Duggie Finn Part 3

Pat watched the little car drive away. He didn’t like the look of that guy, one little bit. The story about getting lost going cross country was total rubbish. A city boy looking as sick as he did, was up to no good, of that Pat was sure. Whatever his story was, he was gone now and good riddance. Pat went back to his kitchen and finished putting away his groceries.

Pat looked out over the rolling grassland of his little farm, letting his mind wander. It must be a sign of getting old, as these daydreams were happening more and more often these days. The Mann family had been farming this land for over one hundred and sixty years. Soon all that would come to an end. His wife, God bless her soul, had given him one son, James, who was the apple of her eye. It broke Pat's heart when James looked beyond the ways of the country for his happiness. James was a good boy, perhaps too good of a boy. He visits, now and again, but the look of boredom hovering behind his eyes is undeniable.

The last real tie James had with this farm ended when Annie passed away, that was five years ago. Cancer had taken her, the fags did the damage. Pat hid it as best he could but he was broken with the loss of her. Every morning, first thing, he would turn to her photo on the dresser and say "Well Annie love, time to get a move on," just as he had said to her every morning of their thirty eight year marriage. Pat talked to Annie without noticing she was no longer there, as if she were still sitting by the range. Annie was no ghost in this house, she was as real as she had always been. Pat couldn't imagine even a moment without her essence in his life, what would be the point in going on without her.

After she died Pat felt so hollow, he was sure he would follow her from grief alone. It didn't happen, no matter how often he wished for it. Time has a way of just passing, a minuet at a time. Before you know it an hour is gone, then a day, soon a week has passed. After that months and years seem easy, life is relentless. No matter how much you think you can't go on, time ignores your needs and ploughs ahead regardless. One thing is sure, everyone owes a death.

Soon he would run out of time. The only one left to pass the farm too was James. Pat was sure it would be sold rather than kept as a Mann family farm. Pat felt disappointed, this land was important, it was what made a man a man. Pat's parents and grandparents had fought and died for this land and now his seed would just give it a way for a fist full of silver. Any dreams his ancestors had of this place passing from generation to generation into the mists of time, were but a fantasy.

Pat shook of his daydream off and set about finishing his chores. The back door lay open, allowing the sounds of birds and insects to drift into the house on a gentle summer breeze. Early in his life, the quiet of the country seemed stifling, but these days he liked the way it laid gently on his ears. Once he had been young, wild and idealistic, though it was hard to guess by the bent old man he had become. Deep inside the fire that had burned so bright, glowed still.

Pat had sought out excitement, bucking the system, and striving for what he thought was right. Pat had attended meetings in the dead of night, planned actions and hid guns to help unify a country he felt was still under occupation.  He listened to the rhetoric, and was carried away by stories of hero's fallen for a greater good. He had struggled against occupation and had lived to see peace come to his land. How quickly the masses forgot, how quickly they thrown away all they had achieved. People were all the same, he now realised, as were governments, Irish, English, whatever, it made no difference. It was as if all his efforts, all the sacrifices, were just forgotten, but he still held on to his truth.

"Ah, what's wrong with me Annie?" he said, to the empty room. "I'm getting maudlin in my old age. I think we will be seeing each other soon love, but till then the cattle in the top field still need water"

Pat walked stiffly towards the small tractor and the never ending list of jobs waiting to be done.

***

Meals in the Mann house were never going to win culinary awards, frying pans loaded with meat, plenty of lard, with a mountain of spuds boiled in their skins. Pat dumped the potatoes on newspaper, laid directly on the kitchen table. Once peeled they were sloshed around in the congealed grease, bubbling in frying pan, before being wolfed down. Pat only bothered with a plate if there was going to be company in the house. Tonight's feast of chops and spuds happened to be served on chipped white plates because Michael Ryan had called round for a chat.

"Have you enough chops Michael?" Pat enquired landing a bloody lump of meat swimming in artery clogging grease onto his plate.

"More than I will be able to finish thanks, Pat. Are those your own potatoes?"

"Yep sure are. Dug a fresh basin just this morning," he said.

"I knew it, they had to be," Michael said. "Balls of flower they are, not like the soapy things you get in the shops. You know, I heard they all come in from Spain! Can you credit that? Flying spuds all the way from Spain to Ireland. Sure isn't Ireland where they first found the spud growing," said Michael, in between chomps, pits of potato flying across the table with each word.

