Duggie Finn Final Part

Duggie's head was pounding. He could feel a massive swelling behind his ear which throbbed like hell. He felt his feet and hands being bound, people were talking but he couldn't rise his mind out of the fog that dulled his wits. When he was hoisted off the ground he came round some little bit, he could see the man holding his feet Duggie, didn't recognise him.

“What yous doin?” mumbled Duggie, in his Dublin drawl. The old man looked at him but didn't answer, they were outside now and the cold air was refreshing. “Hang about,” thought Duggie. “Why am I tied up? Why are the carrying me outside? This isn’t good. I got to get out of here.”

“Where are taking me? Let me go, you fuckers,” Duggie spat. He tried to kick, but the men held him easily. The man holding his legs was old, but his work toughened arms were as hard as iron. Duggie struggled, still the men said nothing to him, with each movement fresh pain appeared somewhere new on his body. They had given him a right battering, even the hiding he took from Rob’s thugs didn’t hurt this much. His head hurt the worst. Duggie could feel the cold blood beginning to harden in his hair and down his neck. The constant throbbing behind his ear was getting worse the more he woke up, and what had they done to his hip? It was in agony.

Just like that, they were inside again but not the house. Duggie gave a last strong lurch, the man holding his shoulders lost his grip and Duggie dropped to the ground. He landed hard on concrete covered with cow dung. The man holding his feet booted him a few times in the ribs. Duggie stopped wriggling. He looked behind and the old farmer he had followed from the village stood above him, his face swelled and bruised from the beating Duggie had given him in the bedroom. The old man looked at him with worried eyes, not frightened, just weary. In the end he turned and walked towards the end of the shed. He grabbed a huge metal container and heaved, amazingly it glided away from the wall. The black gaping maw that stood behind held nothing but bad news for Duggie. Trust him to pick a degenerate old farmer with his very own dungeon.

“Are you two queers or what? You better not come near me or I will fuck you up,” yelled Duggie.

The taller man just started to laugh.  “You hear that Pat, the little scumbag thinks we are in love with him,” Michael laughed. “Sorry lad but your luck is completely out today. You’re a crap burglar and sex in the cowshed is not my thing.”

Just as quick as he started laughing the tall man stopped. He was creepy, his elevator didn’t stop on all the floors if you asked Duggie. The tall man turned to the old farmer, his voice turning serous, "If you want to give him a go, Pat, I won’t mind.”

“You can’t do that. Don’t let that freak touch me,” Duggie shouted, while kicking so much it was as if he was having a seizure. In Duggie's mind, the theme tune for ‘Deliverance’ was playing real loud. He always laughed when the ‘Squeal Piggy Squeal’ part of the movie came on, now, it wasn't so funny.

 “Stop winding him up Michael,” Pat said, but still enjoying the way the little man was panicking. “Let's get him inside," said the battered old man taking Duggie under the shoulders again. With one quick jerk Duggie was being carried again, backwards this time.

“Don’t put me in there, please,” Duggie pleaded, struggling again. “Let me go and I won’t say a thing. If you put me in there, I swear to God, I’ll ruin you. You’ll wish you were never born. You don’t know who you’re messing with. I have friends you know, if I don’t get you they will” he ranted.

He was a gibbering mess but some of the threats stung Pat, could he ruin him? What if he did leave him go, would he return with even more of his kind?

“You have a right mouth on you,” said the taller man, holding his feet. “I liked you better when you were asleep."

Pat had no idea what to do, hearing the little robber rant, it was clear he wouldn't think twice about coming back for revenge. Either in the dead of night, or by the light of the court house. Pat didn't relish checking doors and locking himself in every night. More importantly, nobody was going to take his land from him. Michael and Pat dumped Duggie on the floor, then turned on a light. The room was small only five feet wide, by the width of the shed. There were two steel posts supporting the roof.

“Pat, can you bring in a couple of bales of straw?” asked Michael, taking charge.

“And some rope,” Michael called after the farmer.

“What are you going to do with me?” Duggie asked, now alone with this crazy hillbilly. Sweat was running down his face and the shakes were back.

“That’s not up to me,” said Michael, smiling, “If it were, you wouldn't like it.”

The old farmer appeared with two bales, Michael took a pen knife from his pocket and cut the yellow plastic twine. He spread the straw around the base of one of the poles. He then grabbed Duggie by the back of the tee shirt. He roughly dragged him to his feet and made him hop towards the pole. With a jerk of the tall man's powerful arm, Duggie was flung back first against the roof support. Quick as a flash the tall man was garrotting Duggie with the twine he had just cut from the bail of straw.  Duggie started to panic and trash but that made the string bite into his neck even more, strangling him.

The tall hillbilly came around in front of Duggie, grasping a fist full of greasy hair, holding Duggie's head still. His dark merciless eyes, never blinking.

“What’s your name?” Michael spat, with venom.

“Duggie.”

“Duggie? What kind of a name is Duggie?”

“Douglas, my name is Douglas,” he rasped, the skin of his neck on fire.

