Sunday 1 September 2013
Monday Joke Time
One day Jim was passing the state psychiatric hospital. There must have been an accident as a section of the wall had been knocked down and was being reconstructed. A timber fence had been put up while the work was going on. From behind the fence came chant of many voices, low like a voodoo spell.
"thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen...."
Jim was a inquisitive fellow who just had to see what was going on. In the fence was an empty knot hole so he took a peek. As he rested his head against the fence a finger poked him straight in the eyeball.
Jim howled in pain, behind the fence bedlam broke out. Cheering and laughing of hundreds of people. After a bit the noise behind the fence died down. Jim was walking away clutching his eye when chant began again.
"fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, ..."
Thursday 29 August 2013
Bat Woman
A
woman in her fifties came sprinting through the moving tide of people, cutting
a swath through them much like a boat cleaves the water. Perhaps it was her
annoyed countenance that moved the crowds so effectively, more likely it was
because she only wore a towel. Coming to a sudden halt before a receptionist
attempting to check in a honeymoon couple, she slammed the desk with a clenched
fist.
"Excuse
me, Excuse me!" she called. Her abrupt manner got the attention of all the
staff and half the guests within ear shot. "There is a bath in my
room!" she said loudly, thumping the desk again with her fist.
"Yes
ma'am," said the pleasant girl behind the desk. "We have baths in
most of the bedrooms."
"I
want it out of my room immediately, " the woman said, getting louder and
attracting even more attention.
"We
can get you a room with a shower if you would prefer," said the receptionist.
"Not
a bath, A BAT! A great big thing with wings, you cretin," she screamed.
"I'll
get the manager," said the girl rushing off in the direction of an office.
The poor woman strode around the lobby in her towel scowling at anyone that
dared catch her eye. She was clearly traumatized by the whole experience.
"What kind of place allows bats to go flying around?" she asked no
one in particular. Soon the manager and the receptionist reappeared. For some
strange reason the manager was carrying a hammer.
"Right
so," he said. "Let’s go see about this bat of yours."
"It’s
not my Bat," the woman said. "I think you’ll find it is your bat,"
she said hotly.
"Just
a figure of speech, Madam. I didn't intend to say he belonged to you," the
hammer wielding manager said, trying to pacify the near naked woman.
"Just
as long as you know, I’m not in the habit of going on vacation accompanied by
flying rodents," she said, storming off in the direction of the elevators
with the manager and receptionist jogging in her slipstream.
When
the little raggle-taggle band got to the bedroom, the manager opened the door
with his master key. He charged in, holding the hammer aloft. This guy couldn't
have picked a worse implement to deal with a flying bat. Firstly, he had no
chance of hitting it. Second, whatever he did manage to hit was going to be
sorry. Looking around, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. "How
big was it," he asked the guest, who was still standing in the hall.
"About
the size of a big cat," said the woman peeking in the door.
"I
can’t see anything ma'am," said the manager, beginning to doubt the whole
mad story, after all what bat was the size of a cat? A vampire one?
"Check
the drawers," the woman demanded from the hall. "He was hiding in
there earlier," she said, not seeming to understand how strange this all
sounded.
"In
the dresser?" asked the manager.
"For
god sake are you a bit slow or something?" the woman said, shouting
again. "That one over there," she said pointing at the dresser by the
bed. The manager slowly pulled the drawer open, keeping as far back as he
could. When an inch of dark interior was showing, the woman let out a blood
curdling scream. The manager nearly jumped out of his skin, swinging the hammer
wildly. He connected with the bedside phone, smashing it into a dozen bits. The
receptionist took off down the hall screaming and beating the air around her
head. The barely covered woman stood howling in the middle of the hall like
some demented werewolf.
"Kill
it! Kill it for god sake!" she screamed, pointing to a spot near the
smashed phone, which was completely empty.
"Kill
what?" asked the manager, holding his chest and panting like a marathon
runner.
"On
the dresser, you moron," she yelled rustling her hair with wild hands.
"No
need for that," said the manager, his feeling hurt.
"Quick
he is going back into the drawer," the woman shouted, pointing again. The
manager slammed the empty drawer shut, trapping the non-existent bat inside.
With the demented woman doing pirouettes in the hall, he had time to look
around the room. He noticed dozens of pill bottles on the table. He picked up
one and read the label. May cause
hallucinations, was twice the size of all the rest of the words, in big red
letters.
All
the commotion had emptied the nearby bedrooms, guests had gathered in the hall,
trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
"I
think the best thing to do, Madam, is to leave him trapped in the locker and
take the whole thing out," said the manager, hoisting the bedside locker into
his arms.
"Yes,
the first sensible thing you've said," she sneered. "Where did you do
your training, MacDonalds?" The poor manager wrestled the dresser out the
door, still holding the hammer in one hand, when the woman called after him.
"You should be ashamed to call this a hotel. I’ll be expecting my bill to
be reduced for the inconvenience."
The
woman stormed into the room in a flap of tiny white towel, slamming the bedroom
door closed. One of the gathered guests asked, "Is everything okay in there?"
"All
fine," he said, with a long-suffering smile. "As long as no pink elephants
turn up."
Saturday 24 August 2013
The Red Spelling Book
Our little school bordered the shores of a lake a couple of miles outside Galway city. We had about forty students spread over three classes making up the whole school. Mrs Feeney had all the smallies, first class to third, were taught by the Master and fourth to sixth classes had Mrs Burke. I hated leaving Mrs Feeney's class, but time tide and the school system waits for no man. The master was old and very cross looking. So far I had found school to be easy and great fun. The only thing Mrs Feeney had ever corrected me on was singing. Prior to a visit by the bishop, we were practicing hymns. The whole room were gathered around her desk singing a Christmas song when Mrs Feeney waved her hands and stopped everyone mid song.
