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Come the Morning Stars by Conor O’Sullivan

28/3/2021

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They began in Neary’s. Christmas was two days away, and Dublin was brimming with shoppers marching along the damp streets. John Kelly climbed the tartan- carpeted staircase and removed his black wool overcoat after entering the lounge. ‘A coffee, please,’ he said to the barman who held a pint glass in his callused palm.
‘Are you sparing yourself?’
‘At least for another twenty minutes,’ he replied and glanced at a wood-encased wall clock.
‘One of the waiters will bring it over.’
John sat at a corner table overlooking Chatham Street through the long bay window and scratched the crown of his short, dark hair. It was a dim twilight with clear gaps in the grey sky. He wrapped his trembling fingers around the white mug waiting for the filter coffee to cool down. He stared at the door during unanswered phone calls to Matthew Cronin who had kept him waiting for their entire friendship.
*
They first met at University College Dublin and were paired together in a history module to present on the foreign policy of King Charles I. Matthew had skipped the tutorial but rescued John from the private school scene and took him to drama society parties in terraced houses along the Grand Canal.
‘I live in John’s shadow,’ Matthew would say to pairs of country girls and
sometimes let him kiss the prettier one.
They both moved to New York after earning respectable degrees and shared a walk- up apartment on an East Eighth Street brownstone. The bedrooms had thin plaster wall with icicles dangling from the rusting fire escape in winter. Matthew was accepted to Columbia University’s Master of Fine Arts acting program, and John’s uncle secured him a job at Bank of Ireland’s Manhattan office. They conquered downtown over four years with their accents and jaunty demeanors.
Matthew would approach the girls, then lean in over their earlobes when repeating their names. John sometimes went home with the prettier one. Regulars from their local bar, Scratcher’s, came back to the apartment for drinks and stayed until the dawn’s blue hue filtered into their narrow living room.
‘What was your girl’s name?’ he asked in the Kitchen Sink diner on Fifth Street
with filter coffee churning his stomach.
‘Lauren, I think,’ Matthew answered, covering his bacon with Tabasco sauce. ‘Let’s try Brooklyn tonight.’
‘You’re more relentless than this city.’
Matthew started picking up roles, and John attended the closing night parties where he was set up with understudies who forgave the fact that he was a banker. The soupy evenings bled into pleasant autumn nights, and they lived in anticipation of the next party.
John’s boss told him on a Friday afternoon in May that he was being moved to the London office. Traffic crawled through the early evening sunshine, and he stopped at Third Avenue bars on the way home to numb his deflated soul. They drank in Scratcher’s all day on the cusp of summer for his final Saturday in Manhattan and watched the sunrise ascend the tall buildings from their rooftop.
‘It will never be the same, Matt,’ he said and tossed his cigarette butt. ‘Even princes grow up.’
John met Samantha at  a  party  in  Hoxton  three  months  after  arriving  in  London and swilled white wine to pluck up his courage. Her freckled shoulders were bare in      a sleeveless red dress, and her brown eyes shined waiting for the words to spill out      of his dry mouth.