“That’s better Douglas. Let me tell you what is going to happen. I am going to untie your hands. If you struggle I am going to pull your legs. That little bit of string is going to hang you, slow. It is the worst way of going, Douglas, let me tell you. Getting rid of your body will be easy, we’ll dump it in the slurry tank. Oh, first we’ll slice you open from neck to dick. Don’t want gas bringing you back up as you rot do we?”

Michael talked with such calm conviction that both Pat and Duggie knew he meant every last word. Duggie said nothing just blanched white with terror, getting raped didn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen anymore.

“Right so, are we ready?” Michael said. Duggie eyes were huge and terrified.

Duggie felt the belt around his wrists loosen, his hands were free. Duggie didn't twitch a muscle. Michael took his wrists and moved them either side of the support pole. His movements were slow, gentle, even sensual.

He knotted the rope around the little man’s wrists in a complex bind. When the bond was solid, Duggie heard the rustle of a plastic bag. Duggie had heard of guys being killed using plastic bags, he began to cry. Instead of placing the bag over his head, the man behind him covered his hands and bound the bag over them. "We wouldn't want you breaking a nail trying to open the knots," said Michael at last cutting the twine around Duggie's neck free, allowing him to slide to the floor, in a sobbing heap. Happy with his work, Michael sliced the tie off Duggie's legs and closed the pocket knife.

“I could murder a cup of tea Pat,” Michael said, winking at Duggie before walking out the door. The old farmer that had been so helpful earlier in the day, stared him straight in the eye.

“You would have taken everything I have,” he said. Duggie avoided the farmers gaze. “You might even have killed me.”

“I needed the money,” Duggie mumbled.

“See where greed has got you,” said Pat. He turned off the light and closed the heavy door leaving the room in complete darkness. Duggie felt his stomach churn, he cried and yelled to be let out, the darkness was pitiless.

***

Pat sat with his trousers around his ankles in the middle of the kitchen. The electric kettle whistled happily in the corner, Michael prepared a pot for tea. The hole in Pat's leg was small, but it was angry, he winced as he tried to bandage it.

“You should put some Savlon on that,” Michael advised, while stirring the milky tea.

“It will be fine. I'll get it checked in a few days,” Pat said. He winced again but this time he held his hand to his chest. “Flipping heartburn on top of everything,” he said and burped. Pat finished the bandaging and hoisted his trousers to full mast, he rummaged in the kitchen drawers and found painkillers and antacid. He popped the pills and washed them down with sweet tea.

“What do you want to do with him?” asked Michael, nodding towards the cow shed.

“Not right sure. Tonight is not the time to make any decisions,” Pat mused. “Let’s leave him stew for the night and see if he is feeling any less self-important in the morning.”

“I don’t think I will manage much kip after all this excitement,” chuckled Michael.

“Here. This will help,” said Pat, pouring two hefty glasses of whisky from the very same bottle Duggie was swilling from an hour ago. They clinked glasses and drank in silence.  It was not long before Pat climbed the stairs for a little sleep. He was jaded, sore and feeling sick. Pat climbed into bed with a feeling of dread he never before experienced. He was freezing, shivering all over, his leg throbbed and his indigestion was getting worse. It burned in his chest like gristle lodged in his gullet. He needed some sleep, just a few minutes would do. Pat closed his eyes, in moments he was gone.

Downstairs, Michael mulled over the problem that huddled in the back of the milking house. He wasn’t joking before, he would have killed the little burglar without a second thought. Scum like that made his skin crawl. The selfish idiots expecting handouts, taking what isn’t given, caring for nobody but themselves. Michael had done things he wasn’t proud of in the past, he had done them for the Irish People. Because of these things, he hadn’t had full night sleep in twenty years. It was sickening to think that his sacrifices had been for the likes of that scumbag. Douglas - Duggie, whatever he called himself, did not deserve to be part of any country he had bleed to build. Even so, this was not his battle, it was Pat’s. Michael was only a tool of retribution.

***

Pat woke a little after sunrise, he felt sore all over. Throwing back the covers he sat up. The acid throb of heartburn was as strong as ever. Pat's vision swam and dimmed from the edges, he thought he was going to pass out. Pat pulled in great lungfull’s of air until the feeling passed. There was a tight band of pain across his chest, his face, and leg. He couldn’t decide which part hurt worst. Pat though of the man he had tied up in the shed. Was he a kidnapper now? Things seemed so clear last night, this morning, the whole world was terrifying. Pat's brain was in meltdown, he imagined he could hear the taunts of the villagers, sound bites on the evening news, the protests of his son and the haranguing of the police as they locked him up. Pat stood and waited for the room to settle before making his way to the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Michael was dozing by the still warm range. Pat filled the kettle, the movement roused Michael from his sleep.

“Morning,” he said, stretching.

“Want a mug of tea or something to eat?” Pat asked.

“Just tea would be grand,” Michael said, heading up the stairs to the bathroom.

“Sugar Michael?” Pat called up.

“Just milk,” came the answer through the thunder of morning urine.