"Squid, why don't you just pretend to sing," she said sweetly. I had been giving the song great gusto but even today I can't hold a note. God knows what racket I was making. Red faced I did as she said. When the bishop came I stood at the back of the group and acted like a goldfish. Who wants to sing for silly men in dresses anyway!
The spelling book was different. The master told us to open the book on our second day in his class. He asked everyone to spell five different words. I got all mine wrong. His face darkened like thunder but he said nothing, I was terrified. That night we had to memorise the first page in the spelling book. I went over and over the words trying to get the letters to stick together in my head but they just would not stay. They were like butterfly's in my brain, they kept flitting around when I tried to remember them. After a long time I got them to sit still. I though I had it cracked. I asked my dad to quiz me, as soon as he asked the first word all the butterflies took flight again. Spell river he said. "R.i.v.r," I tried. No matter how much I repeated them the letters wouldn't stick in my head. I dreaded going to school the next day.
I tried telling mom I was sick, but she made me go to school anyway. The test came after first break. I stood at the front of the class. The master called each word out loud and clear. I got seven out of eight WRONG. I stood there feeling terrified and stupid.
"Harold, that's not good enough at all," the master scolded. I scuttled back to my desk, sick to my stomach. The minutes to lunch dragged. I couldn't wait to get outside and away from everyone. The school was a three roomed little thing with pebble dashed walls. It was spring time and a wild squall blew in from the lake. The driving rain nearly flew straight across not down. The others kids were huddled in the "shelter," behind the play area. Still smarting from my humiliation, I went around the front of the school.
I hunkered down behind a low wall. The wind howled, whipping rain in sheets over my head. Down where I sheltered I was warm and dry. The stillness of the air was amazing. I poked my hand above the wall feeling the icy rain sting my chubby fingers. Although I should remember this day for my terrible spelling, the memory that comes back to me most are those magic moments hiding in the lee of the storm. How I was cocooned in my own world. Despite everything I was elated. Now that I am grown I sometimes think of those minutes, mainly when I feel the world crush down on top of me. I wish, I were still small enough to shelter beneath a stubby west of Ireland wall and let the storm rage safely over me.
Tuesday 20 August 2013
Pub Grub
As with any story, we have
to set the scene. Today, I find myself in a tiny village on the Ring of Kerry.
I was in no rush, so I decided to explore and ended up finding a gem. I
love villages. They have all you need, but in a handy size. Villagers are the
ultimate multi-taskers. O'Brien's Funeral Home, O'Brien's Hardware, and
O'Brien's Ladies Fashions, occupied one small building, and of course, only one
O'Brien. The epitome of Irish village life has to be the combined shop and pub.
A shebeen, (you say it She Bean). For those yet to visit Ireland, I’ll do my
best to describe the one I sit in, now.
The
front door is brown timber, housing opaque glass, it's split in the middle instead
of opening from one side. The window facing the street is crammed with; tins of
beans, boxes of cornflakes, dairy milk gift boxes, dog food, light bulbs, to
name a few items. High on one corner of the exterior, hangs an ancient Guinness
sign, the only hint that a drink lay within.
Inside,
the floor is natural limestone, polished to a dull shine by years of shoe
leather. The first half of this narrow building is home to the shop. The high
counter is made of dark timber worn light by thousands of items passing over
it. On the end of the counter is a weighing scales, with stacks of cast iron
weights. In the corner, near the door are peat briquettes and sacks of
potatoes. Along the back wall, a short bench huddles under a mountain of newspapers.
Behind
the mottled counter, a massive fridge dominates the available space. It looks
like an art-deco coffin stood on its end. The back wall is shelved, from floor
to ceiling. It is not the number of products that is interesting, but eclectic
variety on offer. There’s the normal stuff; like bread, tea, coffee, sugar etc.
What's with the four tins of white paint, flanked by cigarettes and boxes of
nails? Or the motor oil, hair brushes, fly spray and boot polish, that I could
see? Clearly, they stocked in accordance to the specific needs of the people
who shopped here.
Then,
there’s the partition. These shop/pub combos, differ in many ways, but the
feature common to all is the partition. It rises about six and a half feet
tall, the timber bottom is scuffed from years of boot marks, where
feet rested, while chats were held. The top section holds dappled glass, so
only shadows of those moving within could be seen. In the past, this
partition served to protect the gentle nature of Sunday mass goers from
the rowdiness of drinking men. The fact that everyone knew who, and what, was
behind the partition, didn’t matter in the slightest.
Walking
through the partition door is like Alice walking through the looking
glass. Nothing much actually changed, yet things were suddenly completely
different. The shelves behind the counter were the same except from this side
they were filled with spirit bottles. The counter was the same but now there
were high stools and beer taps. Small tables and string topped stools dotted
the polished stone floor. The bench covered outside with papers continued its
journey along the back wall. Here, it hosted men drinking pints of porter and
chatting happily. The bar man bobbed from one side of the partition to the
other. Shop-assistant one moment, barman the next. By walking through the partition,
you became a member of a different circle, the wilder few. Words that caused
scowls the far side of the flimsy partition were welcomed and enjoyed in this
drinking den. Eyes twinkled with naughtiness.
