Call Me
"Work never waits" was what the partner would have said if he saw him sloping off at half three. He had mumbled something about going for physio as he left and nobody had reacted.
At 29 he was going for a lot more physio and playing a lot less games these days and everyone knew it.
Rugby had got him the job in Slaughter Harness and Antler and a distasteful niggle in his head murmured that maybe it might lose it too.
In a rare glimpse of self-awareness he looked at his reflection in the glass divider and saw that his once powerful frame was less defined and his cauliflower ears were looking less attractive by the day. A movement the other side of the glass highlighted that a secretary was returning his gaze quizzically.
"Oh she is nice - whats her name Louise, Laura…Leticia that’s it - wouldn’t mind maybe oh yeah I did at Christmas."
The girl shot him a hard look and returned to her work. The lesson today children is don’t shit where you eat. The gene pool in this place was becoming progressively smaller but no other firm would put up with his antics and cavalier outlook.
He met another conquest at the lift and blatantly looked at his shiny tan shoes to avoid her. He got in and hummed the bassline to Seven Nation Army for seventeen floors to the ground. On the street he compared his suit to those he met and it compared favourably on style and price. This pleased him slightly but not as much as usual.
He checked his Blackberry before he got on the tube but nothing but dirty jokes from his mates and a rather severe message from his boss about timekeeping – Fuck them.
He used the tube journey to recreate yesterday evening. There had been a sevens tournament and he had pulled something. He had went to his usual physio outfit but they were booked out so he went to one recommended by his teammate Rob. She was attractive but not that attractive and he had given her his most winning smile.
"Lie on the bench please"
"Erm I think I have a groin strain" he said hopefully
"It just looks like a strain in the thigh muscle"
He had let her get on with it and casually asked her if she was Irish.
"Yeah I live in Camden"
Camden was good and it meant she was renting - you couldn’t get a gaffe in Camden on a Physio’s Salary – time to turn it on a little.
"Ive got a place in Islington myself"
No reaction whatsoever except to wrench some body parts into an unnatural juxtaposition – ouch.
"That’s you done - you can dress here and settle up in Reception"
"How about a drink some night?" delivered with a raffish wink
She snorted and began to move her lips to refuse but he pressed a business card into her hand. The contact details took up more space than anything else. There was a work extension, Mobile, Skype, e-mail and messenger Ids. He was the most contactable man on earth.
She just walked out without another word - no bird had ever done that to him before.
He was appalled, aggravated and a little bit attracted.
She was gone when he arrived at reception and the girl was not giving out her name. He had gone home and slept the sleep of the just but this morning life had shifted slightly. In a meeting he had played with his mobile all morning and he hadn’t fancied lunch.
Then at three pm he realised he had forgotten to divert the landline in the apartment to his mobile. This was obviously why the girl had not been in touch. He deduced that she had called the landline being a good traditional Irish lass and left him a steaming message with her phone number. Score.
He willed the tube on and practically ran down Upper Street to the church.
The Church had been deconsecrated and converted into luxury apartments – all oak beams and pretension. He got the lift to the top level to save time and struggled to deactivate the alarm.
At the end of the hall was a picture of Al Pacino holding a very businesslike machine gun. On a wrought iron table stood the Bosch SCR9000 cordless telephone with voicemail.
He glanced at the front where a red LED light was flashing – once – Bingo.
He grabbed it and pushed play – a familiar female voice came ringing out.
"Hello Owen, hold on I’m talking to his machine, this is Mammy speaking…"
His spirits fell as he heard his father swearing in the background.
"Your cousin Assumpta got engaged and Mrs Nolan has a polyp in her nose."
This message came every Friday and he had to own up to ignoring a large amount of them.
"Give us a ring when you get a chance and remember to get mass"
He hung up and carried the phone into the main room just in case. He looked up at the former churches vaulted roof and this gave him a slight lift. That roof definitely appealed to the chicks which brought him back to the lack of contact from the girl. Why didn’t she ring – did she not know how great he was? – Everyone said so.
The possibility occurred to him that she might have e-mailed him in an effort not to appear too eager.
He had seen girls use this approach in the past – casual like. He picked up his Titanium cased wireless with round baler laptop and logged on. Nothing there and nothing on the Blackberry - he would have to wait, wait –
him!
The irony was not wasted on him that he had often forgotten to ring or deliberately delayed the call to mess with their heads. Maybe he would behave better in future but then again maybe not.
He jumped on his large well-appointed couch and went fishing through his growing collection of remote controls. He found the one he needed and his huge television apparatus rolled down from the ceiling. He watched some Baseball program for ten minutes but couldn’t concentrate.
He made coffee in a machine that had only marginally less controls than an Airbus then realised he had no milk. Bugger. He decided to drive up to the petrol station for the distraction. He went through the ritual of diverting all phones to his mobile and checked twice that it and the blackberry were powered up.
He walked downstairs to the basement and walked up to a small but speedy German car. He had been secretly delighted when it had been recalled to have a spoiler fitted due to instability at very high speeds – oh yesh.
He bought the milk and preened slightly as he pulled out of the forecourt. The logic or otherwise of buying an expensive sportscar in a city that had virtually outlawed the car was not lost on him. On the other hand the car was cool and by extension so was he. He couldn’t wait to see the girls face when she saw him rock up in its gleaming magnificence. A quick glance at the mobile showed no news as yet.
