dead, that my awareness was my soul floating about in the ether of the afterlife,
awaiting either a fall to hell, or a lift up to heaven. I felt cheated by the
possibility of it all. Just as I was about to pull the curtain back to reveal
my parents’ true identities and punch them square in the nose, Himself had
decided it was best to smite me. And in the grounds of a convent, no less. I
had to give it to Him; He was a fair old operator.
I
listened for a moment with my eyes still closed for fear of what I’d see if I
opened them. The voices became clearer. The accent was local through-and-through,
and the panic died down inside me. Not dead yet. Despite what the inhabitants
of the place thought, I doubted angels came solely from Cork.
Something
cool wetted my lips. A glass prised them open, and fluid slipped into my mouth.
Water. It’d never tasted so sweet. I swished it around for a moment and
swallowed in minute amounts. I winced from the pain in my throat and the
banging in my head, and I retched. Despite the discomfort, I sipped some more.
With every drop of the stuff, the life force flooded back into me.
The
image of JJ lying lifeless on the dirt with blood pooling about him stole into
my mind. I saw the face of Val glaring at me as I told her the how and the why
her only son had been killed. My gut twisted in on itself, and a wave of nausea
rose up from the pit of my stomach. She rarely believed any of my high tales,
and I doubted she’d see anything but blame in my story. In that second, I
thought of my parents and wished that the whole blasted reality could be
rewound and forgotten.
An
impossibly gentle touch grasped my hand, and someone whispered in my ear.
“You’re safe now.”
Safe?
In another moment I’d have laughed at the lunacy of the word. I pulled away
from the grip and opened my eyes. Bright lights seared into them, blinding me
for a second. The throbbing in my skull pulsed even faster. Shadowy figures
moved above me, their faces hovering overhead still dark and featureless.
Nurses
or doctors or both, I thought. I must be in the hospital.
I
blinked and waited for my sight to adjust. Slowly, the wooliness in my head
eased, and the faces came into focus. Nuns—fully habited and all—stood two deep
at my bed.
“JJ…”
My voice croaked. I slid off the bed feet first and tried to push my way
through them. I glanced around the room, searching him out, but there wasn’t a
hint of him anywhere, only a cross on one wall and the usual picture of Himself
on the other, with His arms outstretched and His Sacred Heart bursting from His
chest.
Hands
pulled me back and pinned me down. “Is that the man who was shot?” one of them
asked, tucking me back under the covers.
“Yes,
he’s my friend. Where is he? What have you done with him? And why are we not in
a hospital?”
“Oh,
he’s in the kitchen.”
“You’re
keeping him in the kitchen?”
“And,
of course, being Sunday night in Cork,” the nun said, going on, “the ambulances
were busy.”
“Busy?”
“So
they said.”
“But…he
was shot.”
“So
we said.”
I
lay back down aghast. I couldn’t believe it. We’d been mugged, JJ gunned down,
and the best this poor excuse of a county could do was leave us festering with
some nuns who’d only a few parables and fairy tales at their disposal.
“But,”
I said, “what if—”
“Now,
now,” an older nun said. “If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts we’d all have
a merry Christmas. They can’t just magic up a vehicle on a whim, now can they?
They’ll get here when they can, along with the Gardaí. You need to rest until
they do. You took a nasty blow to the neck with your brawling.”
“I
bet it hurts a lot,” another said, jostling through the rest for a front-row
look at me. “Would you like something for the pain? I’m afraid all we stock is
Paracetamol.”
I
looked at the gaggle of women with their crosses, simpering smiles and genteel
faces, and a wave of frustration exploded inside me. “Can someone…please tell
me…where my buddy JJ is?”
“We
told you; he’s in the kitchen. He’s been in there for a while now. Making a bit
of a mess mind you, but the whole incident seems to have given him a fair
appetite.”
“JJ’s
alive? But he was shot in the face. I saw him lying dead with my very eyes.”