As
I said, I love these places. They are a remnant of a gentler time. Despite the
décor having remained untouched, (thank God), for fifty years, you can't stifle
progress. It seeps inwards like an ocean mist seeps into your bones. In the
fridge, alongside milk, and bottles of Guinness, nestle cans of Monster energy
drink. The bar man, who once would have worn a peaked cap, but now sported an
i-phone. Most of the customers still sported wellington boots,
but occasionally the bottom of the counter would feel the expensive brush
of a Jimmy Choo. What I really wanted to share with you, is a story the
bar man told me.
In
the mid-eighties, Irish tourism was making its mark. Tour buses were a
regular sight on the highroads and byroads of the country. The Ring of Kerry,
has always been one of the places to visit when tripping around our Emerald
Isle. The bus drivers would stop in this very village, to give the camera
toting tourists a chance to click some real Irish people, doing what they did
best, posing for tourists.
Back then, this shebeen was owned by a man called Murphy, and logically was called, "Murphy’s". One memorable day, a few American people wandered in and ordered glasses of Guinness. Murphy was a renowned rogue, and liked nothing more than taking the micky out of his customers.
Being accustomed to a better service environment, one American lady turned to Murphy and asked, "Sir do you have any food?"
Murphy
lifted his flat cap and itched his shiny head, thinking hard.
"I
could make you a ham sandwich, if you wanted," he offered.
"That
would be lovely" said the woman. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t
what happened next.
Murphy took a full pan of bread from shop, and ripped open the wax paper. Pinching some bread between his meaty, callused, fingers. He tossed them directly on the bar counter, in front of the shocked woman. From the same fridge that still sits in the shop today, he extracted a full pound of Kerrygold butter. Murphy opened the foil with filthy fingers, before dropping the open butter beside the bread. Instead of a knife, Murphy grabbed the hard-plastic spatula he used to scrape the excess head from the pints. He didn’t even rinse it before using it to lather butter thickly on the bread.
On a hook over the fridge hung a full, smoked-leg of ham. Murphy unhooked it and slapped it on the counter, beside the bread. Still having no knife, he pulled lumps of meat off with his fingers, piling them on the greasy bread. The look of amazed horror was nailed on the poor American’s face. As it happened, it was a warm summers day, and flies were everywhere. One scooted down and landed directly on the open sandwich. Murphy stopped what he was doing, and stared at the cheeky fly. He grabbed the greasy peaked cap from his head, and deftly swatted the fly where it stood.
Replacing his cap, Murphy flicked the flattened body of the fly off the ham, before slamming the top slice of bread home, with his filthy paw. Having no plate to hand, he slid the uncut sandwich across the bar towards the horrified tourist.
Murphy fixed her with a devilish smile. "There you are, Missus. I'm a stickler for the hygiene," he said, with a wink to the locals, holding in belly laughs, up and down the bar.
I am fairly sure that sandwich never got eaten.
Sunday 18 August 2013
Kid's and truth.
Talking to my friend Karie reminded me of a tiny story I felt like sharing. After the long posts of Duggie Finn this will be short and hopefully sweet.
Before I start I should tell you that I have a fairly big gap between my front teeth. I don't notice it any more but I am sure others must. Here we go!!
About a year ago a young mother came into the bar and ordered a coffee and a juice. She was accompanied by her son who would have been 5 or possibly 6. A right little man he was. You should have seen the way he hoisted himself up on a high stool and propped his elbows on the bar counter. I liked him straight away. He seemed very clever and the way he spoke with his mother was quiet grown up. I served the cup of coffee and asked the boy if he wanted ice in his juice.
"No, thank you." he said politely. I poured his drink and put it on a beer mat for him.
"My name is Sean, what's yours?" he asked, direct and innocent. Something made me want to give him a proper answer, a thing I would not bother with for most adults.
"My name is Harold but my nick name is Squid, that is what most people call me." I said wiping the counter.
"Ok" he said "What's wrong with your teeth" His mother went bright red and looked like she wanted to drop straight through the floor. I smiled. I love the honesty of kids. They call it just like they see it.
"One of my teeth grew crooked so now I have a gap." I said, enjoying this little man and his grown up manner. He thought about that for a minute before saying.
"Why don't you get them fixed. Don't you have the money?" His mother descended into the lowest depths of parental purgatory. Fair play to her she did not stop him or say he was doing anything wrong. She just threw eyes filled with apology.
I outright laughed before saying "If I got them straightened how would people recognise me?" It just came out of nowhere. I had not planned to say that, it just, came out. The little man said no more and his mother distracted him quickly by asking him about a party they were going to later.
I like my gap, it makes me more ME!! Kids are ok too!
Before I start I should tell you that I have a fairly big gap between my front teeth. I don't notice it any more but I am sure others must. Here we go!!
About a year ago a young mother came into the bar and ordered a coffee and a juice. She was accompanied by her son who would have been 5 or possibly 6. A right little man he was. You should have seen the way he hoisted himself up on a high stool and propped his elbows on the bar counter. I liked him straight away. He seemed very clever and the way he spoke with his mother was quiet grown up. I served the cup of coffee and asked the boy if he wanted ice in his juice.
"No, thank you." he said politely. I poured his drink and put it on a beer mat for him.
"My name is Sean, what's yours?" he asked, direct and innocent. Something made me want to give him a proper answer, a thing I would not bother with for most adults.
"My name is Harold but my nick name is Squid, that is what most people call me." I said wiping the counter.
"Ok" he said "What's wrong with your teeth" His mother went bright red and looked like she wanted to drop straight through the floor. I smiled. I love the honesty of kids. They call it just like they see it.
"One of my teeth grew crooked so now I have a gap." I said, enjoying this little man and his grown up manner. He thought about that for a minute before saying.