When Michael came back to the kitchen Pat was sitting over his tea looking troubled. “What are we going to do,” Pat asked.

“We can do anything you want Pat. That little git came here, he would have left you for dead, that's if you were lucky,” Michael reasoned, stirring his mug of tea.

“True, but I’m not like him. I don’t beat up people,” Pat said.

“Actually that is exactly what we did,” Michael said. “You were right too. These scum are going around praying on people like us! The flipping Gardai can’t do a thing about it. I am sick of it Pat, I say we do something about it ourselves and we should start with him.”

“What are you on about, are you saying kill him?” Pat gasped, not believing what he was hearing. “We can’t just kill someone Michael.”

“I can,” he said calmly.

“You can’t Michael, I can’t let you.” Pat slammed down his mug. “Okay, he broke in to my home and scared me, I'm still scared but that's not reason enough to take his life.” Pat stood and paced the room. He was wincing and rubbing his chest.

“Are you feeling alright Pat? You don’t look the best.”

“How should I feel? Between getting the crap beaten out of me last night and you telling me to kill a man before breakfast. You’re as bad as he is,” Pat shouted. Suddenly he stopped mid rant and let out a little wheeze.

“Pat what is it?” Michael was worried now.

“Heartburn, get me some Rennies from the drawer over there,” Pat said, sitting down. Pat got the small box of antacid tablets for him. He took three and washed them down with the tea.  After a few minutes Pat seemed to feel a bit better.

“I am going to let him go,” Pat said at last.

“Whatever you want to do is fine by me,” said Michael, shrugging his shoulders. Offering to snuff out a life didn’t seem to knock a spark out of him. Michael was getting to his feet but Pat held up his hand. “I’ll do it myself, I want to talk to him before I let him go.”

Michael sat back down.

“I'll be back in a minute” said Pat walking out the door.

***

Duggie had yelled and struggled for a long time after the farmer had left him in the dark. He threatened the pleaded with his invisible jailers, but nothing happened. He cried and in the end he was sick. During the night, he pissed in his pants when he could hold it no more. Duggie was no stranger to humiliation, it’s the first thing the drugs take. Sitting in his own waste for hours at a time was a new low, even for him.

He had drifted to sleep for a few minutes, or perhaps longer, it was hard to tell in this hole. His shoulders ached, his head throbbed, but the worst was his skin. It was on fire with an itch he couldn't scratch. He was coming down and coming down hard. He felt cold, but was sweating. His stomach churned and his head buzzed with the need of his medicine. He felt a huge weight on his chest, he struggled to draw a breath. This was only the start, he needed a fix and he needed it now.

After a time Duggie noticed a chink of weak light in the pitch black, there was a crack in the roof. Through the fever, Duggie pondered his chances of getting out of this place. He had worked on the ropes last night but they held strong. He couldn't get a grip through the plastic bag. The bag thing was real clever, Duggie would have to remember that for the future. If he had a future.

As time passed, Duggie was more and more convinced he was a dead man. Why had the Gardai not come? Why did they just leave him sitting in his own filth? If they were going to let him go they would have done it by now. What kind of nutters kept a burglar tied up in a shed? No matter which he looked at it, there was no good ending for him. Even if he did manage to get out of here, he still didn't have Rob’s money.  Just then the door opened. The old farmer tuned on the light. He looked older than he had yesterday by ten years. He stared at Duggie forever with wrinkled watery eyes. Duggie couldn't figure out what he wanted. Was he angry or sad, happy or sacred? He seemed resolved and that was the worst thing he could have been.

“Hey man, what are you going to do to me?” Duggie said at last.

“Why did you break into my house?” the farmer said, his voice dead cold.

“I had too,” mumbled Duggie

“Why?”

“I need the money, I owe people,” Duggie said, going with the truth. “It wasn't personal, I don’t even know you. I followed you here, I wish I never had.”

“There is a man in my kitchen who wants to kill you,” Pat said. Duggie began to sob. He couldn't hold it together any longer. Coming down made everything seem more vivid. He could feel the cold wet soil filling his still living mouth.

“Please Mister, Don’t Don’t…” he had nothing else to say.

“Give me one good reason, just one," yelled the farmer, coming close to Duggie. He pulled up short when he got the smell of vomit and piss.

“I don’t want to die,” was all Duggie could blubber. The farmer sprang away from him holding his arm. He swayed, and lost his balance. The old man staggered around the shed before falling against the wall, his eyes bulging. The farmer started to shudder, his face got all strained and red. The old man spammed, spit gurgled from his lips and he made the most horrible gasping noise.

“Buddy BUDDY! What's wrong? HELP, HELP!” Duggie screamed at the open door.

Pat’s lips turned blue, he choked and shook, and at last let out a long gurgling belching breath. The old man lay still, the smell of his bowels evacuating joined the already stinking air in the bunker. Duggie kept shouting but no one came. He pulled at the ropes but they wouldn’t give. Duggie was alone with the old man as he passed from this world into whatever was waiting for Duggie next Friday.

