- Home
- Anna Burns
Little Constructions
Little Constructions Read online
Praise from the UK and Ireland for Little Constructions
“[A] brilliant second novel…. I can’t remember the last time I read prose so profound and so punchy, at once scattergun and forensic. It’s like the ink’s been made from gunpowder. And every line leaves a darkly sparkling residue that you won’t be able to wash off.”
—The Daily Telegraph
“[Anna Burns] dares to say anything. The writing is energetic, convoluted and courageous. It has a gutsy nervousness that matches the subject matter, as if there is no way to write about violence and violation other than with comedy, digression, wordplay and other peculiarities…. Every word matters and the oddities are a joy.”
—The Guardian
“An exceptionally bold, violent and blackly comic tale…. If you give yourself up to Burns’s delirious imagination, you’ll find much salient wisdom, as well as dark humour.”
—Financial Times
“[A] powerful second novel…. Displaying the same dark bite and startling humour as her first, Little Constructions explodes into tangents from the opening scene.”
—Irish Mail on Sunday
“At the centre of Anna Burns’s novel lies the Doe clan, a closely knit family of criminals and victims whose internal conflicts and convoluted relationships propel this simultaneously funny and terrifying story. Bound by love and loyalty, fear and secrets, the Does make up an unforgettable cast. When unspeakable realities break through, the tale is chilling—and funny.”
—Belfast Telegraph
“Convincingly comic…. This is probably the antithesis of the classic holiday novel, which is no bad thing in itself…. Bold, funny and unrelenting.”
—The Sunday Business Post
Praise for Milkman
“Milkman vibrates with the anxieties of our own era, from terrorism to sexual harassment to the blinding divisions that make reconciliation feel impossible…. It’s as though the intense pressure of this place has compressed the elements of comedy and horror to produce some new alloy.”
—The Washington Post
“Few works of fiction see as clearly as this one how violence deforms social networks, enhancing people’s worst instincts…. This book is also bursting with energy, with tiny apertures of kindness, and a youthful kind of joy…. Milkman is a triumph of resistance.”
—The Boston Globe
“Among Burns’s singular strengths as a writer is her ability to address the topics of trauma and tyranny with a playfulness that somehow never diminishes the sense of her absolute seriousness…. For all the darkness of the world it illuminates, Milkman is as strange and variegated and brilliant as a northern sunset.”
—Slate
“[Burns’s] style powerfully evokes the narrator’s sense of emotional entrapment…. Milkman makes a passionate claim for freethinking in a place where monochromatic, us-versus-them ideology prevails.”
—USA Today
“Brutally intelligent…. At its core, Milkman is a wildly good and true novel of how living in fear limits people.”
—NPR.org
“Seething with black humor and adolescent anger at the adult world and its brutal absurdities…. For a novel about life under multifarious forms of totalitarian control—political, gendered, sectarian, communal—Milkman can be charmingly wry.”
—The New Yorker
“Milkman is an explosive novel, very much of history but not limited by the names, dates, and places of the official record. It’s a more intimate work than that, and an outstanding contribution to the growing canon of nameless girl heroes.”
—The New Republic
Little Constructions
Also by Anna Burns
Milkman
No Bones
Mostly Hero
Little Constructions
A Novel
ANNA BURNS
Graywolf Press
Copyright © 2007 by Anna Burns
The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2007
Permission to quote from The Chambers Dictionary gratefully acknowledged. The Chambers Dictionary (1993) © Chambers Harrap Publishers Ltd.
This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. Significant support has also been provided by Target, the McKnight Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by Graywolf Press
250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401
All rights reserved.
www.graywolfpress.org
Published in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-64445-013-0
Ebook ISBN 978-1-64445-112-0
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1
First Graywolf Paperback, 2020
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933472
Cover design: Kapo Ng
For Magdalen, in friendship
Chapter One
There are no differences between men and women. No differences. Except one. Men want to know what sort of gun it is. Women just want the gun. The door of the gunshop went ding! on Friday as Jetty Doe burst through it on a mission. This was annoyed Jetty Doe, the one who had knifed her mammy once, and not her less-annoyed cousin called Jotty, who hadn’t. Doe headed straight for the gun counter and interrupted a conversation about ufology.
‘I’m telling you, Tom,’ the man in front of the counter was saying to the owner behind it, ‘I’m telling you. Any extraterrestrial that doesn’t look as we look can’t have our best interests at—’
‘Want a gun!’ cried Doe, cutting in across them. ‘Gimme a gun! Gimme that gun there!’
The startled owner looked at her. He recognised her too. It was one of those Doe women, the one whose name began with ‘J’. He looked along her thrusting finger to the Kalashnikov displayed magnificently in the counter case in front of them.