"Why don't you get them fixed. Don't you have the money?" His mother descended into the lowest depths of parental purgatory. Fair play to her she did not stop him or say he was doing anything wrong. She just threw eyes filled with apology.
I outright laughed before saying "If I got them straightened how would people recognise me?" It just came out of nowhere. I had not planned to say that, it just, came out. The little man said no more and his mother distracted him quickly by asking him about a party they were going to later.
I like my gap, it makes me more ME!! Kids are ok too!
Tuesday 6 August 2013
Duggie Finn Part 1
Duggie Finn
Duggie sat on a high stool and waited for the barman to take his
order. He knew the barman had spotted him soon as he came in, but wouldn’t hold
his breath for a quick service. Duggie was spotted as soon as he went in any
place. He was five foot nine inches tall and as skinny as a rake. His hair was greasy, black, and cut badly.
The skin on his face was pocked from a life time of spots and bad diet. On his
feet gleamed a set of brand new Nike Airs. He wore a track suite zipped all the
way up, despite the heat, and a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes. In short
he looked like trouble from the cradle to the grave.
When the barman couldn’t put off serving him any longer, he
reluctantly wandered towards Duggie and asked, "What will it be?" his
voice dripping suspicion.
"Pint bottle of cider, glass, and ice, bud," Duggie
said. Duggie's words were pulled long by his inner city accent, like chewing
gum stuck on a shoe. It was a flat, North Dublin, drawl. He got no friendly
chit-chat from this barman, who was too long in the business to be innocent.
The man would clearly prefer if Duggie were anywhere, other than sitting in his
bar. The barman popped the bottle cap and plonked it on the counter before
taking the tenner left resting on the counter for him. The barman rang in the
sale and dropped the change back on the counter beside the dewing bottle of
cider.
Duggie waited a second or two before calling "Hay Bud! That
was a twenty spot I gave yea."
The barman glanced over his shoulder and growled "Fuck
Off," without even missing a stride. Duggie shrugged to himself, it was
always worth a go.
It was early Sunday evening and the bar was busy. There were
people all over the place, eating and drinking. Duggie never got the whole
gastro pub thing, a pub was for drinking, if you were hungry go to the chipper.
Simple pimple. There were all kinds of people here, being in a city centre, you
tend to get a real mix of customers. Duggie's eyes flicked over the tables
looking out for a soft score. A wallet poking out of a pocket, a jacket left
alone, or his favourite, a handbag hung over the back of a chair. Nothing was
looking promising at the moment so he decided to sip his drink and wait.
A bellow ripped across the bar "AAAHHH Here, leave it
out!" followed by raucous laughter.
The noise was caused by a blond woman who was about five foot two.
Her voice so rough, she must gargle with razor blades. She seemed to have only
one volume, deafening. Although small in height, she was carrying so much
swinging fat, she looked like someone had rammed an air hose inside her tee
shirt and inflated several swimming rings. She was waving a pint glass around
as she recounted something funny to the rest of her group. There were three couples
sitting at the table and they all looked like they had been drinking since
breakfast. They were typical Dubs, everything was big, big personality, big
hair, big jewellery, you name it. They seemed to be made of too much, far more
than could be contained in a human body.
Beside the table was an empty child's buggy. The kid was running
around the place without anyone keeping an eye on him. These parents went in
for the free range school of child rearing. The floor around the table was
littered with new toys and torn cardboard boxes. The little fella looked about
four. He began tugging at the blond woman, but she never looked in his
direction, she just used her free hand to brush away the annoying distraction
around her feet.
"Mom, mom, mom, MOM!" he balled, now annoying everyone
else within earshot. In the end, she picked him up and dumped him back in his
buggy, before shoving a massive bar of chocolate and a bottle of coke at him.
It was clear to anyone the kid was bored, tired, and cranky. The last thing he
needed was more junk food. It appeared a four year old had more sense than this
mother, as he threw the drink across the floor and roared with frustration while
his parents continued to ignore him. In the end, it all got too much for man a
few tables away.
"Missus shut that kid up will yea," the man yelled in
the direction of the group.
"He is only a kid, what's he doing to you," the mother
shouted back, her face scrunched up with indignation.
"He is wrecking my head, that's what he is doing," the
man replied. "Flipping do something about it, this is a pub not a
crèche."
The blond woman's husband decided it was time to defend his brood,
"What are you saying about my young lad?" he growled. His heavily
tattooed hands transforming into fists, to highlight his meaning.
"I’m saying nothing about him, you on the other hand, should
not be left in charge of a hamster, never mind a child," came the
response. You had to admire the bravery of this guy. The kid’s father looked
like he ate crushed glass for breakfast. The bar man reached under the counter
drawing out a short baton and held it by his leg. None of this was missed by
Duggie.
"Hey you lot, cut out the shouting," he called, but far
too late.
The blond woman's husband launched himself at the group of men
that were complaining. Soon both tables were trading punches, the women pulled
hair, none of them giving a shit about the kid. Duggie saw his opportunity and
walked by a table lifting a handbag, while the owner was watching the
commotion. He shoved it under his top and strode for the door.
On the way out, he took a look back at the scene that was
unfolding. Duggie saw the kid crawl under a table while it rained smashed
glass, spilled beer, and blood, all around him. It was as if he were looking at
himself twenty years ago. He knew the loneliness of a life begun under the
shadow of drink and stupidity. Deep down he hoped this little lad wouldn’t end
up like him, but didn’t like his odds. Time to scarper, the coppers would land
soon.