“The
bullet only grazed his cheek, it was the fall that knocked him unconscious. He
was up and about within minutes of us bringing ye two in here. Wouldn’t leave
the room. Kept pacing around telling us what to do. So we sent him off for some
food to distract him.”
JJ
was alive? The pain in my head didn’t matter anymore. I leaped up and ran out
of the room. The convent was a maze of corridors and stairs with nothing to
clue me into which way was right. Up and down the length of it were only plain
oak doors and whitewashed windows. The only furniture was a bench jammed into
one corner, placed there, I assumed, to give the nuns somewhere to kneel if the
lust for prayer overwhelmed them.
They
youngest appeared at the door. “Hush now,” she said, glancing up and down. “Mother
Superior gave strict instructions you were to stay in the room until the Gardaí
came along.”
“But
I need to see JJ.”
The
rest of the nuns shuffled out of the room and crowded together. A chorus of
whispers emanated from them. Every now and then, there was some tutting and a
nod in my direction.
“All
right, come along,” one said. “We’ll bring you there for a second. But you have
to come straight back.”
“Will
do.”
We
marched for an age, past toilets and lecture halls, classrooms and bedrooms,
hanging lefts and rights and up and down stairs. If it weren’t for their
guidance, I’d have been lost for days. It was a veritable labyrinth.
“Who
designed this place?” I asked. “The Mad Hatter?”
“Close
enough,” one said. “The British.”
That
seemed to tickle their funny bone because they all giggled together and
congratulated the comedian for her wit. As we passed under an archway and into
the kitchen, I had to admit, I was beginning to warm to them.
I
stopped when I saw JJ. He sat wedged in between two nuns at the table, with a
lump of bread in one hand and slices of ham clutched in the other.
“Ah,
Ben,” he said, when he spied me. “Me old wing man. Back from the land of nod I
see.”
I
walked around him and stared in disbelief. “You’re looking fit for a corpse.” I
went to lift the bandage wrapped around his head, but he batted me away. “I
know we were wondering how to get in here, but feigning your own death…now that
was a stretch too far.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than a chill cut
through the air.
The
nuns fell silent. They lowered their gazes to the floor and scattered away into
the shadows. I turned to find a grey figure looming in the doorway. The wind
swirled around her, ruffling the folds in her veil. Rain pelted her back in
plump missiles, but she just stood still on the threshold gazing straight at
me.
“‘Get
in here,’ you said…to what end, pray tell?” she asked.
For
a moment, I simply watched her. There was something familiar in her dour face
and hawkish eyes. Dread fussed my insides, and I lowered my gaze. It was the
same sensation I’d suffered as a child when I saw monsters in the shadowy
recesses of the night. Only one thought took root as I fumbled with my
birthmark—she was the key to unravelling my secret.
I
stepped confidently forward and clasped my hands behind my back. “Mother
Superior, I presume. We need your assistance in a sensitive matter.”
The
words hung in the space between us. Seconds ticked by, but the only sound came
from the chatter of rain on stone and the rumble of distant thunder. She
remained immobile, mute. Not a flinch of a finger or flutter of lashes. If it
weren’t for the slow rise of her chest, I’d have had her measured up for a
casket. But her eyes were alive all right. She trained them on mine like a
seasoned hunter staring down a scope. Finally, she stepped into the kitchen and
unhooked her cape, dangling it out at arm’s length until a nun whooshed in to
take it.
“Do
not hang it from its tag like a rag on the line, child.” She held it out of her
reach for a moment, before dropping it onto the eager nun’s outstretched hands.
“Place it on a hanger in the armoire this time.”
“Yes,
Mother Superior,” the nun said, and she scooted out of the room.
I
had to admit, she ran a tight operation. The nuns obeyed her every whim like
they were galley slaves afraid of the whip. Good honest-to-God Catholic fear it
was. And she wielded it with ease.
