A Books for Keeps extract from Dancing in the Dark

Dancing in the Dark
P R Prendergast
O'Brien Press Ltd 192pp, 978-1847171856,£6.99, paperback

www.obrien.ie

Nine-thirty, getting towards the end of my homework and James appears. And when I say appears, I mean appears.
‘Hey up, little sis,’ he says.
Cat got my tongue? he wants to know. Or maybe I’m just pretending not to hear him.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘how come I see more of you now than I did when you were alive?’
I ask him is there anyone else and he says anyone else who? Anyone else that you appear to, you moron? That you pester. Maybe that was my mistake, after all – I answered him. The trick would have been to stay shtum, wait for him to hoof off again.
‘That how it works?’ I ask. ‘You just say something to someone and they hear you? What about the old pair?’
‘What about them?’
‘Why not treat them to your sparkling wit?’
‘It would upset them too much,’ he says. ‘They have to get used to living without me.’
‘And I don’t?’
‘You find this upsetting?’ he wants to know.
‘I find it irritating.’
‘Well, if that’s the case I’ll take myself off,’ he says and before I can say, Don’t let me keep you, he’s gone, puff, just vanished into thin air.
I sit and stare at the space he’s just vacated and wonder if that’s the last I’ve seen of him. Wouldn’t that be something!
Only of course it’s not.
Two minutes later and he’s back again.
‘Hey up,’ he says again.
‘Long time no see.’
He makes as if to flick through my book, only his hand passes through it.
‘What’s this? History? Don’t worry about history,’ he says. ‘It all happened years ago.’ He points to a sheet of paper on my desk. ‘What’s this?’
‘We’ve to write a poem.’
‘A poem?’
‘English class. A limerick. Five lines, minimum number of rhymes – two. Want to hear?’
‘Sure,’ he says and then he does this big cough like he’s clearing his throat and he introduces me. ‘Poem, by Jessie Dunn,’ he says.
‘Okay then.’ I pretend to read, but I’m really making it up. And I start. ‘There’s nothing quite as useless as a brother,’ I tell him.
‘That the first line?’
‘You like it?’
‘Not bad.’
‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mother.’
‘Good one,’ he says.
‘Look underneath your seat––’
‘Go on.’
‘You find his smelly size twelve feet––’
‘I like it.’
‘And now I’m rid of him I sure don’t want another.’
He just looks at me with that big dopey grin of his. He looks ridiculous, still in the rugby gear he died in, only with his black school shoes underneath.
‘Do you not have anywhere else to be?’ I ask. ‘I’ve to do my dance practice.’
He tells me that I’m already practising.
‘Sorry?’
‘Sitting. All they ever let you do is sit on the bench so you’re doing fine as you are.’
‘Well, maybe if I practise some more they might let me dance,’ I tell him.

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