***
Duggie walked casually to next laneway, where stripped the cash
from the bag and dumped the rest in a wheelie bin. There was an I-phone in the
bag worth a bob or two, but they are all tracked these days, not worth the
hassle. Duggie ended up clearing nearly two hundred quid from the bag, not a
bad result. The driving force behind everything Duggie did was not greed, it
was Heroin, Horse, Smack, Gear, whatever you like to call it. Without it,
Duggie descended into the seventh circle of hell. He did not like steeling but
it was the only way he could survive. When Junk had a hold of you, you did
anything you had too, without a second thought for the consequences.
Today was a good day, he’d shot up the last of his gear when he
woke up this morning. Duggie had floated through the first few hours without
even noticing he was awake. Now, he was on the way back down. He was still feeling
okay for now, even so, he was already getting anxious about what was coming,
and where he would get the cash for his next fix. He would do anything
necessary to feed the monster, what’s a handbag or two to the likes of those
people, he thought.
Getting gear was always a problem but it wasn’t his biggest
problem today. His big problem was Rob. He had been dealing weed for Robbie for
a few months now, it was a handy way to make a bit of money, but the problem
was, when Duggie had money, it seemed to just vanish from his hands. The last
few times he was due to meet Robbie, he had no money at all left, so he just
dodged him. Word was out, Rob had enough of Duggie and was looking to collect,
one way or the other. It was a threat looming huge in his mind. Robbie was not
the kind of guy a right minded person would mess around.
Duggie spent the next few hours drifting around the city streets.
He managed to dip a few more bags in the ILAC Centre and he broke open a
cigarette machine in the back room of a bar while the staff were occupied in
the lounge. He took as many packs of smokes as he could, as well as filling his
pockets with change. He flogged the cigs to people on St Stephens green. By the
end of the day he had just shy of four hundred Euro. He was starting to feel
sick, his skin was beginning
to itch, and the shakes were coming back. It was time for his next hit. Duggie
scurried off to James's street flats, were his dealer lived.
When he reached the flats, Duggie went under the brick arch into
the inner court yard. Court yard was a very fancy term for a laundry strewn pit
of discarded rubbish. Shopping trolleys, old tyres, and a burnt out car were a
few of the artefacts to be found littering the area.
"Oh Douglas," called a deep male voice from just behind
him.
Duggie spun on his heels, two very large men, also in track suits,
were blocking the arch he just come through. Behind them Duggie could see the
doors of a black BMW standing open. They must have been watching the entrance,
waiting for him to turn up. Duggie knew these guys, they were leg busters for
Robbie, and they loved their work. The
Golden rule of live as a druggie is simple, it’s ‘Run!’ The problem was too
where? There is only one other exit from the courtyard and it was at the far
end of the complex. Duggie vaulted a toppled shopping cart and ducked under a
washing line, dragging sheets off it as he passed. The bruisers were right on
his heels, but Duggie was built like a greyhound and nearly as fast. He getting
away from them as he reached other archway. From the shadows, a figure emerged
to block his escape. Duggie had no choice but to stop, it was Robbie, who
wasn’t as big as the two behind him, but much more dangerous.
"Rob. I did not know it was you," Duggie panted, jerking
his thumb over at the two men who were now directly behind him. "I thought
these two were Blanket Bacon," which was slang for undercover cops.
"Never doubted it for a moment Duggie," he said with a
smile. "Just step into my office for a minute," he said holding out
his arm indicating the darkness of the archway. Duggie guts knotted and he
realised his time was up.
"Have you got something for me Douglas?" Rob asked,
backing Duggie up against the curved wall, the top of his head making contact
with the rough brickwork. Duggie pulled the wad of notes he had accumulated
during the day from his pocket and handed it to Rob. Sweat was streaming down
his face, partly due to the possibility of death and partly due the cravings
starting to rage through his body.
"Your light," said Rob, after a quick count. "Where’s
the rest?"
"That is all I have, I swear to God. Give me a few days, I'm
good for it."
"This will just about cover the petrol I spent looking for
you. Are you trying to screw me over? Do I look like a bitch to you?" Rob
said, slapping Duggie hard for emphases. The back of his head bounced off the
brickwork.
"I’d never do that Rob, I’d be mental to try anything like
that," he pleaded. "Things just got away from me."
"More like you shoved it in your arm, you junkie piece of
shit," one of the men chipped in from the side. He had lit up a cigarette
and was blowing smoke rings.
"We could drop him out to Wicklow for you, boss?" said
the thug with a diamond stud in his ear. The Wicklow Mountains were littered
with shallow graves, filled with sad cases just like him and Duggie knew it.
"Jesus there is no need for that, I’m just a bit light,"
Duggie cried.
"You made me run Douglas and I hate fucking running,"
said Mr Diamond.
"Now, now, boys. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Douglas
here still owes me money. If he’s fertilising a bog, how is he ever going to
pay me back? Business first, then pleasure," Robbie said, addressing his
hired help, but the message was for Duggie.
"Thanks Rob, I swear I’ll get you every shilling," he
said, with relief in his voice.
"You've not heard the terms yet Douglas, don't go thanking me
too soon. This-" Rob said, flapping the folded notes, "is a fine for
making me come looking for you. I want two thousand more before Friday."
"Two grand. It’s never that much," Duggie said. Rob's
free hand shot out and crushed Duggie's face. He slammed the back of Duggie’s
head against the arch again, and again, this time the blood flowed down his
neck.
"Interest Douglas, Interest. You have till Friday, then it’ll
be three grand. You got that?" Rob said, bashing the back of Duggie's head
against the rough stone one more time.
"I got it," he mumbled, through crushed lips.