He started to think, a rare occurrence that usually landed him in trouble. If she were to ring in two minutes the time between now and then would pass regardless – it was all subjective and it made his head hurt. He parked having come to the conclusion that women didn’t love him for his intellect.
In the apartment he made more coffee with milk this time and picked up the post.
He would give himself the time it took to go through it to ignore the looming white beast of a phone.
Timeshare Ad – Bin
Readers Digest letter – Bin
Holiday Brochure - Bin no hold on lets look at the pictures. 30 seconds to leer through them then onwards.
Bill - Paid
Subscription to Bloke Magazine – file on couch for future reference.
After this monumental exercise he had gone for 2 minutes and 45 seconds without thinking about the girl. Admittedly he had been thinking about the girls in the holiday brochure but they didn’t count.
He was halfway through the coffee when it occurred to him the phone might not be working – the only suggestion was to test it – she could be calling right then.
He texted his mate Dave to ring him on his landline urgently. Within seconds his mobile rang the Kool and the gang ringtone grating more than usual. (That’s the way ohaw ohaw I like it)
"Hello"
"Hi its Dave, you told me to ring you"
"I told you to ring my landline you Nong, hang up now"
He replaced the mobile in his pocket as the landline rang out.
"Hello"
"It’s me again"
"Cool; now piss off Dave, I’m busy"
Busy indeed, he started flicking rice crispies off the table in the general direction of the bin in the corner. He had two hits out of fourteen attempts so he got the remaining twelve and lined them up on the table for round two – this time its personal.
At half time in the world rice crispie shooting competition he took a bathroom break. Bathrooms in the church were cavernous rooms all marble and chrome. He did a quick audit and noticed that hair gel and moisturiser levels were approaching critical. Normally he would stroll up to the Tesco Metro to scope the singletons shopping but with his newfound maturity he had lost the desire to ponce around carrying a bottle of expensive red and a meal for one. No he was going to change his ways after he started going out with the girl.
He had images of Picnics in Regents Park; Hilarious reposts at speaker’s corner and touching moments on the London Eye. Life was going to be peachy.
It was five thirty by now and usually he would be installed in a Café bar on form and on his first beer. Thirsty he went to the massive chrome fridge and extracted a Ukrainian beer. This stuff was five times the price of normal lager and he refused to admit it didn’t taste even twice as good. A game was starting so he draped himself over the sofa and forgot about everything for a while.
At halftime some team were leading some other team by a goal, it was a rubbish match but he couldn’t bring himself to switch it off - the alternative was too horrible.
This was getting sad, extremely sad. The second half of the match was even more appalling than the first and…..
……and the phone was ringing – loudly. He jumped up and looked at his divers watch – it said a quarter past seven and he felt confused from the sleep and the drink.
He tripped on his lace as he stood up and banged his elbow off the corner of the table. He wondered as he got up why it was called a funny bone when it wasn’t remotely funny.
Taking a few milliseconds to compose himself he answered the phone.
"Hello"
"Is that Owen O’ Sullivan?" came a breathless Irish accent. Brilliant.
"Yes it is, who is this?"
"Owen O’ Sullivan of Slaughter Harness and Antler?"
He grinned at the performance - she must have his impressive card in front of her.
"That’s right, how are you doing there?"
"We are doing great – there are a big gang of colleens here who want to talk to you Owen"
This was going superbly – he couldn’t have hoped for better.
"So whats the message from you guys?" This was met with a gale of female mirth and much sniggering.
"Owen O’ Sullivan, Junior Associate you have been awarded the title of…Plonker of the Month now feck off back to Islington ya tool ya."
His face dropped and he hung up. He stood in shock with the taunts ringing in his ears – how could they? Didn’t they appreciate the legend that was Owen O’ Sullivan?
A tiny sliver had been jammed into his pupils – he was looking at the old church apartment and the car and the job in a different light. Those girls would be spending their miserable paycheques and laughing all night at his expense.
That was the worst.
He stepped up to the chrome American fridge and delivered a beautiful arc of a kick. He succeeded in denting the fridge and fracturing his toe.
Now he was a joke with a dented fridge and a fractured toe - Now
that was the worst……
Patients
Monday:(Somewhere): He opened his eyes thinking, "What is this place?" The trolley wheels squeaking woke the patient up as two male nurses came to collect the sheets. They prided themselves on performing each task at exactly the same time each day - structure was important in this place. One nurse opened the double doors that led outside from the ward. These doors were from a time when this place had tackled TB, now they looked after all kinds of mental maladies instead.
The patient looked around and saw a Walkman radio on the stand on the left of his bed. For no reason, he decided to get out of the right side of the bed. He then put on the radio and heard a news flash – a typhoon had just hit Tokyo causing devastation in the area. It all came back to him then, he and the typhoon were connected, and the slightest deviation from his routine could have catastrophic results in the real world. He cursed the decision to get out of bed that way and vowed never to do it again. The fundamental interconnectedness of all things was a real pain in the arse.
Monday: (Liverpool Street): The trader got out of his efficient steel and glass car, took the steel and glass lift to his steel and glass office. It was still dark but there were a sheaf of research reports covering the keyboard of his computer. He glanced through the commentaries - large open interest option positions to be hedged and the fund had stiffed him again. The typhoon had knocked 15% of the Nikkei and as usual the fund had sold its holdings last night – how did it always win? It reminded him of chaos theory; somewhere a butterfly was flapping its wings.