‘This?’ he said. ‘Well, that’s a—’
‘Don’t care. Gimme it.’
‘But don’t you want—’
‘What?’
‘With a weapon—’
‘What?’
‘You can’t just—’
‘What? What!’
She stared at him, lip curling, snout forming, snarl gathering. What was this creature? she thought. The owner, meanwhile, decided to mistake the stare, bared teeth and strange little throatie sounds for a settling down to listen, for a quiet and graceful episode of listening. She was now going to listen to what he had to say. He opened his mouth.
‘Shut up! Just shut up! Gimme a gun and shut up, will ye?’ she said.
Each stared, astonished at the other’s rudeness, but she was busy, so she snatched the gun off him as he was taking it carefully out of the case to show it to her. Shoving it under her arm, she then scraped around in her handbag for a bunch of money, threw it, without counting, at the man’s face, then turned and the door went ding! as she left. They heard her yel
l ‘Taxi!’ from the pavement. Another thing she did before leaving was grab a fistful of bullets that were lined up and being leisurely examined by the other man on the stool beside her. She even reached over and took the ones he had in his hand. She didn’t glance at this person, nor did she throw another batch of coins in return for what she’d taken. She gave no inkling either of any further payments to come.
One quick thing to say before I go back to the gunshop is that Jetty Doe was really a Doe, but often others only socially connected with the Doe family also went under that umbrella. It was shorthand – similar to the way crimes happened in war zones. All crimes in such places got connected with the war, lumped together with the war, as if they were a part of it, as if they were because of it, and this happened whether they were because of it or not.
Back to the shop. Gunshop Tom was picking up coins and counting them with shaky fingers but he wasn’t taking in what he was counting because he was in shock at the violence of that encounter. Over a year earlier – as long as that, if you count that as long – he had been mugged and stabbed on the way home from work by a bunch of teenagers and anything sudden frightened him ever since. Sneak up behind him and whisper the word ‘Friday!’ – the day it had happened – and he’ll physiologically react for you. Say the words ‘Friday night!’ and he’ll faint.
‘Did you see that, Tom?’ he said, for it turned out both men were called Tom. ‘Did you see? She didn’t want to know if it was an AK47 or an AK74. She called it a gun.’
Second Tom nodded. He appeared more calm, detached and well-adjusted than First Tom, but who can say what repression people carry around for years?
‘I saw, Tommy,’ he said, ‘but not your problem. You tried to give advice. She batted away your advice. I witnessed it. She said, “Don’t want any fucky advice.” So, not your fault she’s uptight and sore.’
‘But did you see the way she grabbed up your pellets from the counter? She even took the ones you had in your hand!’
Customer Tom nodded again, but really he was thinking, ah, holy God, Tom’s losing it. His voice is rising and this is exactly the way he was sounding at the hospital. That bloody woman’s started him off on to that muggin’ thing all over again!
‘They’re not even modern pellets, never mind bullets!’ went on Tom, his voice indeed getting higher and shriekier. ‘And she didn’t notice! Did you notice that she didn’t notice? They’re museum pieces as I was telling you. Nobody uses them except as antique ornaments now. How’s she’s goin’ to manage? She’s goin’ to shoot duck, isn’t she? Do you think she’s goin’ to shoot duck? It would be duck she’s after, wouldn’t it, Tom? Tom, wouldn’t you say she’s made a mistake in her choice of weapon? Surely, she wouldn’t have chosen the ’74 if she’d thought in her heart it wasn’t meant for duck?’
Customer Tom shrugged and picked up his egg and onion sandwich. The shop doubled as a café, selling snacks, soft drinks and second-class postage stamps. Tom didn’t answer and also he wouldn’t look at Tom as he was trying to discourage his old friend from what he knew was really the mugging encounter. He bit into his mid-morning sandwich therefore, still in his relaxed easy-go manner as Gunshop Tom, now with a pronounced verbal tremor, hurried on.
‘Incompatible!’ he cried. ‘Completely the wrong hardware.’ He kept wiping and rewiping his cheek to get the touch of that money – but really, the awful woman it had come from – off. ‘The ’74 is portable, low-tech and of the utmost efficiency in killing people, but that consignment of pellets was originally meant for shooting duck. Even if she’d rushed off with a light birding piece though, instead of the Kalashnikov, she’d still have to hit the duck first time. If she didn’t, she’d have to stand up to reload with the weapon she’d need those pellets for, and of course the duck would see her and have plenty of time to fly off. That’s presuming it even appeared, for ducks around here are all dead now. But even if they weren’t, she doesn’t have a light birding piece. She’d need an eighteenth-century one and I don’t sell them. Tom? Hey, Tom – that Kalashnikov – if you were taking a guess, what would you say really, from the bottom of your heart, she’s wanting it for?’