***

Michael had breakfast on the plates, it was getting cold. Pat should be back by now. Michael thought he had better go check on him, in case that little guy put up a fight when he got free. Michael walked to the milking parlour, the door to the bunker stood open and the light was still on. He could hear crying coming from inside, Michael walked into the small room. The smell hit him in the face like a slap, Pat lay on the floor, not moving. Michael had seen enough bodies to know his friend was gone, but he knelt and checked for a pulse anyway. Nothing.

“He just dropped down mister, I did nothing to him, I swear to god. I did nothing,” the burglar sobbed.

“You killed him. It was your fault. You scared him senseless and you wonder why he is dead," snarled Michael.

“I swear mister, I never wanted any of this, just let me go please,” Duggie whinged.

“What if I do? You’ll only terrorise some other poor soul. You’re scum Douglas, the lowest form of life on the planet. I think when all is said and done, we’ll all be better off without you,” Michael raged. Duggie looked in his eyes and knew the man was crazy.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t like to leave Pat by himself,” Michael said, standing up and walking to the door.

“Don’t leave me here, Please, Don’t leave me,” Duggie cried.

“I’ll leave the light on. I want his face to be the last thing you ever see." Michael said then turned and sealed the door. The screams of a man losing his mind only just audible, as he walked away.   

THE END.

The Flood

When it rains, it pours. Never was that truer than March 1989. It was the busiest week of the year in Redmond Hall and the weather was horrible. Constant drizzle interrupted by massive down pours. It was race-weekend, and the hotel was chock-a-block with customers. Every night the dining room was full to bursting. The function room hosted private parties all week. Jockeys, trainers, horse owners and punters, all rubbing shoulders. The thing about a small place like Redmond Hall is, only a few staff do nearly everything. When it's so busy, for so long, it really takes its toll.

I had already done six days and nights straight when Saturday rolled around. We had a dinner booked for Tommy Tobin, aka big tommy. He was a legend in racing, having trained several national champions. Tommy, and forty of his cronies, had booked a free bar for the night.

I spend most of the morning setting up the bar with the help of a French exchange student called, Marc. Help might be stretching it a bit. Marc was older than me, and already had two years of catering college under his belt. As far as I was concerned, he was a numpty. He spent more time fixing his hair than working. The waitresses were all mad about him, and that did him no favours in my book. Who needs the competition? One way or other, I was stuck with the frog for the morning. He was lugging beer kegs up the steps to the store room. I was thoroughly enjoying the way he was struggling. Outside, the rain was coming down in buckets.

" Iss thiss ze last," he said, throwing back the hood of the yellow rain slicker he was wearing.

"Yea that should be enough. We can get a start on the glasses now," I said.

"Jezz Squid, Iz hungry can’t we get zom lunch first" he moaned. sticking out his bottom lip like some spanked toddler.

"Your always hungry, Marc. We’ve only finished breakfast. You’ll be lucky to get dinner, never mind lunch." He stomped off to get glasses for polishing while I finished stocking the shelves and fridges with beer and wine.

Outside the rain was getting heavier. Soon a fantastic flash lit up the sky, followed by a deafening roll of thunder. The wheels of God's chariot charged across the clouds, rumbling away into the distance. Flash after flash of blinding electricity crackled through the air while I worked on the bar. Slowly, the storm moved away to the north. Sixty feet below my window, the river surged angrily, already swelled to bursting.

No sooner had I the bar finished than I had to get dressed for the evenings service. It was hectic. Constantly running from the main bar, to the private dining room. Making sure the wine orders were being filled in the restaurant, and even helping with food service where needed. Maura and Mary were looking after the VIP dinner. They were like two adopted mothers to the younger staff.

"Squid, will you give me a hand with the sweet and coffee," asked Mary, as she passed the bar loaded down with plates. It was tough serving the function room because everything had to be carried the whole length of the building, and back again. These women worked really hard just to keep food on the table at home. For me, it was just pocket money, for them it was life.

After helping with the sweet plates, I went to pick up coffee in the still room. Maurice, the game keeper came hurrying down the corridor, leaving puddles of muddy water in his wake and followed me into the kitchen.

"Have you seen Mrs O?" he asked.

"She is in the restaurant," I said, but that was the moment she chose to walk into the room. That woman must have radar. She always knows when someone is looking for her, or up to no good.

"Hello Maurice," she said. "Nasty night out there."

"Mrs O, I think we’re in a bit of trouble," he said, not bothering with a hello.

"Oh Yes?" she said, arching her eyebrows.

"The river is rising fast. All that rain in the mountains earlier is just flowing into it. The ground was so wet already there is no soakage," he said as he shook the water from his jacket and filled a cup of coffee for himself from my pot. "I’ve no idea how high it will get but I think we should get people that have to leave out now. It's nearly to the gates already."

"I see," was all she said, but her smile had vanished.

I knew how important the money from this week was to the hotel. She was counting on at least another three- or four-hours solid drinking, all top shelf. She pulled her wax jacket from the peg and headed out to the patio. A few minutes later she came back dripping wet.