Monday:(Shepherds Bush): The researchers grabbed his script from his hand sixty seconds before they were on.
"Load the autocue " he snapped as the continuity announcer let the audience know the news was imminent. This story was just in so he knew it would be updated during the broadcast – that’s why you need a professional at the front….
"News just in: A massive tropical storm has hit Tokyo causing widespread damage, we will keep you updated"
"I hate weather stories, give me a good war any day" he thought.
"Or a talking dolphin even"
Tuesday: (Somewhere): Out of bed with no disasters – so happy he didn’t even turn on the radio. The breakfast lady asked him if he wanted porridge or all bran.
"Can I have a sausage?" he said as he turned on the radio.
News just in that a huge earthquake has just hit the Middle East.
"D’oh!!!!!"
Tuesday: (Liverpool Street): Just picking a bagel in Benjies when his phone rings, IPE Brent Crude contracts up 5 points since opening. How the fuck did that happen. He races upstairs to confirm – the fund bought millions of barrels yesterday evening – man he hates this guy (whoever he is)
Tuesday:(Shepherds Bush): Now a damn earthquake – no wonder he is on his third marriage. He has to talk over dinky little graphs of oil prices. In the rush he fails to notice egg on his nice newsreaders tie…..
Wednesday: (Somewhere): The patient is dreaming of a life that is far away now. Computerised images of something called "the Fund" – his child of sorts. He is interrupted by the nurses arrival and he springs out. No big news on the radio and he shuffles to breakfast.
"Porridge or All Bran?"
"Could I have a bit of both?"
She shrugs as the news of the scandal involving the vice president breaks. Bugger.
Wednesday: (Liverpool Street): In early to catch remnants of earthquake trade, nasty business – earthquakes. He wonders will his bonus stretch to a new Aston Martin when the US news hits. Vice president the idiot – he even met the man in Basle, seemed solid enough. Found in bed with an Iranian Male Prostitute! The Dow Plummets and without looking he knows the fund has an arsenal of put options out there, time for another xanax as the millions flow outwards….
Wednesday:(Shepherds Bush): The producer starts to count him into the news. It has been a bad morning - a very bad morning. Legal doesn’t want to run the story until it is verified. The problem is the competition have already run with it so no looking back.
"Shocking news from Washington this morning" blah blah blah.
He finishes up and swears he will get the hell out of here soon.
Thursday: (Somewhere): He carefully put on the Walkman before he attempted to leave the bed. Bland music and news of a Hollywood divorce sputtered out. He smiled as he realised today would be a good day. He put on his dressing gown and followed the herd to the trough. Plain Porridge and tea were called for and delivered - the music stayed light-hearted and vacant. He flicked around for catastrophic news but none came – a slow news day. After breakfast he put on shoes and went for a walk around the grounds. Later a nurse approached.
‘You have a visitor – your sister"
The music became discordant and the signal faded as he followed the nurse like a condemned man.
She smiled and asked him how he was.
"Have you ever heard of arbitrage?" he asked distractedly.
Thursday: (Liverpool Street) The screens indicated a quiet morning and he sighed in relief. From behind he heard the creak of expensive shoes. It was Benson the head of trading strategy with his black on black shark’s eyes.
"We have tracked down the funds trades to a server in the University of Otago in New Zealand. Our man seems to have set it up two years ago but no-one has a clue where he is now."
"He could be dead," he added hopefully. "His model seems to be learning as it goes and if it gets lucky one more time we’ve had it. We need to find him and ,erm, deal with him."
Thursday: (Shepherds Bush)‘The Prime Minister opened a school in Filey today and slammed rumours of impending cuts in the education budget…..and on a lighter note a Panda in Vienna Zoo got over his shyness and fathered a cub…"
"Slow news day thank god - I need a drink"
Friday: (Somewhere): The fire alarm was screeching as the cold water from the sprinklers doused his bed. He grabbed the Walkman as the residents stumbled outside. They explained somebody had been smoking in bed and everything was all right but it wasn’t…the Walkman later told him there was chaos in the markets as a private fund had cornered the market in national debt.
Friday: (Liverpool Street) : It was known as triple witching hour - every couple of years all contracts became due on the same day so players could not trade out of their losses – a day of reckoning. Every indicator was flashing red in time to the throbbing vein on his forehead. He shook his head and glanced at Benson screaming at his phone next door.
"You’ve really done it this time " he spat as he watched the fund rise in value by millions every second that ticked by. There would be no weekend for him.
Friday: (Shepherds Bush):"Reports are coming in of a massive speculation coup on the financial markets today. Not since George Soros broke the Bank of England in 1992 has a private investor made such a profit. The Prime Minister has called for calm in the markets and insists that the free market will adjust and level itself,"
He turned from the camera to a bearded academic in a tweed suit who faced him across the desk.
"Professor Stanley, can you explain how this situation occurred?"
"Well this is an example of a process known as Arbitrage – where an investor takes advantage of price differentials in different markets and exploits them. In its simplest form it is buying something in one place and selling it somewhere else at a profit."
" How many people would be needed to operate this system?"
" In theory a person could set it up with the right equipment but it would need a team of perhaps twenty people working in shifts to sustain it"
"What of the rumours that one man operated the whole effort using an English Investment Bank to hold the cash?"
"This would be impossible with today’s technology and I believe the rumours that this person was Irish have no basis in fact."
"Can you explain then why its Bank Accounts are held in the name of the Cromwell Fund?"