‘Tommy,’ said Tom. ‘I think you’re working yourself up again. Have a cup of tea. D’you want me to make it? This is nothing. Just another of them women things. Whatever you do, don’t let it link in with anything from your past.’
Tommy, who was now pulling at his cheek where she’d indirectly touched it, and rubbing at his abdomen where they’d purposefully stuck the knife in, showed that it was already too late. The woman thing had linked in very nicely thank you with something from his past. He made an effort, however, just as the doctor at the hospital had instructed him. ‘If it comes into your head,’ said this doctor who, after all, must have had some experience of what he was on about, ‘just pop it back out. Pop it back out. Don’t let it defy you. Don’t let it defeat you. Let it know you’re master here now.’ So when Tom realised he was slipping back to Friday night, that he wasn’t master, that he couldn’t do any popping, and that, because of this new shock, his hamstrings and backside were now crawling, he left his abdomen and face alone and tried to get back to where he and Tom had left off. Where had they left off? Oh, yes. Extraterrestrials.
‘When you say—’ he began.
‘Forget it,’ came back Tom.
‘But don’t at least some—’
‘Nope.’
‘Aren’t they interested—’
‘Nope.’
‘What about—’
‘They don’t care about that either.’
Instead of being reassured by these bits of information about women, as any normal man would have been, Tom got more and more agitated. Try as he might, he couldn’t get himself back to the ufology at hand. Not only was he feeling frightened and powerless because his nervous system was letting him down again, he was now also getting annoyed and upset at what appeared to be the downplaying of his emotional pain by Tom.
‘What’s wrong, Tom?’ he said. ‘Is it that you want me to shut up? Is it that I’m doin’ your head in? Is it that I’m not cheerful enough for you? Not my fault, y’know. I didn’t ask to be mugged and stabbed.’
Tom sighed and set down his sandwich. ‘Seems we’re getting off the point here, mate. Don’t take it out on me.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his stool and wouldn’t look at Tom who was directly across the counter from him. ‘I’m sorry you got stabbed, okay? We were all sorry. When you were in the hospital we were in the bar being sorry. But that was a year ago. Not our fault. And it’s not my fault now that that woman busted into your shop.’
They fell silent. Tom behind the counter looked down at the silver in his hand, but really he was thinking that, although of course, of course, oh, of course, it hadn’t been his old friends who had mugged and stabbed and hospitalised him, it just kept seeming to some part of his mind that it had. Tom, in front of the counter, stabbed at the crumbs on it which had broken off from his bigger bread, but really, he was thinking that although Tom had always been a decent auld skin, someone he’d known for ages, and a great one once to have a laugh with, it was just that ever since that incident with the teenagers, he’d either been alienating himself from everybody with his verbal splurging, or else brooding himself to death with his thoughts.
The silence was about to come to an end, for Tom, the customer, was tossing a mental coin as whether to ask for another cup of coffee to see if they could get easy footing back between them, or whether to give up, get off the stool and say, ‘See you later then, Tom. I’m away.’ Instead of either happening, the door went ding!, the men glanced at each other, then, how stupid they’d been ran through both their heads. It stood to reason that if that monster couldn’t get the rifle to work, then of course she was going to come back, even more monsterish, in order to get a replacement. Having seen her in such a hurry to get it, they’d fooled themselves into thinking that, once out of the shop, she’d forever and alleluia be gone.
‘What’s wrong with you two?’ said one of the newcomers. ‘You look like you seen a ghost.’ This was Jennifer Doe, who wasn’t really a Doe, but best friend of Janet Doe, one of the two people Jetty in the taxi was looking for at that moment. Janet Doe was legitimately a Doe and had been even before she’d gotten married to one. Janet’s wedding day had been her First Great Occasion. Her Second Great Occasion had been the day she was employed to work at the Almost Chemist of the Year. But more of Janet later. She wasn’t the other female present at this juncture. The other female was Julie Doe, her daughter. Janet’s daughter.
‘Hello, Tom. Hello, Tom,’ said Julie. Julie was friendly and gentle, and for that the two Toms were grateful. At least there was a fifty per cent chance they weren’t going to be shouted at, but they lost by fifty per cent because they were. Jennifer, the elder, having had enough of their imbecilic stupefaction, squashed the butt of her cigarette into the floor and, taking out another pencil-length kingsize, said, ‘Leave this to me, Julie love.’ Scowling at the men, she exhaled a barrelful of cigarette smoke, cracked her psychotic bubble gum and charged up to the counter to confront.
Milkman
Little Constructions
Mostly Hero