‘Are you an actress?’ he asked.
‘That’s a weak line considering you’ve been staring at me all night,’ she said and   gave John her number when she was leaving. She kissed him  in Highbury Fields       on their first date, raising her pale heels to meet his lips, and they smiled between pecks with a cool breeze rustling the oak trees’ leaves.
‘You’re actually rather gentle,’ she whispered and stroked the nape of his neck with her index finger. John moved into her townhouse nine months later and reverted to his old gang of friends who had formed paunches and drank themselves into a stupor at weekends.
*
Matthew’s tight pink lips were fixed in a smile when he emerged through the crowd in Neary’s packed lounge and waved John over to the bar. His wavy golden locks had grown past his shoulders since their last meeting, framing his chiseled face, and his blue eyes penetrated John as he stepped across the room.
‘London Town’s finest as I live and breathe,’ Matthew said and opened his arms. John patted the back of his navy duffle coat, wishing they shook hands like men. ‘Are you this late for rehearsals?’ he asked once they were seated at the table with two pints of stout. ‘You know punctuality becomes an issue when you turn thirty.’ ‘Sorry, I ran into an old flame last night in Portobello.’
‘Actors are so predictable,’ he said. ‘I like the hair.’
‘Thanks, it’s for a role,’ he said and pushed his fringe behind his ears. ‘How’s Samantha?’
‘Grand, she was sorry to miss you.’
‘I’ll be over to London in April anyway,’ he said.
‘Yes, I read the feature,’ he said. ‘Matthew Cronin – a Broadway phenomenon on
the West End.’
‘You’re too kind,’ he said. ‘Drink that pint down and I’ll buy you a whiskey.’ John’s hangover eased after two pints. They smoked outside and turned up their collars standing under the hanging lights.
‘Do you miss New York then?’  Matthew  asked  after  he  handed  him  a  double. ‘Of course,’ he answered and sipped his whiskey. ‘London has turned me into a complete bore.’
‘You’re missed in the old haunts.’
‘Well, all good things...,’ he said, ‘…let’s go to Mulligan’s after these.’
The whiskey swirled in John’s chest. Moonbeams caught the frosted treetops and steam rose from the carriage horses’ coats, their muscles shivering under the white leather reins. They went to McDonald’s and ordered Big Macs. John shook his head at Matthew when a group of men at the next table broke into school chants. ‘Cretins,’ he said. ‘Did you get any chicken nuggets?’
‘Help yourself,’ Matthew said. They ate in silence; a gloss of curry sauce formed on
their lips.
‘I have some news,’ Matthew said. He poured whiskey from his hip flask into their
foam cups. ‘This producer I was seeing in New York is pregnant.’ ‘What?’
‘Keep that news to yourself,’ he said and sucked on the straw with his pursed lips.
An illuminated Dart crossed the river as harsh gusts swept along Burgh Quay. Mulligan’s mahogany cavern was packed with men sweating in their overcoats, who spilled their drinks trying to advance on a group of girls sitting in the corner. John waited at the bar either side of a thickset, balding man removing snuff from his tweed jacket.
‘I ordered two rounds,’ John said after he was served and handed Matthew a pint of
stout.
‘Good plan,’ he replied, then swallowed his entire drink in a single gulp. The
creamy head flowed down his cheeks and seeped into his stubble when they went

outside to spark cigarettes.
‘Hello, Matt,’ said a tall, rakish man in a quilted denim jacket with fair hair and
hollow cheeks.
‘Des Kiely as I live and breathe,’ Matthew said.  ‘Are you still living in London?’  ‘The paper actually moved me to the New York bureau, so we must meet for dinner some evening once I’m settled.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Have you two met by the way?’ ‘Not that I recall,’ he said with his left hand extended.
‘We’ve met a few times,’ John said, a dwindling cigarette falling off his bottom lip. ‘I struggle to remember all of Matthew’s friends,’ he responded. ‘Listen, there are people waiting for me inside but I’ll give you a call,’ he said and vanished into the crowd.
‘That lad was always very satisfied with himself,’ John said.
‘If you say so,’ he said. ‘It’s more important to be held in high esteem.’
‘Piss off,’ he said and took a pace towards him. ‘You know nothing about being normal.’
‘Drop the sad act,’ Matthew said, drips of saliva escaping his mouth. They bit on
their filters while staring at the ground.
‘Let’s go inside.’
They drank neat whiskeys at the bar. Matthew beckoned to the barman at last orders, and they staggered outside at two o’clock. Matthew dragged him eastwards on a blustery City Quay to finish his flask. Ridges of black water splashed against the concrete slabs. They leaned on the railing to share a cigarette with stars glinting through the veiled clouds.
‘Is she keeping it?’
‘No idea,’ Matthew answered. ‘You’ll be fine either way.’
‘That depends on work,’ he said. ‘What have you planned for the next few days?’ ‘I’m meeting the school lads on Christmas Eve,’ John replied. ‘My friends insist on clinging to the past.’
‘Is that what tonight was?’ ‘It will be.’
They left it at that, hugged, and were driven home to their childhood bedrooms on quiet roads that flickered through the night.
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    Issue 6 & 7