"I couldn’t possibly speculate on that"
Saturday: (Somewhere): When the nurses came around he was already up and dressed.
"How are you feeling today?"
"A lot better thanks"
The nurse winked and pointed to the walkman. "Water damage I think – ah well sure what harm"
The Prom on the Run
Skipper turned away as the Angelus came on the television. The bells indicated the news was on its way and skipper didn’t much like the news, not these days. He went into the flat’s small kitchen followed by Banjax - his mongrel collie sheepdog. Banjax wasn’t the brightest as dogs went but he was certain it was dinnertime now. The grimy cooker contained one Fray Bentos meat pie, more than enough for the two creatures of habit. Skipper used to have a huge appetite when he was at sea but not these days, now he subsisted on ready meals and sandwiches - whatever the dog liked.
"That’s right boy, we sure do live like kings"
The dog wolfed down his share and eyed skipper hopefully. His owner shrugged and left the remains of his meal on the floor for the dog. The ritual of mealtime over there only remained the post dinner nap.
Skipper lay back on the orange settee and drifted off – on his way to the Antarctic in seconds. He felt different in the dream –lighter with unbridled strength, in short younger.
Thud.
"What the hell!"
Thud, Thud.
"Jaysus, where is that sound coming from?"
Thud Thud Thump Thump and a piece of plaster fluttered down from the stained ceiling. Techno music from above announced that Teresa Kelly upstairs was working the late shift in the factory. While she was assembling catheters her twin sons were getting the decibel level up nice and high. Skipper knew better than to challenge them and Banjax was lying howling with his paws over his ears. Skipper checked his wallet and came up with 18 euros and some shrapnel.
"Enough to get us out of this mess old buddy and a day before pension day."
The two acoustic refugees strolled the short distance to McNamara’s fine hostelry on the corner and entered the stale atmosphere. At the bar under the Glasgow Celtic mirror sat Willy Burke from flat three above the Kelly twins. He spotted Skippers reflection and nodded to the adjoining stool. He cleared his throat and turned in the direction of the flats.
"Noisy bastard milatvians!"
Skipper said nothing and Willy took this as an invitation to continue.
"They come over here and steal our jobs and – "
He was interrupted by McNamara chuckling behind the bar.
"Sure Willy you never did a days work since 1965 and anyway the music is from the Kelly twins, God bless them"
"Its easy knowing everyone comes here to escape the noise and fills your till"
"You boys will fill no till sitting there nursing a pint for an hour at a time"
The two customers got their pints and feigned interest in the dog racing from Exeter on the television over the bar. They spotted Naoise a gaunt youth slipping in and scouting the place to see if the coast was clear for his boss (the Prom) to come in. He deferred to the old men as he walked up.
"Have youse seen the contractor in here today?"
" He was in looking for the Prom earlier and he was beside himself with rage" offered McNamara.
Naoise pulled a phone from his shirt and spoke into it.
"The badger has landed" he said and hung up. Seconds later the other party showed up in all his finery. The Prom was tall and stocky with silver curly hair and jeans that were losing a lifelong battle with gravity.
"Give us a quick pint of porter there Mac and keep an eye out for the other lad, he has me persecuted the humpy bugger."
MacNamara shot Skipper a look that reminded him that Contractor and The Prom had a lot of history. Only the building boom could persuade them to overlook the fact that Mrs Prom had very nearly become Mrs Contractor in the seventies. No love lost indeed.
"Bloody horrendous job out in Oranmore, tiling bathrooms in 17 new houses. Every one of them like Southfork with two showers and a sockwasher"
"It’s called a bidet"
"I don’t have to know what its called to tile it, do I? Anyway it’s all big mortgages and two jobs and Creches.Now that’s the business to be in I’m telling you"
"Yeah Prometheus O’Reilly Childminders and lounge Bar" howled Naoise.
Prom bought the old-timers the drink they were waiting on and enquired of news in his old neighbourhood.
"Them Kelly boys are as noisy as ever."
"Theresa’s lads, how could they be right with that for a father?"
"Always down the boozer he was"
Naoise snorted and headed for the toilet but glanced out the window on his way. He stared and hissed at the Prom.
"The Contractor is here!"
In an efficient manner the Prom shot out the back door to where Naoise had parked the van and in a cloud of diesel fumes they were gone.
Willy looked at Skipper over their pints.
"Now there goes a great man"
"You’re not wrong there"
The Prom Introduction
The guard fetched his battered notebook from his jacket.
"So the disturbance was last night then"
"We were asleep , werent we Gerry?"
The long suffering Husband glanced away.
"Well I wasn’t quite asleep , I was reading a book about the great war and…"
"Well anyway we were in bed at an hour when most decent people were asleep when the racket started. I think it was about 1.17 am when I heard the commotion from the street. The man next door"
"Mister Dunne" said the guard as he scribbled.
"Skipper" added the husband.
"Whatever" said Nora "He was in that Blazer and trousers he wears to collect his pension. He was drunk and carrying a takeaway in a plastic bag and singing"
"Red Sails in the sunset"
"He was with an older woman (not as old as him mind) who spends a lot of time in a pub up the road"
"She is a regular at the Karaoke" said Gerry
Nora polished her pioneer pin as she looked at him with scorn.
"I shouted down at him to keep quiet that people were trying to sleep.Next thing his girlfriend called me an oul trout – there was more but I wont repeat it here"
"Was that it?"
