Sunday 28 September 2014

King Rat

Have you noticed how determined everyone seems to be to leave a mark on the world? It must be a natural reaction to our mortality. Fame comes in many shapes and sizes. Some people are destined to be known throughout the ages, immortal through the annals of history, Achilles for instance. The rest of us have to accept that our own little glimmer of notoriety will dwindle slightly more quickly. Sadly, we don't often get to pick how we are remembered, that duty falls to the ones we encounter on our way.

In the eighties there was a man called Mr O'Gorman living in my town, he was a crooked old fella with withered features and a wicked scowl. He was determined to see the worst in everyone and everything. Nothing seemed to bring joy into his life. Hardly surprising really, he rattled around in a huge old store all by himself. What was once a thriving Grain and Feed business now was just a shell, falling into decay around the old man. Weeds sprouted through a massive yard, unused in years. The painted sign that stretched the length of the building had once announced, "O'Gorman and Son," proudly to the world in gold and black, now it was fading and flaked, a symbol of hope forever lost. It looked like a building abandoned to the mice and spiders. Mr O'Gorman was not a verbal man, he let his emotions crawl over his face like storm clouds racing over a sunny valley. Bumping into this shuffling figure could never be described as a pleasure, which Billy Nugent found out to his cost.

A small town is a microcosm, and one that can easily be thrown into uproar. One sunny Sunday, the morning the mass bell was still pealing when Mr O'Gorman was swept away from the steps of the church by a vision of evil. That was how the scene was retold later, at any rate. What had actually happened was Billy Nugent, recently returned from New York City, came careering down the pavement on something called a skateboard.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack, went the wheels as they pumped over cracks in the concrete. Along with the skateboard, Billy had returned from America with a whole collection of hoodies, an equally deadly addition to his arsenal of mayhem.  The sad truth of the matter was that, Billy, had no control of the board, and nearly no view of what lay ahead of him. The first time he saw Mr O'Gorman was when they became a flying ball of limbs. At first, some of the women thought it was the Grim Reaper, come to take the grumpy old sod down below. When they eventually untangled the mess, it was a major disappointment to see a spotty teenager emerge from the cowl.

"You guttersnipe, you should be arrested," growled Mr O'Gorman as he was helped to his feet.

"It wasn't my fault. You jumped right out in front of me," stammered Billy.

"Rubbish, you moron! This is a footpath, not a whatever-the-hell that is, path," roared the old man, waving his blackthorn stick at the upended skateboard.

"I have as much right to be on here as you, and it’s a skateboard, you old goat," said Billy, as bold as brass retrieving his board. The name calling was a step to far for Mr O'Gorman, who lashed out with his knobbly walking stick. Billy deftly avoided the blows and raced for safety.

"I'll get the Sargent after you…you PUP!" yelled the old man at the disappearing teenager.
***

Mr O'Gorman was nothing if not a man of his word. After several heated telephone calls to the Garda station, the Sargent finally agreed to call on the Nugent's, but refused to arrest the teenager for attempted murder, as the old man wanted. Now, whatever the Sargent was expecting to encounter it wasn’t the disinterested, disrespectful, irreverent young man he found Billy Nugent to be. Every attempt he made to explain the gravity of the situation, to the spotty teenager, was greeted with rebuttal. Most annoyingly, the kid's points were difficult to refute. In the end the Sargent could take no more, he blew his top, telling the sheepish parents that, "Billy would end up seeing the inside of a cell before long," then stormed out of the house.

The following few days saw several more angry calls from Mr O'Gorman, wanting to know, "Why that hooligan was still roaming the streets terrorising law abiding people?" Being told that there was nothing illegal about skateboarding did nothing to ease the situation.

"What do you mean nothing illegal? Didn't he nearly clean kill me?"

"I understand, Mr O'Gorman, but it was only an accident and I've had a stern word with him, and his parents."

"Feck all good your words are! Didn't I have to run him out of my yard only yesterday, with that devil board of his, and he gave me the finger, did you hear? The finger!"

The Sargent sighed heavily into the phone and said, "I’ll have another word." You could nearly hear his back creak under the weight of defeat.

"You do that, Sargent, and I'll start selling chocolate tea pots; they’ll be about as much use."

"I have to act within the law," said the Sargent, having nearly enough of being hectored by this old codger.

"Well, the law is an ass!" roared the old man.

"Are you calling me an ass," said the Sargent, not believing what he was hearing.

"If the cap fits, wear it," snapped Mr O 'Gorman, slamming down the handset.

***

The Sargent wasn’t the only one to feel the sharp side of Mr O'Gorman's tongue. Having given up on the law, he turned his attention on the head of the County Council, for whom he held little regard anyway. That phone conversation went even worse, as the Town Planning Officer was a jobsworth, with a lazy streak a mile wide. After listening disinterestedly to Mr O'Groman's rant, the Planning Officers reply was, "And what do you want me to do about it?" Mr O'Gorman's blood pressure went stratospheric.

"What do I want you to do? I want you to get off that huge, lazy, backside of yours and make this town a safe place to live. I want to know what you lot do in that brand new, state of the art, tower block, besides ripping off pensioners like me."

"We certainly do not rip off pensioners! I resent you're tone, Mr O'Gorman," said the Planning Officer hoitily. "We take no revenue from the retired of this community I will have you know."