"Your right, Maurice, it's over the first steps by the lawn," she agreed. "Squid, can you let people know in the function room, and I will tell those left in the restaurant."

"Right you are, Mrs O," I said, and hurried off, coffee pot still in hand.

While making my rounds filling cups, I let everyone know the situation. Soon, most of the non-residents had either called cab's, or made for home in their car's. All but a few staff were sent home. I stayed as I had a room upstairs. We still had a full hotel of guests that needed looking after. There was no way the main building was going to be affected. Only the gate on the main road stood danger.

The water surged higher and taxies turned back at the gate, leaving a dozen guests stranded, with no rooms to give them.

What’s the best thing to do in a crisis? Serve more beer, that is what. I kept things going in the main bar. The fact that we were cut off made it all the more exciting. It was like the blitz, or something. Maura and Mary had not managed to get out before the flood came over the main gate. They had stayed on to make sure the function was properly cleared away, never leave a job half done they said. At half two in the morning, they were sitting either side of Big Tommy, on a massive leather sofa, sipping glasses of champagne and having a great time. The room was packed with people; talking, laughing or trying to get a few winks of sleep. I gave out blankets to those that had no rooms, so they could make themselves as comfortable as possible on couches.

It was just about then the bar door swung open, and in breezed Margo, Mrs O oldest daughter. She might be older than me in years, but most immature by nature.

"Hello, everyone," she slurred in her best Dublin four accent. "This looks like great fun! Should never have bothered going into town at all"

"You’ve just come back from town?" asked one of the group that had been waiting for a taxi.

"Absolutely, Darling. Went for a few drinkey's in Club 92," she said, as she threw herself into a high back chair.

"Is the taxi gone, perhaps he would take us," said one English man, sprinting for the door.

"I drove back myself," she called after him. "After all, I only had one or two." One or two buckets, by the look of her.

"If she made it in, we can make it out," the man said to his friend, putting on his coat. The two men left the bar and headed for the front door. I followed them out to the drive where they were getting into a brand-new Golf GTI.

"Gents, I really don't think this is a good idea. Why not wait till morning?" I asked.

"Don't worry yourself," the driver said, slamming the car door. Cocky git. Half an hour later he was feeling a lot less cocky and a hell of a lot more soggy. Ding Dong, went the doorbell. When I opened it, they were standing on the step, soaked from head to toe.

"Jesus! What happened?" I asked, still holding the door open.

The driver said nothing, just tramped past me into the corridor. The other fella at least had the manners to answer. "We must have gone off the road because the car sunk. We had to swim out of it."

They were cold, wet, and making a mess of the furniture. I locked up the bar and got them some clothes from my room. The guys got changed in the toilets while I went to the staff quarters to wake, Maurice, the Game Keeper. I explained what had happened. He gathered rope and a torch while I got the hotels tractor started. Into the rain lashed night we trundled.

When we got to the gate, we could only could see the roof of the car. They’d veered of the road and into the field beside the river. The water was as high as the head rests inside the car. What a disaster. We thought we might be able to pull the car out with the tractor, but seeing how deep it was, we knew that was not going to happen. Maurice stripped to his y-fronts and swam out to the car. He tied the car to a tree, hoping it wouldn’t get swept into the main flow of water.

"That yoke is fucked," he said, when he got back on dry land. "What a waste of fifteen thousand pounds".

Back at the hotel, Maurice went to make some tea while I went to give the English men the bad news.

"We got the car tied off to a tree but we will have to wait until the water goes down before we can get it out," I told them. At least this time the driver said thanks, but he was still a cock. The other man dipped his hand into his sodden suit pocket and produced a twenty-pound note.

"Thanks for all you did," he said, palming me the money. For a full week’s work, I would only get about ninety pounds, as well as my food and board. Twenty quid was a fortune. I gave ten to Maurice and kept ten for myself. That got me thinking. I could make a bit more out of this situation, if I put my mind to it.

People were getting sleepy, but with all the noise, no one was able to drift off. I went to the kitchen and made a big pot of tea and mugs of steaming hot chocolate. With a trolley load of cups, I started to make the rounds of the couches.

"Would you like a nice cup of tea, or some hot chocolate?" I asked as I went.

To a person they said, "Oh God, that would be lovely. How much do I owe you?"

"Your fine, its on us," I said. Just about every second person slipped a little something into my hand. Eventually I ended up at the couch where Tommy was snoozing under a blanket, book ended by Mary and Maura. He had a room upstairs, which he had offered to the two waitresses for the night. No way would they put him out of his bed, but Tommy was a true gent and would not leave them sleep on the couch when there was a perfectly good bed going spare. They were as stubborn as each other, until in the end, they all settled down where they were they were.

"Want a cuppa, girls" I asked.

"Ahh, thanks, Squid. You’re the best" they said, taking the cups, adding milk and sugar.

"You must be hungry, ladies, did you get any dinner?" asked Tommy.