"Well he quietened her down and says excuse my lady friend – some lady I say"
"Did they go inside?"
"After he dropped his keys a few times then couldn’t find the lock"
"Have you ever had trouble from Mr Dunne before?"
"Well he doesn’t go to mass and he talks about crazy places like Shanghai and Manilla"
"Well I am afraid we cant do much but call us if it happens again"
Nora raised her eyes and reached for her coat – the church flowers wouldn’t arrange themselves.
*******************************************************************
Skipper turned to the clock Saturday afternoon – he knew it was Saturday because his brain seemed to be making a dash for freedom through the front of his head. His mouth tasted like a goat had slept there and possibly was still in residence. He started to piece together the previous day.
He had collected his pension and was grunted at by the postmaster. The next customer had achieved local celebrity by witnessing an apparition in a vacant flat. The young lads around knew it was Jamesie Burke lighting an aerosol but that wasn’t as good a story.
He was nearly home when the smell of stale beer and detergent hit him. Outside McNamaras there was a white van with a half-eaten filling station roll on the dash. The van side proclaimed that it was the property of one P.O’Reilly - Tiler.
Skipper nodded to himself and entered the dark bar. It was decorated with Glasgow Celtic Memorobilia –McNamaras only concession to interior design. McNamara postulated, after a lifetime selling alcohol ,that the pub should be dark and the pub should be cheap. That was pretty much it he reckoned.
A young man sat at the bar reading a paperback– his name was Naoise and he drove the van for the Prom. The proms motoring career had ended in a duel between a transit van and two Garda Ford mondeos out on the Gort road one glorious morning. Naoise was repeating exams in the University and the job suited both of them. Naoise could drive sober and keep quiet – neither feat the prom had yet mastered.
There was an explosion of profanity as the Prom entered roaring into his mobile phone.
His mother had given him the name Prometheus Michael O’Reilly but he was universally known as The Prom.
"That hateful hoor in Oranmore says if we’re not out there today he will give the job to someone else – arah howiya skipper"
"Well Prom – business going well?"
"Great but I wish I’d never moved out of here - that woman …."
Naoise piped up that the Prom had never really moved out to the suburbs as he drank here practically every afternoon.
"Sure the young fella has no idea – could have ten vans on the road if I wanted to I could"
"But who would drive them?" asked the young lad insolently.
"Never mind that - give us two pints of porter, two Powers and a fizzy water for the young pain in the hole"
As McNamara went to work on the pints Skipper eyed the book in the young lads hand.
"What are you reading there"
The young lad grimaced and flicked up the cover of the radical tome. Before he could speak he was interrupted by his employer.
"Its about some french lad who keeps a cat in a box – bit like Paul Shagging Daniels"
"Well men are you around for the karaoke tonight"
The Prom looked to Skipper who shook his head quickly – he needed to get the shopping in first.
"Yer wan is singing in the final tonight – I think she has a thing for Skipper " leered McNamara.
Skipper gave in and nodded to the Proms generous offer – he could do the shopping tomorrow.
Britney
You walk into Lynches pub-sorry-wine bar and head for your usual seat. The battered leatherette stool with duct tape repairs has been replaced with a wrought iron Pomodoro red model that weighs a ton. These weighty thrones serve two purposes; firstly they help create the ambience the new population of city commuters enjoy and secondly they are too heavy for the locals to use as weapons on their unwanted neighbours. This village is a good sixty miles from the city but a combination of house prices and new roads have changed it in a couple of years from remote to "quaint".
At the mention of the word the Cappuccino brigade have arrived en masse in spotless 4x4s with pricey jumpers draped around shoulders and mighty buying power. Soon hoardings arrived to advertise estates with names like "Galloping Greens" and the old Creamery is converted into a Futon shop.
The only neutral space between the two camps is the pub slash wine bar and already the evening is shaping up to be lively.There are two men at opposite ends of the bar and you sit in the no-mans-land between them.On one side is Oliver Sharpe, a consultant working in the city who owns property around this village. He is at the vanguard of the invasion and has big plans for this hamlet. His wife owns the creche and is at home tonight doing the accounts.Oliver lifts his thinning fairish head and salutes you with his bottle of Erdinger.
A grunt emanates from the other end of the bar from a stocky grubby man. Mickey-Joe Spears ,better known as Britney, also acknowledges your arrival.He is dressed in a greasy navy boiler-suit and accessorises with a battered red baseball cap that states the owner uses Makita power tools. Britney still operates a working farm and agricultural contractor business and so far has abstained from selling any of his land. A bachelor, he is nearing sixty and has never left the village but knows a thing or two about knowing a thing or two. He nurses the latest of many glasses of Smithwicks.
Oliver is having an animated conversation on his mobile phone which irritates Britney greatly:
"Yaw I got the letter from the planning authority, not good"
"The hoor is plotting more of them shagging yellow houses to bring more blow-ins"
"I’m working on rightsizing a paper mill at the mo but after that I’m all yours"
"The fecker has right-sized this place anyway to be sure"
Oliver hangs up and glares at his accuser who is now bemoaning the price of diesel.
"Britney, you are a cork bobbing in the sea of economics ; you don’t understand the parameters of the system you are operating in."
"What did you call me mother?"
Oliver nervously shifts his docker-clad behind on the seat for the whole village is aware that when Britney passes the eight glass mark one has to be careful.
"I was just saying we are all relying on the global energy market, even a silage contractor " he says with a hint of a sneer.