Rob let go of his face and Duggie recoiled expecting to take a dig,
but it did not come. The two brutes moved in, but Rob stopped them.
"I think he has the point," Rob said. The look of
disappointment on the face of Mr Diamond and Smoke Ring, was comical. Robbie
walked away a few paces before turning with a big smile. "Only messing
lads, work away."
The first punch caught Duggie high in the stomach, knocking the
air out of his lungs. Duggie curled into a ball trying to absorb as much of the
beating as he could. It still hurt like hell. He got another good punch under
his left eye and could feel it swell instantly. They took turns in pounding on
him for a few minutes before Mr Diamond said, "Mat how about doing an
O'Gara?"
"Sound," said Smoke Ring, and hauled Duggie to his feet.
He grabbed the tracksuit top and pulled it over Duggie's head, so that it
trapping his arms, which he followed up with a punch in the solar plexus.
Behind Duggie, Mr Diamond was waiting his turn. Duggie's feet were spread wide,
trying to keep his balance. They made a perfect target. Mr Diamond drove his
foot high and hard between Duggie's legs, smack into the family jewels. The pain
was unnatural.
"Right between the posts," laughed Mr Diamond, as
Duggie's knees buckled and he collapsed onto the pavement. He vomited anything
that was in his stomach, mostly liquid.
"Look at the state of him," said Smoke Ring, backing up
from the expanding puddle of puke.
"Let’s go," said Mr Diamond. "Next time Douglas,
don't make me run after you." They walked away, confident that no one
would say anything, not if they knew what was good for them. The kids in the
court yard kept playing, paying no attention at all to the men leaving. To them,
this was part and parcel of life. Just another scumbag getting what was coming
to him.
Duggie lay in a ball of pain, wallowing in his own puke. At last,
the need for a fix got greater than his pain. He slowly, very slowly, got to
his feet. Duggie slipped a hand inside his tracksuit bottoms and had a rummage
around. Everything was still were it should be, and when he took his hand out,
there wasn’t too much blood. He knew he would live. He hobbled back towards
town, holding the wall as he went. The search for money had to start again, the
search for the next fix. Always searching.
Duggie Finn Part 2
Duggie spent the rest of the day moving from bus shelter to door
way, letting time cure his aches. It was no good trying to dip bags like this.
His movements were too slow, he stood out far too much. He would have to wait until
dark. Night was his friend, it cloaked the honest and dishonest, with equal
efficiency. Even in the dark, he avoided
the plush suburbs and well to do areas. Just walking along those streets was
enough to get him pulled in by the coppers.
No, Duggie felt safest among his own kind. Duggie-boy was no Robin
Hood, he stole from his own, to keep it himself. He would have ripped off his
own Mum, if she gave him half a chance, not that she would. Tonight, he made his way along a row of older
council houses just outside city centre. He dismissed most of the houses out of
hand, as they had alarm boxes mounted high on their outer walls. Eventually he
came across one with no alarm and old timber windows. He knocked on the door
and waited. No barking dogs, no answer. Duggie slipped around the side and was
blessed to find a small bathroom window, tucked away from prying eyes.
With a swift jerk of a pry bar followed a sharp snap and the
window sprang fully open. Just like that he was inside. Duggie wore plastic
gloves he had taken from a supermarket deli earlier. He stood with his eyes
closed in the dark bathroom, listening for movements in the house. None came, his
eyes were still closed, waiting for them to adjust to the night time gloom
inside the house. When he opened them,
he could see the room painted in shades of grey. He had to be quick and quiet.
The first time he did a burglary he had frozen, stopping every time he made the
slightest sound, imagining each as loud as crashing pots.
His first break in had been long ago, and now he moved with the
practised grace of a dancer. Gliding lightly from room to room, testing doors
and drawers, leaving the ones that were too stiff or too noisy, but tonight the
owners were out and the house was empty. He quickly filled his pockets with
jewellery, mostly cheap tat, but some gold rings and chains would at least see
him right for a fix. He picked up a game boy, a play station as well as a gym
bag to put them in. There was a gent’s watch that would get him about forty Euro
even though he knew it was worth about ten times that much. He only ended up
snagging a little cash. The most valuable thing he came across, were the keys
to a car. He never once thought of the family coming home, finding the house
ransacked. The fear that he was bringing into their lives.
The hunger born of his addiction had driven all compassion from
his mind. There was no room left in his brain for anything but gear, getting
gear, getting money for gear, the fear of not having gear. Now, he went about
his work like a farmer bringing livestock to the abattoir, immune to the coming
pain and suffering of others.
Once he was back on the street, the heavy gym bag slung over his
shoulder, he pressed the key fob. A seven year old ford fiesta chirped in response,
parked a few feet away from the gate. He loaded the bag into the boot of the
car, and was on his way, thankfully the tank was already half full. One way or
the other he couldn’t go cruising in a stolen motor, eventually it with would
be reported. If he was caught, it was would be a five year stretch for him, no
question. He had to cloak the motor and Duggie knew just what to do.
Driving around, he eventually found the same model, make, and
importantly, the same colour car. It was well past midnight and the streets
were quiet. Duggie pulled up alongside his target. It only took a few moments
to whip off the number plates and be on his way again.
Duggie found a quiet spot with no cameras to change the number
plates on the car for the ones he had just stolen. The chances of someone
reporting a stolen car was high, reporting stolen number plates? Come on, get
real. He was confident now, driving past traffic cameras and even squad cars.
The recognition soft wear they used wasn’t going to sound alarm bells. With
enough money for a fix filling his pocket Duggie went to score.