"Were fine, thanks Mr Tobin," said Maura, but we both noticed she didn’t say she wasn't hungry.

"I'll see what I can find in the kitchen" I said, and went away pushing the tea trolley.

By now, it was close to three-thirty in the morning. The only thing I could find ready to eat was a big pot of seafood chowder, and a cold joint of roast beef. I put the soup on to heat, and made open brown bread sandwiches of roast beef and horseradish. I ate some myself. I was starving, and they were delicious.

I dropped bowls of soup and a platter of sandwiches to Tommy, Maura, and Mary. It is alright giving away a few cups of tea, but I had to charge for the food. Tommy didn’t even have to be asked, just held out a note when I dropped the tray on the table. That is class for you. I put the takings in the till and went back to Tommy with the change, but he just waved it away. I left them contentedly munching as more people called me over to order, "Whatever you got."

In the next hour, I sold all the food I had in the Kitchen, and made the hotel a nice bit of money. The change was filling up a half-pint-glass behind the bar. I reckoned I had made two weeks wages in tips.

Soon, a hush settled over the hotel. People slept where they could. I decided to stay up, as there were so many strangers around the hotel, they might need something.  By now, the rain had actually stopped, so the flood might start to recede soon. I sat behind the reception desk and grabbed forty winks.

It was six thirty when I was shaken awake.

"What are you doing sleeping there?" asked Lizzy, the youngest of Mrs O's children.

"Hi Liz," I yawned. "I stayed in case anyone in the bar needed anything."

"Are people still drinking at this hour?" she said. I noticed she was wearing her riding gear.

"Of course not. They’re sleeping," my exhausted brain not really getting this conversation.

"Why are people sleeping in the bar?" she said, making a big show of holding hands in mock exasperation.

"Because the river flooded," I said, and I was beginning to think Lizzie was being deliberately silly.

"Oh-my-GOD!!!" she said, dashing off in the direction of the restaurant. I jumped up and followed her. She was staring out of the picture window at the torrents of dirty brown water running over what had yesterday been lawn and woodland. "Oh-my-God!" she said again, holding her hand to her mouth.

"What’s wrong with you?" I asked. You would swear she’d never seen a river in flood before.

"I tied the goats beside the river last night," she said. Lizzy had two pet goats which she kept in an old gardener’s hut in the woods.

"Come on," she said, running towards the kitchen. I was still wearing my bar service clothes, bow tie and all, as we dashed along the trail through the wood. Soon we could see the little derelict shed which had been built into the hillside. You could only get in the door from the river side. Normally not an issue, but now the shed was waist deep in water.

"Billy! Betty!" called Liz. An answering bleat came from the small shed.

"Go and get them for me, Squid. Please, please hurry," she pleaded. She didn’t really have to ask; I was already stripping off my shoes and pants. I waded into the water and around the corner of the little building, into the strong current. Twice I nearly lost my footing. The ground sloped sharply away into the raging torrent. I made it to the door when, whatever I was standing on, gave way. In an instant, I was under the water. The pull of the water was way stronger than I expected. I struggled to get my head over the surface. Filthy water clogged my nose and eyes. I coughed, and struggled to stand, one hand still had a hold of the corner of the shed, but it was slipping. My fingers slid on the mossy surface and I lost my hold. My panicking fingers brushed and grabbed something solid seconds before the current pulled me away. I held on like my life depended on it, which it did. I hauled my head over the surface and gulped a big lung full of air.

"Squid, Squid, are you ok?" screamed Lizzie. I waved, coughing up filthy river water. I was holding a rope which disappeared inside the door of the shed. Finally, I got my feet on solid ground and hauled myself inside the shed. The two terrified goats were straining at the other end of the rope. Wild, terrified eyes: up to their flanks in dirty water. They must have had a horrendous night. I got the collars off their necks, but no way would they go towards the door. I used a piece of timber to break a small side window and lifted the goats out. They took off like lightening into the woods the moment their hoofs hit the ground. I carefully climbed through the window, preferring to risk cuts over going down in the currents again.

"Thank you," said Lizzy, giving me a huge hug. I put my clothes back on but they were soon sodden. The sun shone for the first time in days. I looked up at the storm-washed sky and knew it was going to be a lovely day. Lizzy was twittering on about how scared the poor goats must have been. I didn’t tell her I though my number was up when I went under the water, she would only blame herself. If it wasn’t for the goat’s rope, I was a goner. In the end, they saved me more than I saved them.

Mrs O was up when we got back. She was in the kitchen with the breakfast chef, Maura and Mary.

"What on earth happened to you?" she said, seeing me covered in muck.

"It's a long story, Mrs O. We were just letting the goats out."

I was looking forward to a hot shower and a fluffy duvet, but the thought of how close I came to slipping away in the current stayed with me. I like to think I’m a strong swimmer but when the river gripped me, it was like steel. I know I had no chance. In the shower, I started to shake and eventually what little I had in my stomach came up. I nearly lost it all for two goats. I slept badly that day and even now, the memory of the ground sliding away from under my feet is the scariest thing I have ever felt.