“There
are processes, Benjamin,” she said, running her hands over her sleeves. “Rules,
if you like, for approaching this convent and requesting our assistance in such
delicate matters.”
The
mention of my name threw me for a second. I touched my face again. It must have
been the birthmark. Judging by the wizened face on her, she’d probably been
persecuting the diocese for decades.
“How
do you know my name?” I asked.
The
hint of a smirk tugged at her lips. “Let’s not frazzle your little brain with
such mysteries.” She glanced at the clock. “By my reckoning you have about ten
minutes before the Gardaí arrive to collect you both. So, let us make the most
of your impromptu visit and continue this chat in my office. We can assume, at
least, a degree of formality and decorum, both of which are sadly lacking right
now. So please tag along, and make sure you walk in silence behind me.”
“Both
of us?” I asked, nodding at JJ.
“Yes,
both of ye. I do not want any more distractions for the sisters tonight. Come
along.”
We
fell in step behind her, watching her move in her weird little way. There was
no patter or shuffle of feet, no bounce in her step nor swish of her hips. She
just glided across the polished marble like a spectre on tracks. And all the
while we followed in her wake, around countless corners and up and down stairs,
we didn’t share a word or a glance between us. I’d been in funeral corteges
with more spunk in them.
The
further we travelled the more I became aware of the lack of life in the
convent. There wasn’t a potted flower or vase on a sill. The only items
decorating the walls were biblical scenes, and the obligatory Padre Pio
portrait with his hands bandaged and that “why-me?” look of anguish etched on
his face. But it didn’t surprise me really, given the sanitised manner to her.
I imagined anything resembling colour and fun would have been immediately
choked on the stalk on first sight.
We
kept travelling up into the eaves of the building. The black, trussed ceilings
hung lower with each step, giving the gloom of the hallway a claustrophobic
quality to it. We stopped outside a set of doors housed in granite. Their
panels were vertical strips of oak, gnarled and blackened at the edges. She
pulled out a set of keys from underneath her habit and opened the right one up.
For
a moment, I expected a colony of bats to scream out overhead, but the only
noise that greeted us was the needle of an old gramophone clicking back and
forth, trying to find its groove. She stood aside and gestured us in. JJ
stepped in first and walked straight towards the sound. He lifted the needle
gently and placed it back on its hook.
“An
original HMV model,” he said, nodding solemnly, as if he gave two flutes about
it.
She
paused and studied him for a moment. “Well, how clever your clogs must seem. I
wish you could have put that brain of yours to work earlier and not made such a
pig’s mess in the kitchen. Sit down please, before your paws smear the shellac.
After surviving two world wars and the equivalent of four of your lifetimes, I
would hate to have it ruined by an over-eager know-it-all.”
Any
enthusiasm JJ had dissipated in an instant. He shuffled from foot to foot unsure
of what to do, as if her disdain had rendered him demented. He’d played the
same old card with my folks on many an occasion. He’d gush over an heirloom
from some long-forgotten life of theirs, peddling his usual tripe about the
quality of all things old, and they’d bask in the moment, nodding away and
wondering why I wasn’t as well-reared as him.
We
took our seats on the stools opposite her desk. Even in that short time, I
sensed a tactic at play. There was a gulf between the two sets of furniture. Where
we sat on cheap pine stools, she’d one of those buttonholed chairs with the
wings wrapping up around her head that’d lull you to sleep with one hug of its
leather. Where we had the obligatory reed cross to gawk at, she’d the whole
sweep of the courtyard and waters and twinkling city lights to view. Like any
decent fighter she’d the height advantage all right, and judging by the cane
lying on her desk she’d probably the reach to boot. It was an effective ploy,
but I had her number.
“It
was Father Malachi Brogan who informed you, wasn’t it?” I asked, jumping
straight in.