His Nemesis attempts to dismount but slides to the floor where he promptly falls asleep. The owner picks him up and links him to the door. As Britney leaves he mutters darkly.
"I have a slurry spreader with your name on it…."
Oliver knows that Britney has the wherewithal to redecorate his mansion in brown and decides to leave well enough alone tonight.
Identity Parade
Horace came around the corner preoccupied. Would he have enough paint for the downstairs bathroom? He needed brushes, white spirits and maybe….
"Can I have a minute of your time sir"
Horace looked up to see a Garda sergeant complete with hat appraising his appearance. The sergeant looked at the old hooded sweatshirt; jeans and paint spattered runners and obviously liked what he saw.
"I am looking for someone to take part in an identity parade, you know a Line Up like. I can promise if you get picked out we will bail you straight away"
Horace desperately scrambled to find a reason not to have to go into the garda station "I cant go in cos my car will get clamped" he blurted out neglecting to mention the lack of some window decorations like an NCT or Tax disc on the same vehicle.
"You cannot be clamped while on Garda Business" replied the sergeant with a smile that spoke of many hours on business on the double yellow outside the Canton Village in Salthill.
The levity of the policeman was infectious and as Horace couldn’t think of a viable excuse he allowed himself to be led by the elbow into the station.
"Well it will be a different sort of a Saturday morning anyway" he said with the false assurance of the already condemned man. As they crossed the carpark the mental list became longer….Shoplifting , Affray, Impersonating a police officer in a nightclub and being in possession of a stolen walkman (briefly) in 1985.Maybe this was a sting operation dating back to that walkman he got off McGuinness at school, the start of a life of crime and it had only played the tapes backward before mangling them.
The sergeant and Horace walked up to the grey edifice of Millstreet Station and strolled past the dour officer on the counter.
"Last one for the line-up in 3F John" announced the ranking officer as he typed a code into a keypad at the green door. The area was festooned with public notices regarding drink-driving, drugs and domestic violence. As the door opened they heard talk coming from the end of the hall.
They passed cramped offices with overflowing wire trays of paper and notices on the walls headed with the Garda masthead. The atmosphere was half frustration and half boredom.
The source of the chat became apparent then; there were five tall blocky individuals in various stages of tattoo and piercing heaven. They had northern accents and their bearing and clothes screamed "Stag Party".Three other nondescript men stood at the near end of the line. They were being prepared by a smaller guard with thinning red hair. He spoke breathlessly as if from a script after completing a hundred-meter sprint.
"Right lads we have the nine of ye here now so this is the story. Each of you will stand in front of a number on the ground here"
They were in a locker room, which had a steel door for each guard. A pretty ban garda sat at a desk and the walls were decorated with different posters; the GRA and Garda Credit Union.
Nine A4 sheets containing numerals from one to nine were laid along the back wall. The Stag boys who jostled and laughed as they picked a number.
Breathless Mahoney ,as Horace had dubbed him mentally, spoke again.
"No more talking until we are finished here lads – we are bringing in the witness now"
Horace found himself at number nine at the end and he began to obsess that this was too prominent a position for an intenational crime baron such as himself. Nothing for it but to grit his teeth and try to look innocent.
The sound of footsteps in the hall stopped all fidgeting in the room.A slight youth in an expensive tracksuit was led by Breathless into the middle of the room .
It was easy to see that this was the part most enjoyed by Breathless as he did not consult his script once.
"Right I want you to take a good look at each man before indicating to me that you can identify the defendant – do you understand?"
The young man nodded and started his way up the line from number one .The first suspect was a Bullet Headed blocky man in his early thirties. He had the prominent forehead and flattened nose of a boxer. Benny and his brother Ger had come down from Monaghan for the Stag Party of their cousin last night and due to bad behaviour had been thrown out of their Hostel this morning. The guards had arrived supposedly to collect innocent passers by for a line up. Benny didn’t trust guards on principal and with sobriety came the realisation that a garda station was probably not the ideal place for his gang of northern ambassadors. He avoided the gaze of the witness as he pictured the diesel laundering outfit on his land near the border. The walls appeared to be closing in on him when finally the gaze moved onto Ger , his brother, in the number eight position.
Ger was practically chewing through his lip at being in the spotlight. He was not as tall or well built as Benny but was just as much trouble as many had found out at home. He eyed the breathless guard and witness and wholeheartedly regretted slapping that bouncer outside the gentlemans club last night. Initially the regret was because he had hurt his hand on the Neanderthals head and secondly the legal ramifications were becoming clear. The guards at home were probably onto the cattle tagging operation to claim subsidies both sides of the border and some of these little fuckers on the stag knew a little too much about his business. Benny was solid but the young lads might not know the protocol of "Say nothing and keep saying it " when dealing with the authorities.
The witness gave no reaction and moved onto number seven, Warren MacAree.
Warren was the best man for the upcoming nuptials and was feeling confident about last night.He had after all been asleep most of the evening after the shots of Sambuca were served up and therefore could not have been guilty of any crime. A beatified grin arose to greet the witness only to disappear instantly as the truth hit him.Up until six months ago his silver BMW had been Green and in the legal possession of a doctor in Louth. Warren was 24 but still feared reprisals from the Mother if he cocked up his duty to keep the groom at liberty for the wedding.