Pat was fairly sure that potatoes actually came from America, but he said nothing. Michael was a grand chap, even if not the brainiest in the world. Like Pat, Michael had been born and breed not a mile from here. They hadn’t know each other as boys, they’d first met when Pat began doing little jobs for the republicans. Pat was only a runner, where Michael had been fully committed. It was best never to know too much about those times, a philosophy that the organisation encouraged and Pat followed with determination by never asking anything. If you needed to know, someone told you, otherwise keep yourself to yourself. Michael had a fiery temper all his life, but after a few midnight trips in the late seventies, he became completely unhinged. There was damage deep down in that man for sure. Pat liked Michael, and any company was good company. Pat spent too much time creaking around this old place by himself. He only went into town for shopping or the odd trip to the pub. A lot of his friends were taking up plots in the church yard these days. Only a hand full were left alive.

For the rest of the evening they drank whisky and Guinness. They discussed politics, the way things were changing, they shared news, and stories. In short they had a grand old night but soon it was dark.

"I better put some road under my shoes Pat," Michael said, getting to his feet unsteadily.

"It's fair late Michael. Why not sleep here?" Pat asked. It was nice having company."Jame's room is all made up."

"Well, I could, I suppose," Michael said, plopping back down in the chair. Pat reached across, sloshing a shot of whisky into Michael's glass.

"Twist my arm why don't you," Michael laughed.

"Go on tell me again how you think that gob-shite Kenny is doing a good job running the country," Pat teased, delighted his friend was not leaving just yet.

***

Duggie woke up before midnight. He got out of the car and stretched his legs. He stood where he was and peed copiously without trying to hide from the passing traffic. He opened up the boot, lifting the carpet lining to get at the spare tyre. Inside there was a small tool kit. Duggie put a screwdriver in his pocket as well as taking the tyre iron out before replacing carpet. He still needed to cover his face with something but he had nothing to use. Duggie was hungry, but that would have to wait until later. He had a more demanding need to attend to first. He only had half a wrap left, but it would have to do until he got back to civilisation. He only barely felt the drug hit his system, the cook-up was so weak.

He started the car and turned back toward the village, and the farmer’s lane. On the way he made a quick stop at a house with washing hung out in the garden. He grabbed a pair of women's tights, and a tee shirt and jeans belonging to a teenager. Duggie was so thin he could shop in the children's section. He found a quiet spot and changed his clothes, putting the tracksuit in the boot along with the stolen stuff he hadn’t gotten round to fencing yet.

Duggie found the lane easily enough. He opened a gate and drove the car into a field out of sight, before walking the rest of the way up the narrow roadway. Soon he could clearly see the farmyard. All the lights were out but it was only just after one in the morning. It would be better to wait a while longer, to make sure the old man was in bed. Duggie climbed into the ditch, taking up a position out of sight. It was nearly two when he was happy and he climbed down onto the lane once more.

Duggie rolled the tights down over his face, then he picked up the tyre iron and scurried across the lane. He crossed the yard as quietly as he could and tried the front door. Locked. Moving along the building, checking windows as he went, all locked. Duggie moved around the back of the house to the kitchen door. It opened easily when he lifted the latch. Duggie couldn't believe his luck.

The kitchen smelled of frying and farts. Dishes were piled in the sink. On the sideboard was a half empty bottle of whiskey. Duggie unscrewed the cap and took a big swallow.  He needed something to top off his buzz. From overhead came the deep steady snores of the farmer. Duggie began to search the kitchen. In the coat hanging on the back of the door he found a wallet with about a hundred euro in it, but little else. It looked like he would have to get the farmer to tell him where his stash was. Duggie took the screwdriver out of his pocket and pushed the door leading upstairs slightly wider.

Duggie took each step quietly, timing his steps with the deep snores of the farmer, masking any creeks. The bedroom door stood ajar, he could see the shape of the farmer under the blankets. He looked much smaller than he had earlier in the day. Duggie appraised the weapons in his hand. If he hit the old lad with the tyre iron he might end up killing him. Duggie didn't want to be facing a lifetime stretch, just because some old bogger could not take a slap. Better to scare him with the screwdriver, if he needed persuading, his fists would do the job nicely. Duggie left the tyre iron on the carpet outside the bedroom door before going in. He wanted the element of surprise. He didn’t want to give the old codger the chance to pull a twelve gauge from under the bed.

Duggie was standing over the old man looking at his sleeping, snoring face, it was now or never. Duggie grabbed the farmers face covering his mouth with his right hand while holding the screwdriver about a foot away.

"Where is the money?" he snarled. The farmer’s eyes shot open and tried to lift himself off the bed.

Duggie jumped on top of him, straddling the old man. Duggie punched him hard in the side of the face which hurt his hand something rotten. "Where is the fucking money?" Duggie yelled no longer needing to be quiet.