***
Later that night, Duggie cooked up on a dirty spoon. Sucking the
disgusting but vital liquid through the tiny needle. Digging deep for a vein,
he eventually found one he could use, and let the plunger drive the happiness
into his blood. He felt the drug moving through his body like a living
creature. Sometimes if he really concentrated hard he could actually tell the
moment the first atoms of the drug hit his mind. Exploding in happiness and
peace. Duggie sank back in the seat of the stolen car, the needle still stuck
in his arm. Nothing mattered he now he was home.
Nothing could hurt him, he was where he was wanted, like he was
never wanted in reality. Duggie lay half awake, half asleep in a cloud of
bliss, outside the Omniplex Cinema. That was where he spent the night, dry,
safe from Robbie, safe from everything. Early in the morning a loud banging
roused him.
“Hay Man!” The butt of a torch hammered on the driver’s window.
“Hay, wake up there,” the security guard shouted.
“Alright, alright,” Duggie said sleepily, trying to figure out
where he was.
“What do you think this is, fucking Holiday Inn? Go home and sleep
it off.”
Normally Duggie would have given this fella a right mouth full,
but sitting in a hot car, it did not seem wise. Anyway, it wasn’t the guard
that he did not like the look of, it was the flipping huge Alsatian he had with
him.
“I’m Go’n, alright give me a minute,” Duggie shouted, searching
for the keys which were still hanging from the under the steering wheel. Duggie
saw the guard recognise the cook up spoon, baggie, and lighter, thrown in the
passenger foot well but could do nothing about that now. He started the engine and
carefully drove out onto the main road.
The traffic was quiet, the fog of sleep was wearing off and his
problems with Robbie surfaced in his brain again. How the hell was he going to
get two grand in six days? No amount of handbags were going give him that
much. Duggie reckoned that even with
what he got in an average burglary, he would have to break into at least five
houses a day to get even close. All that without even taking anything for
himself. What he needed was to get two thousand all in one go. He was so caught
up with is worries he failed to notice the van in front of him indicate left.
He nearly ran into the back of it. Duggie Leaned hard on the horn as the green Post
Office van turned into a dive way. The driver’s arm appeared out of the window,
and give Duggie the finger. It was times like this that you nearly could
believe in fate. A plan hatched in Duggie's drug riddled brain as he
accelerated away from Dublin and into the lush green countryside.
***
Duggie was at best a ‘D’ student, for the few years he managed to
stay in school. Not even the most misinformed newsreader would ever refer to
him as a 'Criminal Mastermind'. Everyone but Duggie knew he was as thick as two
short planks. The only one that didn't seem to realise this important fact, was
Duggie.
Nearly hitting the post van
got him thinking about all those old age pension books he had lifted from
handbags around the shopping centres of Dublin. If he hit just one post office,
it was like picking hundreds of pockets, all at once. Even Duggie wasn’t stupid
enough to try and take the GPO on O’Connell Street. If he went in there mob
handed, with shooters all over the gaff, he’d still come out with nothing more
than his dick in his hand.
No, he needed a small place, a country Post office would do just
fine. Duggie wasn’t greedy, he only needed two grand, four at the most. The way
he figured it, they wouldn't be ready for a raid. In Duggie's mind, he saw
himself walking in all mean and nasty, scary gangster. Some little blue rinse
old woman with snot and tears running down her face throwing wads of cash at
him just to get out.
All those country bumpkins were soft as shit, it was going to be a
push over. Duggie changed the plates
back to the originals before pulling into a petrol station. He waved in at the girl behind the counter
before casually filling up the tank. He even waved at her again as he got back
in his car and drove away without paying. Ten minutes later he was back on the
stolen plates and as good as invisible once more. He had dumped his baseball
cap and took of his top in case the girl gave his description to the coppers.
Plan in place, Duggie headed out into the wild green yonder. He made his way through Wicklow and down near
Wexford before turning off the main road. He followed country roads and lanes
until he arrived in a tiny village. It was so small, it didn't even register on
the sat nav. At one end of the village under a green sign was a tiny post
office. It looked like someone’s front room which had been converted, leaving
the rest of the house for living in, ideal. Only five miles to a main road.
Once on that he could head anywhere in the country.
It was afternoon and his last fix was wearing off. He drove out of
town and found a quiet spot to sort himself out. He cooked up, just a small
dose to keep him going through the job, but not enough to actually get him
high. He needed his wits about him. He was stepping up into the big time and
despite everything, he was excited.
Forty minutes later he strolled casually into the Post Office.
He had planned to pretend to buy some stamps, to look for his
opportunity to jump the counter and do a swift bash and grab. As soon as he
went in to the post office, this plan went out the window. First, the place was
packed, people were queuing up, waiting for the one person behind the counter
to serve them. Duggie had no choice but to join the queue or look like some
total space cadet. Second, there was no way to jump this counter. A glass and
timber partition went from floor to roof in front of the teller. The glass
looked bullet proof, it was defiantly Duggie proof. The door leading behind the
counter was grey steel covered with posters but it too looked remarkably
sturdy. Trust Duggie to pick the fort Knoxx of country post offices.
“Your turn lad,” said the man standing behind him, this guy must
have been a farmer because he was stinking of cow shit. Duggie had been so caught up with his
disappointment and checking out the place, he had not noticed the old woman
ahead of him finish her business and walk away from the service hatch. This
revealed the last and final deterrent to a raid on this particular post office.