The next in line was the groom Enda MacAree , the quietest and smallest of the party.He shared his brothers fear of the implications on the wedding.Most of the lavish ceremony had been financed by the bootleg DVDs he sold on the markets each weekend.If he was missing on the appointed day for whatever reason he stood to lose more than the deposit at the country club hotel.He thought of Yvonne and the beating she and her family would inflict on him as the witness’ gaze moved to number five in line.
The last of the stag party present was known as Burger because he ate an inordinate amount of them.All that was on his mind was to get this over with so they could indulge in a massive fried breakfast.The witness did not tarry long with his image as his body did not match the profile he had described.
The next two were a different breed maybe unique to Galway.Thin and gaunt they were in their early twenties but both had left three college courses already to further their advanced studies in oversleeping and amateur pharmaceuticals. Gonzo , the taller one , was guilty of having an unlicenced greyhound while Silent Bob, the quiet one, had bought a chest freezer on their landlords ESB bill.The fact that the freezer was to be repossessed imminently was only half the problem. Gonzo and silent Bob had filled it with the years bumper crop of magic mushrooms and had no way of getting rid of the lot.This weighed heavily on their cloudy minds and they had but the slightest interest in whatever crime was being investigated here. Breathless had been responsible for hand picking these two specimens and was justifiably proud of his skills.
The attention came on number eight who was in a black shirt and next to Horace.The youth showed no reaction which was a good sign number eight surmised. He had a full clean driving licence , no criminal record ,paid his taxes and worked hard.The only spot on his conscience was getting involved in a fight in Oranmore over a taxi.Some little Gurrier had tried to skip the queue and a minor scuffle had ensued.He looked up the line at the pantheon of the wicked and reckoned with his neat appearance he was a good bet.The youth moved onto Horace who by now was obsessing about stealing apples twenty odd years previously.
"This is a line up to identify the person who assaulted you in Oranmore on the night of the sixth of August 2005.Please look at the line carefully and if you can identify your assailant please say that you can do so."
The tracksuit turned to Breathless and nodded.
"Place your hand on the shoulder of your assailant to identify him"
The youth placed his hand on the right shoulder of the black shirt and turned to the Seargeant.He was led away immediately. Breathless took black shirt by the arm and either arrested him or said a rapid decade of the rosary depending on your position in the line.
"Do you have any complaints about the composition of the line-up?"
"Yeah, none of them look like me."
Black shirt showed no reaction and followed Breathless out into the corridor.A palpable weight lifted off the eight remaining in the room and mentally promises were made to mend their ways in future. The seargeant put on his hat, winked at the ban –garda and lead them out to the outside world, all ordinary decent criminals.
Bryan Adams
"Bryan Adams is a Bollocks!"
The insult was delivered by a barechested skinny youth who had just handed over his fifty Euro ticket to see…Bryan Adams. Horace was standing at the end of a corral of metal barriers checking the incoming patrons.
His job for the day was to confiscate any alcohol and/or drugs from prospective concertgoers. In addition he had to remove the caps of all bottles as when full they were effective missiles (apparently).
He had got this gig after intensive training on how to search male punters for drugs and weapons, Horace had to admit this was not the career he had in mind when he was in college.
"Roi , its gonna get really busy in a minuh so just check the big bags for gargle – ok?"
Horace nodded at the speaker who looked like he could visit a world of pain on demand. Mickah was squat and middle-aged with a shaved head, tattoos and Oakleys that betrayed no emotion. He smoked players blue pretty much non-stop and had the liberties habit of easy familiarity with all the punters.
Horace had decided he liked Mickah as it was far less painful than not liking him. The dub had a certain charm (like a Rottweiler with a pink bow) and had years of experience at this concert business.
"The first thing ye have to learn is that people are sheep – if you can shift the first few the rest will follow, ok"
This was the first in a daylong soliloquy about the art of a snaking queue and its collective mood. As it happened the lane was opened and a couple hesitantly started down it looking nervously for approval. The other three lanes were full but people had avoided this one because it was empty previously –they now scrambled to get in.
"Baaaah"
The pioneering couple were dressed in expensive casual style – "I am cool but not enough to interfere with business" – said their clothes.
The guy leaned proprietarily into the girl despite the fact that the lane was one person wide. They didn’t look like they were carrying any rocketlaunchers or bottles of white lightning so he waved them on. He guessed they were 21 years old – the same age he had been the last time Bryan Adams played Ireland…..
Adams had been the headline act at FEILE 1992 in Thurles – Irelands Woodstock. The ticket had been forty pounds – well beyond the grasp of the youth of the country at the time. The crowd barriers had held back music heads dressed in unisex woolly jumpers and enormous doc martin boots.
He was awakened from his reverie by the arrival of a couple of tattooed young lads in black baggy shorts carrying a holdall bag.
"Any drink in the bag lads?"
"No way man" came the reply on the double.
"Give us a look then"
They scowled as he tried to lift the bag with one hand – Jesus it was heavy. He opened it to see some clothes, on lifting these he found six cans of Heineken and two flares with Chinese instructions.
"Gotta take these off ya I’m afraid"
Mickah nodded his approval and Horace couldn’t help feel that he had switched sides since 1992.
Then he had brought his uncles old (and incomplete he later found) tent and set it up in a beet field outside Thurles – so far so good. The problem was he and all his friends had brought a booze budget but had neglected to factor in food costs. They were in possession of bottles of gin carried all the way hitching from Galway and a can of club lemon – that was it for the night. They drank the gin in a tent that wasn’t Horace’s - his had collapsed pretty much immediately. Then the hunt for food had begun.