Weird Dream

I had the most mental dream last night. Some of it is lost in the mist of sleep but part I remember vividly.

I was being chased by a man who was laughing like a lunatic. He was wearing a tall black top hat, billowing full length cloak and eighteen hundred's suit complete with pocket watch.  Weird but it gets worse.




He was not chasing me on foot, he was riding a massive wild black boar with curving tusks and foaming snout.

I was running, but not exactly scared. As he got closer he was trying to stab me in the back of the head with a set of deer antlers! Just then I screeched to a stop and turned. A Lugar hand gun appeared in my hand. I casually placed the mussel against his forehead and in a very calm voice said

"Not Clever"

The smile vanished from his face and he looked like a scolded school boy.

I whipped to another part of the dream and remember loading massive brass shells into the Lugar from the base of the handle working them up using the slide at the top. (I have never seen such a hand gun and don't even know if they have a slide) One shot forward too far and I remember thinking, "Now that is going to jam"


Then I was a wake. Any ideas?????

Tequila Slammers

Before starting college, I worked in a Manor House Hotel called, Redmond Hall. It was a spectacular building. A half mile of private road ran through rolling hills and woods. Ancient trees towered over all who approached, reinforcing the status of those who lived in such splendour. Once it was the seat of a warlord, who butchered and plundered. Now it was a retreat for the rich and famous.

The road circled each side of a cascading tiered lawn before joining again at the entrance. The main building was three stories high, crowned with parapets and a majestic dome. At each end, a two-story annex extended in welcoming embrace. The rear of the building boasted more gardens, and a terrace, perched above a meandering river, 60 steps below. The main door of the hotel did a lot to describe the place; it was perpetually closed. Entry was a privilege, not a right. There were only a small number of bedrooms but they were all palatial. Prices were not displayed or discussed.

The staff quarters were a different story entirely. Mothers nightmares were made of this place. Dozens of hot-blooded teenagers and early twenties all living on top of each other. It was fantastic! Drinking, parties, fights and sex; the four pillars of youth. I’ve loads of stories from this place.

Once, at Christmas, we had a group of rich couples check in for the holidays. They were VIP's, nothing was out of bounds. Before dinner, the champagne was flowing. Toasts were made and the halls rang with high spirited laughter. They dined like kings, finishing the meal with vintage ports and cigars. Later, they settled themselves around the marble fireplace in the library. Even though they all had drinks they asked me to bring them a bottle of Tequila, lemonade, and some tall glasses.

"Squiddie," giggled Mrs Ryan, as I put the bottle in the middle of the table. She grabbed me from behind and pulled me into her lap. Mrs Ryan was a stunning woman, so I was not all that upset, but the fact her husband was sitting right across the table was weird, to say the least.

"You get the first one Squiddie," she cooed into my ear, while splashing tequila into a glass. I was still only seventeen and the warmth of her bosoms was giving me an expanding issue, if you know what I mean.

"I would love one, but the boss will kill me," I said, trying to free myself from her encircling arms.

"It's a tradition," her husband said, shoving the glass closer. "We always get the bar man drunk. Last year, poor Sean got so plastered he went arse over-head, all the way down to the river."

"I can't. I just can't," I pleaded, noticing the owner appear in the doorway. I looked beseechingly in her direction, but all she did was shrug her shoulders.

Mrs Ryan was persuasive but I remained resolute. It was at this point one of the other women at the table decided to lend a hand, in this case literally. Mrs McLaughlin leaned forward laying her fingers high up on my thigh. She was in her late twenties, while her husband was forty-five if he was a day. He was a big name in men's clothing, apparently, and not short of a few quid by the look of the diamond on her finger.

"It's Christmas Squiddie, everyone deserves a little fun. Have one for me," Mrs McLaughlin said. Her long red nails making gentle strokes on the inside of my leg, moving fractionally up each time. This was not helping at all. Soon things were going to get really embarrassing. I looked at the boss again who nodded her head saying, go on.

"Alright so. But just the one,"  

"Wahay," they coursed, and Mr McLaughlin filled the rest of the glasses.

The third couple at the table were Alison Wiseman and her husband Ben. I liked them the best. She was in her thirty's, slim, with a radiant smile. She had long auburn hair that hung in gentle waves on her shoulders.

"Have you ever had a Slammer before Squiddie?" asked Mrs Wiseman from her position on the couch next to Mrs Ryan. As I was currently sitting on Mrs Ryan, she was technically sitting next to me as well. For a moment I was lost in her deep brown eyes. She looked searchingly into mine and the air about my head crackled with electricity. Mrs Wiseman was more intoxicating than any drink. It might have only been a second but to me it seemed much longer. I felt my cheeks go red when I said “No.”