"Why then, are you charging rates on my home?"

"Technically, it is a business premises, Mr O'Gorman."

"Technically, I haven't sold anything ten years, but the rates bill comes regardless."

"That is a different matter entirely," said the Planner, hastily.

"Different matter my arse, you mark my words, you little shit, if you don't do something about these kids, you’ll be sorry," ranted Mr O'Gorman, before driving the handset into its cradle with a crash. Another dead end but he was a dogged old man and once he got the bit between his teeth, little would distract him. He contacted the, National Roads Authority, the local TD, the Parish Priest, as well as every member of the tidy town committee. It seemed no one could do anything.

The Sargent had his own axe to grind with Billy Nugent. He was not used to being belittled, or ignored, making Billy a marked man. Whenever the opportunity arose the Sargent gave him a grilling, or a clip around the ear. He even hauled Billy into the station in the back of the squad car. This only made Billy’s reputation grow until it reached legendary proportions among the youth of the town. Soon, the number of hoody-wearing skateboarders began to grow, Billy's rein of anarchy was gathering an unwitting army to itself.

Billy was far from a criminal mastermind; he wasn't even a bad kid. He just let his mouth lead the way long before his brain knew what was happening. He never intended to knock over the old fella outside the church, or even get the Sargent so mad. It just seemed to happen. People said he was moody but most of the time he just had nothing to say. Billy didn’t really fit in anywhere. When other kids began to copy the way he dressed, and wanted to hang out with him, he thought it was wired…creepy even. In the end, the lure of company was too much, and he begrudgingly accepted his new role as the town bad boy.

Mostly, Billy loved to skateboard. He and his new friends made little ramps and tried to perfect tricks, using the steps of the church or the school playground when nobody was around. Once, he even skated in O'Gormans yard, thinking the old man was out. That had been a mistake. As the number of skaters in town grew, so did the number of voices raised in protest at their existence. Billy couldn't understand it, after all, what the hell were they doing that was so wrong? It wasn't like they were selling drugs or mugging the wrinklies. It just made no sense. When the council tried to get a bye law passed, banning the use of skateboards on public pavements, Billy knew something had to be done.

About then, the rats began appearing. Not real rats, ones even more insipid. Small graffiti rat's, on public buildings. They seemed to spring up overnight, like magic. People thought the first one was cute, as it depicted an old rat walking on its back legs with a little walking stick. The next one had the same little rat but this time he held a bunch of flowers. When the third one appeared, holding a severed head, the public outcry began. Guess who was first on the list for questioning? It was Billy with a bullet.  

Of course, he said he had nothing to do with it. The night after Billy was questioned a whole family of rats appeared on the county council building with the slogan, "Freedom for the People," blazoned in bold letters above them. Billy's feet hardly touched the ground as he was hauled back in for further questioning. This time, he did see the inside of a cell, a whole night’s worth. At a minute to five in the morning, he was released, with a boot in the arse to help him on his way home.

Billy trudged the sidewalks of town, his trademark hoody pulled low over his head. He’d told the Sargent a dozen times, he had nothing to do with rats, but he may as well have been taking to the wall. If the Sargent wanted proof he should just talk to any of his teachers. They would have been delighted to tell him that Billy hadn't an artistic bone in his body. He was beginning to wonder if his new found popularity was worth all the hassle. The town was eerie at this time of the morning, it was so quiet. He walked along rows of houses, fuming, when he saw something move in the darkness. He froze. If it was the Sargent, he’d probably nick him for loitering or something.

In the distance, he made out a hunched figure near the Water Works Office. Billy decided to get a better look and tip-toed. He was just about to stop when his foot landed on a patch of gravel, causing the figure to spin round. You could have knocked him over with a feather when a smiling Mr O'Gorman regarded him with twinkling eyes. Where he had been kneeling, there was a still wet drawing of a rat, shaking the last few coppers from a coin purse into the begging bowl of huge suited figure, with the slogan, Power Corrupts - Completely. Billy heard Mr O'Gorman chuckle for the very first time and in a wink, he was gone.

The very next day, Billy was back in the clutches of the Sargent. He never mentioned a word about what he had seen, but continued to protest his innocence. What would be the point in saying? Nobody was going to believe what he saw. One or two more rats appeared after that, but no one ever identified the artist. Billy continued to skateboard up and down the pavements of the town, and Mr O'Gorman continued to rail against the world.

A few years after that, Mr O'Gorman passed away. His funeral was attended by only a handful of elderly towns folk, and distant relatives. It amazed everyone when Billy Nugent turned up at the graveside and remained for the full service. It was even more baffling when Mr O'Gormans will was read. Hadn't he donated his yard to the community, under the stipulation that it be concreted over, and used only as a free skate park for the young people. He also added that the council could whistle for the rates owed on the land.

The day after the newly concreted skate park opened, the mysterious artist struck again. A giant rat, with a crown on his head, appeared on the largest jump. The Sargent didn’t come looking for Billy about this one, which was just as well, because he couldn’t get the paint to budge from under his fingernails.

Billy and his friends continued to skate there for many a year, under the happy observation of the smiling rat. In the end, the boy, and the man, neither of whom fitted well with the world, existed in harmony. 

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