    November 2020
    December 2020



    The Stories & Poems

    All
    ​After The Lockdown By Sabdapalan
    A Helping Hand By Christina Westwood
    A Little Hard Work By Carrie Hynds
    ​All Hallows Eve By Jane Bidder
    A Party? By Felicity Edwards
    A Red Breakfast By Graham Crisp
    Autumnal Muse By Yasmin Nabavi
    ​Autumn Equinox By Hilary Taylor
    Bartlett
    Beached By Maisie Bishop
    Bloodrite By Dean Hodsfry
    Bob & Phyllis By Liz Breen
    ​Broken By Allison Xu
    ​Cherie By Paul Warnes
    Christmas Cheers By Elaine Peters
    Cloak Of The Wizard © Steve Lodge
    Come The Morning Stars By Conor O’Sullivan
    ​Cursed By The Sun By Hope Nguyen
    Delight In Every Bite By Nathalie Roos
    DIY By Andrew Ball
    ​Double Trouble By Vivienne Moles
    ​Dusk Hound By Sylvie Edwards
    Eve By Hilary Davies
    Evergreen By Samantha Priestley
    Exuding Chirpiness By Jonathan Hunter
    Faces Of Home By Michelle Weaver
    First Impressions By Jeff Jones
    First Kiss By Andrew Ball
    Footsteps By Savanna Naylor
    Forever Gone By Hilary Taylor
    Gargoyles By Stephen Isle
    Glass By John Morris
    Hologram Futures By Alyson Hilbourne
    Home Remedies By Eva Bell
    ​How I Lost My Lover By Liz O’Shea
    I Don’t Like Cheats By Patsy Collins
    I'll See You When I Get There By Thomas Morgan
    Imaginary Friends By Andrew Ball
    Interconnected By Ena Catlin
    Isodel By Darren Smith
    Kings And Pawns By Dutch Simmons
    ​Letting Go By Carrie Hynds
    Log Me In By Paul Warnes
    Mask Dilemma By Elaine Peters
    Mavis’s Cosy Christmas Cottage By Jonathan Hunter
    ​Misty Mountain Feliz Piez
    Mixed Signals Or Moonbeams By Steve Lodge
    Monster Under The Bed By Patricia Green
    Mrs Stepney's Stepdaughter By Betty Hasler
    Murderous Intent By Jeff Jones
    Nifty-Fifty
    Number 69 By Eve Naden
    One Each By Andrew Ball
    One More Week By Liz Breen
    On The Meeting Of Two Minds By Ronald T Hardwick
    Pas De Deux Redux By Adele Evershed
    ​Peace In Our Time By Eve Naden
    Phil In Real Life By Sam Szanto
    ​Quantum Entanglement By Ingrid Wilson
    Roisin's Party By James Ellson
    ​Rounded Over By M H Pitcher
    Shielding By Graham Crisp
    Something Fishy Going On By Adele Evershed
    Sorry By Elaine Peters
    The Apology By Graham Crisp
    The Avenging Ghost By Eva Bell
    The Best Jest By Shelley Crowley
    The Big Issue By Steve Goodlad
    The Day With The Birds By Liz Breen
    The Dog And The Old Sailor By Ronald Hardwick
    ​The Eye Of The Shrike By Crescentia Morais
    The Full Moon By Dipayan Chakrabarti
    ​The Greater Handful By Stephen Goodlad
    The Grief Eater By Christina MacKinnon
    The Healing Stone By Katie Winkler
    The Hourglass By Madelaine Taylor
    The Last Time By Pat Mudge
    The Making By Madelaine Taylor
    The Mourner By Hilary Taylor
    The Perfect Date By Hilary Taylor
    The Phone Call By Elaine Peters
    The Plan By Hilary Taylor
    The Post-Lockdown Holiday By David A Jones
    The Queen Of The Forest By Renee Gerald
    The Ransom Note By Steve Goodlad
    The Secret To Staying Young By Saul Greenblatt
    The Tap By Beverley Byrne
    The Thing By Taqwa
    The Visit By Graham Crisp
    ​The Wanderer By BC Nwata
    The Wedding Dress By Elizabeth O’Shea
    The Winter Tree By The Somnambulist Society
    Volume Control By Grace Tierney
    ​Washing Up RJ Gardham
    Watching By Natasha Weber
    What's In A Name? By Ian Inglis
    Where Do We Go When We Die? By Matt Allen
    Wilhelmina Turns Eighty By Anita G. Gorman


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Secret Attic - Founded March 2020