Nowhere to be seen was a little old blue haired granny that Duggie hoped to
encounter. Instead, seated in her place was a guy in his late thirty's, bald,
who looked like he bench pressed cars in his spare time. It was not his size
that mattered to Duggie, he had seen guys bigger than this fella break down in
tears when the shit came down. It was his eyes, you see. Some men have this
wild streak that you can see glinting just behind a friendly smile. They walk
through strange towns, hoping some doped up scumbag tries to mug them. This man
was just like that, his stop button had been disabled and was one dangerous
mother, he might even be worse than Robbie. One thing was for sure, Duggie was
not going to find out. Instead, he asked for a book of stamps and came out
leaving twelve euros of his money behind the counter that he would never ever
see again.
Duggie sat in the car fuming, having drove half way around the
country he was no closer to getting the money he needed, and twenty four hours
closer to a shallow grave in the mountains. Maybe he should just keep going, settle
somewhere Robbie couldn’t get him. Deep down, he knew that wasn’t going to
work. Ireland was a small place. If you ran in the circles that Duggie and Rob
ran in, it was even smaller. Besides, he knew nowhere but Dublin.
Duggie had to get the money, there was nothing else for it. With
the chance of one big score gone down the sink hole, Duggie went back to what
he knew best, pick out the weak and pounce.
For the next while he watched people come and go from the post
office. At last he saw an old man pull up on a small red tractor. In his hand,
Duggie recognised the pension book he had seen so many times before. This was
the one. Duggie watched the man when he left the post office while he walked
stiffly to the shop across the road. He came back soon laden with bags. All
this was good. This fella looked like he only came to town now and again. He
was more likely to have cash lying around the house, and live further from the
village.
Duggie had been told by other lags when he was inside that some of
these old farmer's had thousands in cash, shoved in holes or under pots. You
just had to get them to say where. A few slaps normally did the trick.
The old man loaded everything on the back of the little tractor
and did a 360 on the road, heading back the way he came. Duggie watched until
as the tractor drove out of the village, before starting the car to follow. The
problem with tailing a tractor is, it goes too slow. Duggie had to keep
stopping every time he caught up, pulling over to let it get away again. He
listened to the sound of it dying away in the distance, trying to gauge whether
it turned or slowed. He used the sat nav to see when roads were coming up
ahead. He nearly lost it when the tractor turned to the right, up a small lane with
grass was growing in the middle of it. Duggie drove on past the lane twice,
before taking the turn. He followed track a short distance with his head
hanging out of the driver window listening for the sound of the tractor ahead.
Soon he heard it. Duggie kept the little tractor barely in sight, seeing it
pull into an isolated farm yard.
Duggie pulled over and waited a while, no other cars passed. At
last he got out of the car and opened the bonnet. He loosened one of the
terminals on the battery and closed the bonnet. He walked towards the farm
taking in all he could see. No cars, the only clothes on the washing line were
men's and all looked old fashioned. Duggie waited for the barking of dogs that
would act as warning of his approach, but none came. He knocked on the front
door and waited. No one answered. From the side of the house a head popped out.
“All right, what do you want,” said the old man Duggie had seen
driving the tractor.
“Sorry to bother you sir, but my car’s broken down and I’m a bit
lost. Do you think you can help me,” Duggie said, in his most innocent voice.
He had left the tracksuit top and baseball hat in the boot of the car and now
he just was wearing a black tee shirt over the track suit bottoms and runners.
He could be on the way to football training except for the scummy haircut.
“Where is it?” the old man asked.
“Just down the road a bit. I know nothing about cars. This is my
first one,” Duggie said telling the near truth for once.
“Come on so you better let me take a look. Where were you going
anyway,” the farmer asked walking across the yard towards the road.
“I was on my way to Waterford and thought I’d go cross country
from Wicklow, but got lost. I was trying to get back on the main Waterford road
for ages,” Duggie lied, but he knew he wasn’t far from the main road. It was
the one he had planned to use as his escape route after knocking off the post
office.
“Is that your car down there?” the old man said, pointing to the
Fiesta pulled in off the lane.
“Yea that is it, I stalled and it just would not start again.”
“Give me the keys till I have a look,” the farmer said. Duggie
handed over the keys. He could never have done this if he had hotwired the
thing. The old man eased himself into the driver seat with difficulty. Duggie
could tell he was hardy, but age was making his movement painful. All this was
good news. The old man turned the key a few times and nothing happened.
“Perhaps I can get your wife to call a tow truck or garage?”
Duggie said.
“I don’t have a phone,” the old man said. “And if you are looking
for my misses, you better get a shovel,” he said without a hint of humour.
"Sorry to hear that,” Duggie said. “If you just point me in
the direction of the next town I can walk,” Duggie offered.
“Just pop the bonnet and let me have a look first,” the old man
said, struggling to get out of the car. Duggie did as he asked.
“Ah there is your problem. The battery is loose and one of your cables
has nearly come off." The farmer shoved the cable back into place with a
gnarled hand. “Give it a go now.”
Duggie sat behind the wheel and started up the engine.
“Drive it up to the yard and I'll tighten up that battery and
cable,” the farmer said.
“There is no need really thanks very much,” Duggie said.
“Don’t be silly, it’s no bother. If you go driving over these
rough roads you will be broken down within two miles,” he replied and would not
take no for an answer.
Duggie let him tighten he cables and give him directions to the
main road, before leaving with a wave. Duggie tried to give him twenty Euro for
helping, but the old man shook his head and refused, saying he did nothing, he
was glad to help.
Duggie spent the next few hours driving around the roads in the
area. Making sure he could find his way back to the farm with ease. When he was
happy he had a good map of the area in his brain, Duggie found his way to the
main road and a busy lay bye. Sometime the best place to hide is in plain view.
He settled down to wait until night. Catching up on sleep like some tired commuter.
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
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