She
smiled a cautious smile and placed her palms down on the desk. “Well, well,
Benjamin. I must say you are full of wondrous reveals today. Such blinding
insight. Truly wonderful. Yes, it was our esteemed Father Brogan who had the
wherewithal to let me know you may be rushing up here to seek out your parents.
But, if truth be told, we had hoped you may have had the good grace to educate
yourself on the appropriate policies here, and made an appointment during
normal working hours.”
“Well,
we had kind of—”
“What
age are you now? Eighteen, nineteen?” she asked.
Her
voice was mocking. It practically dripped from her tongue with each word that
spilled from her mouth. I squirmed on the stool. My hand grazed its edges,
catching a splinter. The sharp pain edged me to anger. I’d come here with good
reason. She was the one in the wrong. She was part of the troupe of liars that
had redesigned my life, wrapped me up in swaddling and handed me to strangers.
“Given
how clued in you are already,” I said. “I’m fairly certain you know I’m
eighteen.”
She
slammed her palms on the desk and bolted out of the chair. “I’ll let you know
what I know, if I feel you have a need to know it.” She grabbed the cane and
paced back and forth behind us, smacking it into her hand.
My
heart didn’t jump, it fairly seized in my chest. Jesus, she didn’t just have a
short fuse, she’d none at all. I slouched down on the stool and waited for a
caning. My jaw hung slack from the shock of it. Mental, that’s what she was.
“Can
I just apologise on behalf of my friend,” JJ said. “He’s a bit stressed out at
the moment and hasn’t really been himself. We know you’re a very busy lady
and—”
“Enough.
No more vacuous platitudes.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“Now,
as I was saying, I will hazard a guess that you would have celebrated this
illustrious passing into manhood by having the news of your adoption revealed
to you…Yes?”
“That’s
right.” I said.
“And
in a flurry of righteous indignation, you took it upon yourself to flee from
your duplicitous parents with immediate effect, setting off to uncover the
truth as soon as was convenient for you. Yes?”
“Em,
yes, more or less.”
“And
through no fault of your own, you managed to get your friend here shot, assaulted
and robbed, and scare the wits out of our sisters, whilst your adopted parents
are left spitting in the wind until you decide to come back, or not, depending
on how wonderful your meeting with your real parents may pan out. Is that about
right?”
“Well,
not really.”
“Oh,
come along now, Benjamin.” She stopped pacing and whispered into my ear. “I
must say I do not blame you really, knowing what I do of your ignominious
beginnings. But let us just say, the apple really does not fall far from the
tree.”
“Now
that’s a bit harsh,” JJ said suddenly. “We were—”
“Was
anyone addressing you?”
“No,
ma’am.”
“Then
be quiet.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“Now,
before we go any further.” She returned to her seat, laid the cane to one side
and closed her eyes. Then she breathed out in one long, continuous breath and
opened them once more. The flush drained from her cheeks, and her lips twitched
into a plastic smile like some second-rate actor on cue. “Would you like to
know the real protocol for acquiring the information I have in the room next
door?”
“I
thought we could ask you,” I said. “And you’d kind of tell us where my parents
live?”
She
laughed. Or at least, I assumed she laughed; it was more of a piggish snort, as
if an alien had possessed her and was still getting to grips with the
machinery. “Not quite. First you need to take your identification, driving
licence or passport, and your birth certificate to the local authorities.”
“But
they’re in my wallet, which was robbed by—”
“They
will then process the application through the correct channels and contact us.
Well…me. I shall ensure the paperwork is bona fide, cross-referencing it with
our own records here. On completion of this process I shall draft a response to
the local authorities, who in turn will draft a response to you outlining what
information we have and what information you are allowed to have.”
The
more she prattled on, the more I realised that she was taking too much pleasure
in it. She’d wrap my application in mountains of bureaucracy.
“And
how long will that whole process take?” I asked.
“Oh,
we really are getting better at the whole merry-go-round. But I am sure you
appreciate the sheer number of enquiries we get here from places as far remote
as the West Indies makes it impossible for us to return any request for
information quickly.”