"In my jacket down stairs," the old man said in shock. Duggie punched him a few more times. "I am not talking about a few notes, you dipstick. Where do you keep the real money? Tell me now or swear I will shove this fucking thing right through your eye," Duggie said, brandishing the screwdriver an inch from the frightened farmers face.

"I have no money. Leave me alone," the farmer cried, trying to cover his face. Duggie leaned back and swung the screwdriver down hard on the farmer’s leg. The tip bit, but didn't go in to far, the sheet took most of the punishment. The Farmer screamed in pain,

"Aha Jesus you stabbed me!" The old man's eyes rolled in his head before again coming under control, he took a few rasping breaths and said, "I told you he said I have NO MONEY!"

Duggie punched him again, "This is the last time I ..."

Right then the world went black for Duggie Finn.

***

Michael pulled the prone body off Pat, and swung the tyre iron a few more times. He felt it thud softly into different parts of the unmoving man.

When he stopped, he was panting. "Are you Okay Pat?" Michael asked standing there in his underwear.

"He flipping stabbed me in the leg," Pat winced, through split lips.

"Give me a look," said Michael, pulling back the bed sheets."It's sore looking, but not deep.”

Michael wiped the blood away with the corner of the sheet. "We will stick a bandage on it in a bit," he said.

Pat pushed himself out of the bed to have a look at the man lying on the floor. He leaned over and yanked the tights off Duggie's head. "That's the same lad that broke down out on the lane today. Remember I told you about him earlier?"

"You said he was a scumbag, looks like you were right," Michael said, tapping the tyre iron against Duggie's unmoving leg.

"Do you think he is dead?" asked Pat.

"Don't know for sure. I cracked him a good one around the back of the head. He could be," Michael said.

"Do you think we should check?" asked Pat.

"Sure," said Michael. He hit Duggie an unmerciful slap with the tyre iron across the hip. Duggie let out a groan of pain.

"Looks like he's alive," said Michael with a straight face. "What will we do with him?"

"I don't know. Let me put some clothes on." Pat said. They tied Duggie’s hands behind his back with a belt, and his feet with an old tie that was hanging in the wardrobe. Then they got dressed themselves. Once dressed they gathered around the scobie robber again.

"We should call the Gardaí?" asked Pat.

"You don't have a phone," Michael said helpfully. "Are you going to leave this little shit alone here while we go to the village? He would have the place turned inside out by the time we get back."

"Fair point," said Pat, rubbing his throbbing face.

"Anyway how are you going to explain who hit him? You know they are still trying to pin half the bank jobs in Wexford on me. I’m not saying a word to them," said Michel. He had a thing about the guards, he was convinced they were still after him. It might have been true at one stage, but now Pat doubted if they even knew Michael existed. You won't convince Michael of that.

"What about you?" asked Michael.

"What do you mean, What about me?" Pat asked, confused and a little bit cranky.

"You’re always hearing about things like this. Some scrot breaks into a house, ends up falling down the stairs. What does he do but sue the fella that owns the house for thousands," Michael said.

"I don't have thousands, what would be the point of suing me?" said Pat.

"He might end up getting the farm if you couldn’t pay him," reasoned Michael. "Anyway look at him, he hardly fell down the stairs, we battered the shit out of him."

"You battered him, not me," argued Pat.

"Makes no difference. It's your house, Pat. He might have brain damage or anything," Michael said, tapping Duggie in the forehead with his shoe.

"I’m going to have to think about this," said Pat. He was worried because he thought Michael might be right. He had heard those stories too.

"One way or the other I am not losing the farm," he said, at last. "We will have to hold on to him until we see how bad he is."

"We can't leave him here," said Michael.

"We will use the bunker," suggested Pat.

During the time he was hiding guns for the 'Boys' he had converted the back of the milking shed into a bunker by building a fake end wall. One of the grain holders swung out on hinges, a hidden door. It was as safe as houses. A small vent in the roof let in air but there were no windows. Duggie was beginning to come round, Pat grabbed his shoulders and Michael his feet, lifting Duggie like an old rug.

"Jesus he is as light as a feather," laughed Michael "How did you let a little shite like this get the better of you."

"I was asleep, you donkey. I didn't get chance to get a slap in before you were rearranging his brain," Pat laughed. Sometimes you just had to laugh. Down the stairs they went. The two old men slagging each other while Duggie’s drugged and bruised brain tried to make sense of what was going on.

Final Part http://squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.ie/2013/08/duggie-finn-final-part.html

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?????