Four Wheels and a Pillow

By Michael Noctor

Four Wheels and a Pillow is a story written by a homeless man.

The story opens with the main protagonist considering suicide. To quote Roddy Doyle, 'It's a terrific read. There's a great pace and rhythm to the book. It leaves the reader wondering how the narrator got to where he is and where the story is going. It's brilliant.'

It is a very human story. It's about the often fragile nature of relationships, love, family and the harsh living conditions facing so many people in modern day Ireland. It is a story of despair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Noctor
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018

Book preview

FOUR WHEELS

& A PILLOW

BY

MICHAEL NOCTOR

All Rights reserved©2017

Also by Michael Noctor

[e-mail]

My Little Catfish

We've Only Just Begun

Me Arse

The Boy Within

Tapas, Tarts & Trannies

Available at www.lulu.com

This book is dedicated to everyone who is unfortunate to find themselves homeless and to those living in fear of it.

'The more I see, the more I know,

the more I know, the less I understand.'

Paul Weller - The Changingman.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

He had known this moment would come. It had been as inevitable for him as for his father. He hadn't expected this level of peace, contentment. He was bordering on happy. Why am I doing it? he thought.

There were reasons; lots of reasons. He had contemplated each of them until he was tired contemplating. He was tired of a lot of things. He was tired of being tired.

Even now, he was still thinking. That had always been his biggest problem. Non-stop thinking. Non-stop contemplation. He had never mastered the art of fleeting thought. He remembered reading something; a one-liner. One of those positive thinking Memes. Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you react. That should have been how you think. Reacting was another art he had not mastered. He had enough trouble acting. It's a pity thinking is not an Olympic sport, he thought. They could have different categories, just like running, from a one hundred metre dash to a Marathon. He'd have won gold at Marathon thinking.

He didn't have to think for long about his chosen method. Fill himself with Jack and open veins. He had decided on the criss-cross technique. Something else he'd read or maybe someone had told him, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

'Nothing really matters. Anyone can see. No, nothing really matters. Nothing really matters to meeeeeeee.'

He shook his head. 'Why am I fucking singing?' he said aloud.

There were a few remaining thoughts vying for attention. The strongest of them was hardest to ignore. He was trying. He could make one last mental effort not to think, not to contemplate, just about. What if I change my mind? he thought.

He would make such a tidy mess of his veins that changing his mind would not be an option. What if I really change my mind? What if I chicken out? What if I panic? What if I don't want to die? A typically feeble last mental effort, which was to be expected. If he had learned to control his mind he probably would not be committing suicide.

It was time. Jack time. He was going to miss Jack. It was too late to change religion; sign up for the Muslims, give up the drink for the rest of his life (that wouldn't be difficult) and soak eternally in a Jack Daniel's Heaven, or wherever it was Muslims went. There would be lots of Vestal Virgins. He shook his head. He wouldn't have the energy for a Vestal Virgin, never mind a whole pile of them. 'Load of bollox,' he said out loud. He preferred the Irish approach. Drink all the beer and shag all the women, just in case there's none when you get to Heaven. He didn't believe in Heaven. He wasn't so sure about Hell. Why is it easier to believe in Heaven than Hell? he thought. Ghosts and black magic, they were two reasons. He had always been scared shitless of stuff like that. He wouldn't walk down a dark country road on his own, not late at night. He had done it once. A long, long time ago. A time when the idea of suicide never entered his young mind. The first time he had thought about it was when his father had done it.

'I should leave a note,' he said out loud, shaking his head once more. He could feel the sense of peace evaporating like the scented vapour that rose from the ice as he poured his first drink. Hemingway came to mind. Tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea-changing liquid alchemy. He'd always thought brain-numbing a more appropriate description. Ernest Miller Hemingway or Ernesto as the Spanish liked to call him. He had committed suicide. He shot himself in the face with a double-barrel shotgun. No messing about. So had his father, committed suicide. I wonder what gun he used? he thought. Then he remembered. At least he remembered it wasn't a shotgun. Hemingway's mother had given it to Ernest as some sort of keepsake. That was fucking weird. That would have been like him keeping the length of rope his father had used. Hemingway considered his father a coward.

'You were never a coward dad,' he said out loud.

Would dying mean no more chats with his father or would it be quite the opposite? Was his father in some sort of Limbo, in between Heaven and Hell, the place you went to when you took your own life? He knew there was Purgatory. Was that for dead babies or ones who died before they were baptized or was it someplace God sent you while making up his mind as to your final destination? Was there a bloke there with one of those old-fashioned loudspeakers calling out names? 'Kevin Nolan, Hell.'

It was all Codology. It was all Bolloxology. He smiled. 'I'll know soon enough,' he said out loud.

His father had left a note, of sorts. DON'T GO UP THE STAIRS. Who in their right mind is going to follow that instruction? Not his mother. She always said she knew what she'd find. She said she could sense it as soon as she'd opened the hall door. There was a chill. It probably had more to do with the wind blowing through the open attic hatch, down the stairs, through his mother and through the hall door. His mother said it was not that kind of chill.

It was tough on her. It fucked her up. She tried following him, more than once. Not by hanging.

He wondered what the statistics were for male compared to female hangings. It was unusual for a woman to hang herself. Women were more inclined to pop pills or slash wrists. That's where he'd heard about the criss-cross method. He remembered now. He hadn't read about it. Declan had told him. Declan knew lots of stuff like that. Stuff. It hadn't seemed relevant at the time but in hindsight it was a wonderful piece of information. There should be a book. Suicide for Dummies. A lot of our clients opt for the criss-cross method, which provides a much faster bleed-out time. Essential to slice an artery. Are there any questions? That would be a fun class; a class for suicide ... What was the best name for them ... Suicide hopefuls. That didn't seem very appropriate.

A sense of humour was essential. Even now, at the hour of his death, Amen. It might be a good idea to lash out a few Novinas. He wasn't quite sure what a Novina was. It was some word he'd heard. He'd heard it a thousand times but still didn't know its true meaning. Prayers to Our Lady. The Blessed Virgin. Blessed Magician more like. He wouldn't lower himself by praying. That would be cowardly. A last minute turn around. Oh help me Jebus! Like