“How
long?”
“Our
quickest time yet? Six months.”
“Six
months?” I couldn’t believe it. I jumped up and swore.
My
reaction didn’t faze her one jot. She sat back, placed her head on the leather
headrest and drummed her fingers on the arms of the chair. “And that doesn’t
take into account the possibility of a no-contact request being made.”
“So
you’re telling me,” I said, my face hot from the fury of it all. “After all
this time and effort, I might not have any chance of finding my real mother and
father anyway?”
Before
she could answer, someone knocked twice at the door. She rose and walked over
to it, pausing for a moment. “Possibly not, but that is the wondrous nature of
life—you may be participating in the game of life, my dear Benjamin, but others
are rolling your dice.”
She
yanked it open, and two guards stomped into the room. I recoiled when I spotted
them. They’d the look of men lured down from the mountains by the scent of
meat. I’d seen plenty of these types before; loved the city beat they did, what
with the violence and buzz of kicking fifty shades out of some young fellas for
simply messing about. They probably did it for fun until they’d discovered the
Gardaí would pay them for it.
They
stood for a second and surveyed the room. They were dressed in the usual Gardaí
outfits—high-visibility rain jackets tied up to their chins, utility belts, and
caps perched on top of buzz-cut heads. No stab vests for these boys, I
reckoned, far too hard.
They
were a rare breed of gentlemen, all right. And judging by the way they made a
beeline for JJ and myself, I’d a notion that they weren’t here to see whether
we needed any medical intervention. The first one grabbed me by the wrist and
swung me around. He forced my elbow up to my neck, rushed me to the wall and slammed
me into it.
“What
the hell is wrong with you?” I asked. “We were the ones mugged and nearly
killed.”
“Quiet,
now, smart boy.” He slipped his boot between my feet, parted my legs and
frisked me. He rummaged up and down my sides, along the length of my arms,
patting away, desperate to find something.
“You’ll
find nothing on me. We were the ones robbed at gunpoint. We’re the victims
here.”
He
slapped the back of my head. “I said shut up, smart boy.”
I
squirmed when his hands ran up the insides of my legs and under my belt. I
turned for a second as Mother Superior stood by my side with a savage little
smirk on her face.
“Unsolicited
visitation,” she said in a tone haughtier than ever, “after the official hours
of business will be treated as trespassing. And trespassers will be prosecuted.
Plus, as I mentioned to our two Garda friends here, when our sisters heard the
gunshots we feared for our lives, and although it’s not a crime to scare, it
surely is against the guiding principles of Christianity to torture the wits
out of us poor servants of God. And to that there must be an answer. Am I
correct in my assumptions, Garda?”
He
finished frisking me, slapped on some handcuffs and yanked me back from the
wall. “That you are, Sister. Whatever these two latchicos were up to, we’ll get
to the bottom of it. Rest assured.” He spun me around. “Now the good news,
smart boy.” He shouted towards JJ, who had the other Garda’s knee on his head.
“And this is for the benefit of both of you. I am arresting you on suspicion of
trespassing with intent under section eleven of the Public Order Act of
nineteen-ninety-four. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say, or
do, will be taken down and may be used as evidence.”
He
marched me to the door, stopping at the threshold for a moment. “Rest assured,
Mother Superior,” he said. “These two won’t be bothering anyone, anytime soon.”
Copyright
© 2017 by Gerald M. O’Connor.
Reprinted
with permission of Down & Out Books.
GERALD
M. O’CONNOR is a native Corkonian, currently living in Dublin with
his long-term partner, Rosemarie, along with their three children. He
writes character-driven novels of various genres by night and is a
dentist by day. When he isn’t glued to the keyboard, he enjoys
sci-fi films, spending time with his family and being anywhere in
sight of the sea. He is currently working on his second novel, The
Tanist.
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