"Here is how you do it," she said, taking a glass from the table. "One measure of Tequila and about the same amount of lemonade. You need a tall glass because it will fizz up. Put a couple of beer mats over the top of the glass and give it a good, sharp, thump, then drink it all down in one go. Just like this." Mrs Wiseman covered her glass with a beer mat and put her hand over the top. She lifted the glass about a foot off the table. SLAM! The glass hit the timber a fair wallop. I thought it was going to smash. Inside, the liquid exploded into a mass of white foam. She downed the lot in one go, throwing her head way back. A little of the foam escaped and ran down the silky skin of her throat. When the glass was empty, she drew the back of her hand across her lips, wiping away the spilled liquid. Her deep brown eyes played across my face intimately, and for longer than was polite, in front of a husband.

"Now you," Mrs Wiseman said, her voice husky with the burn of the Tequila.

Slam went my glass. I chugged down the foaming drink, the bite of Tequila making my eyes water, but I got it all down. My nose tickled from the foam and my stomach burned with the heat of alcohol. That’s when the coughing started, and kept coming, until a little foam came out my nose. They laughed as I half choked. All the time, Mrs Ryan was massaging my back, discretely. Mrs Wiseman put her glass on the table and leaned very close to me, until we were eye to eye, her hands cupped my face, her thumb wiped away the flecks of foam from my lips.

"See," she said, "that wasn't so bad." She kissed me slowly, on the left cheek, the corner of her mouth played across mine, which left me breathless.

"Another, another," chanted Ben Wiseman.

"Nope that's it," I said, finally releasing myself from Mrs Ryan's grasp.

"Not so fast young lad," said Mr McLaughlin. "Once the bottle open, you have to finish it."

"I can't drink a whole bottle of Tequila," I said in dismay.

"Well if you don't then the girls get to take advantage of you," he said.

"Feck off, yea messer. I got to get back or I'll get the sack," I said picking up a few glasses. At last I managed to make my escape.

***

For the rest of that night, the bottle of Tequila stayed on the table. Every time I took a round of drinks over, they made me sit on one of the women and do another slammer. I managed about five before I felt them kicking in with a vengeance. By this time, most of the residents were in bed, and the lights were dimmed all over the hotel. The glow of the fire sent shadows dancing around the room, while Mr Ryan strummed a guitar. I wobbled over to their table with a fresh bottle of champagne. Yet again, they tried to make me have another slammer.

"No way lads," I said. "I can't drink anymore." By now, they were all well drunk themselves.

"Is that your final word on it Squiddie?" said Mr Ryan while he strummed a chord.

"Afraid so," I said, full of alcohol powered confidence.

"He's all yours, girls," Mr Ryan said to the delight of the group. The three women jumped to their feet, surrounding me, rubbing my hair, stroking my shoulders and chest.

"Ha, very funny," I said.

"I don't think they’re joking," said Mr McLaughlin. "You better be able for all three of them, or they will be upset."

The girls started to drag me away towards the door. I decided to play along with the joke, and give the lads a laugh. I made a play of looking over my shoulder and calling back to the men. "See you in an hour or so."

Once out in the hall I stopped walking, but the women had other ideas. I tried planting my feet but they just pulled harder. I was holding my own up to the point Alison Wiseman tripped me. The other two grabbed my legs and pulled me along the hall, into the lady’s toilet. Once inside, Mrs Wiseman sat on my chest, her knees and hands holding my arms to the floor. She was laughing; loving every minute.

"Ah come on now, Mrs Wiseman, enough is enough," I said, half laughing but getting a bit nervous. What exactly was going on? More to the point how much did they think was coming off. Okay, all men might think that having three lovely women drag you into the toilets would be a dream come true. If I was a man, it might well be, but to a teenager, it was majorly unnerving.

"Relax," she said. "It's only a bit of fun." I was still hoping she meant a joke on the boys. As Alison Wiseman's lovely brown, but slightly bloodshot, eyes stared into mine, Mrs Ryan and Mrs McLaughlin stripped my shoes and sox. Mrs Ryan then moved up and kneeled above my head. She took off my bow-tie and began unbuttoning my shirt. With each button she got closer and closer to the area I was having difficulty distracting myself from. No not that area, but Alison's crotch. She had to lift herself off my chest to allow Mrs Ryan's hand move lower, for more buttons.

Seizing the opportunity, I bucked and sent Mrs Wiseman toppling off me. I jumped to my feet and made for the door. They tried to stop me but I had too much of a head start. I pulled open the door and came face to face with the owners fifteen-year-old daughter. She’d been in the kitchen, making a midnight snack, when she heard all the commotion. Finding a shoeless, soxless and nearly shirtless, bar man coming out of the women's loo with three drunken women right behind him could only seem bad. No way was I staying there to explain. I just pushed past saying, "It's not what it looks like."

Everyone had a great laugh at my experience. The men couldn’t care less how far the women had managed to get. When I had a chance to get myself pulled together, I went in search of my shoes and sox, but they were on the missing list. Shoes or no shoes, I had to finish out the shift. For rest of the night I was serving drinks barefoot, but at least they didn't try to make me drink any more slammers, or sleep with anyone's wife.

The next day my shoes were found hanging from the Christmas tree in the lobby. I often wonder what could have happened in that toilet had I only struggled just that little bit less.