He looked up to see a figure making laboured progress between the barriers, in truth this guy was so wide he was nearly jammed.
"A bih of help there suh"
Horace obliged and shifted one of the barriers. He got a proper look at the behemoth as it approached. The man was tall like a mast with a huge torso hung from it,. He had a large head held in by a fisherman’s hat and no front teeth.
"Blessins oh god on ya suh – I’m thradin inside"
"Trading what?"
"Cowboy hats – look at me stall suh"
Sure enough a large stall had been set up inside the entrance selling all manner of said hats with sparkles, sequins, and feathers. It looked like the dressing room for Priscilla Queen of the desert after it was hit by a grenade.
The hat trader gave a cheery wave to the guards as he passed - obviously they had a professional relationship.
"Fuckin Pig Bastards" came the hissed comment once they turned away. Horace wondered how many hats could the guy sell and was brought back to his meeting with the Hare Krishnas in 92.
Word had got around that there was a big tent on the campsite giving out free food. They wandered through the beet field stopping only to uproot beets and throw them at each other. They soon came on a huge marquee with bongo drums and chanting coming from within. A bespectacled young man in saffron robes came to greet them.
"Would you like to pray with us"
"Nah, we are just here for the food – what have you got?" came the reply from a party clearly unused to dealing with other religions.
"We have porridge and, well that’s it"
"We heard that you put drugs in the food – is that true"
"I can assure you there are no drugs in the porridge"
"Ah well sure we will have some anyway"
2006: A big athletic guy came strolling down the queue wearing an expensive top that was almost but not quite cool. He was accompanied by a girl with a nose ring. Instead of Tickets they flashed wallets that proclaimed they were members of the drug squad. Behind his sunglasses Horace gaped. So many times he had heard tales of this shadowy organisation. He hadn’t touched a drug in years but still he wanted to grab them and scream.
"It was me, me I tell you …I ran the Medellin Cocaine Cartel, I supplied Bob Marley, Keith Richards has my number on speed-dial and all the rest".
He managed to restrain himself and turned to the gap-toothed trader and mouthed the word "Cops"
"I fuckin know ya eejit " came the unenunciated reply.
1992: "Right I am going to sing HARE HARE RAMA and then you are going to reply HARE HARE HARE, ok"
A huge roar of assent came from the porridge eaters and bongo dancers surrounding him. The robed man with the guitar raised his hand and the drumming became frantic.
"One…." Everyone danced in time with the drumming.
"Two…." The tension rose, something was about to occur, but what?
The guy with the guitar opened his mouth to speak but was intercepted by a communal roaring of the words "Pile on". He was instantly swamped in a mountain of bodies and only emerged after a few minutes with the neck and strings of his former guitar.
2006: A chain of six shiny people carrying a picnic hamper appeared in Horace’s queue. They were all tanned and impossibly glamorous. They looked at Horace in bemusement when he asked what was in the basket. The leader of this utopian flock shook his head.
"We have stand tickets- do you know how much that costs?"
"I have to check the basket or no entry"
Again the refusal and conferring whispers. Horace got the impression he had just committed a social gaffe. Any minute now yer man was going to ask him if he knew who he was.
"Excuse me do you know who I am?"
Mickah appeared in his customary puff of Players smoke and looked threatening.
"Roi, ye either open it or no entry and I do know who you are, fuckin nobody!"
The Adonis opened the container to reveal canapés and three bottles of champagne. Mickah growled and grabbed the bottles.
"Will we get them back after the show?"
"No bother just come to the main gate afterwards and you can get them."
The beautiful people moved on and Mickah took off with the champagne chuckling to himself.
"The missus loves this stuff"
1992: On the way across the campsite a campfire was burning and a large party surrounded it. Horace and the lads sidled up and nodded to the party folk. Beside the fire was a case of beer sitting on a seventies vintage couch – purple threadbare velour looking very out of place in a field. On the basis of a nod they took a beer and looked at the couch in a puzzled manner.
"That’s our travelling peace couch, where are ye from lads?"
"Longford, Offaly, Monaghan and Mayo"
"Right you three are in but we already have a Mayo person"
"We are in what exactly" asked Horace
"We want one person from each county…"
"North and South!"
"..One person from each county on the peace couch for a photograph and you three complete the set"
"What the fuck is a peace couch when it is at home?"
"Well when it is at home its just a couch but when you hitch from Armagh to Thurles with it it becomes a peace couch"
"Must be tricky enough getting people to stop I suppose"
"Yeah but at least you have somewhere comfortable to sit while you’re waiting"
"Well there is that"
After some discussion Dublin, Clare, Armagh and Leitrim sat on the couch to be sat on in turn by five more counties. Cork and Tipperary wouldn’t sit on the same level so Galway had to swap with Kerry.After much huffing and puffing all 32 counties formed a human pyramid on the teetering couch which lasted just long enough to be caught in the photograph. As the camera flashed the unsteady couch legs collapsed and the whole pyramid landed in a muddy laughing heap. The thirty-two counties swore undying love and promptly ran out of beer leading to a rapid dissolution. Such is politics.
To date nobody has come across the picture but thirty-two people remember it well.
2006: The guys who collect the tickets ahead of Horace turn and shrug as a furtive figure scoots past them. This specimen is sporting a Burberry cap, which is the uniform of the hat stand behind the gates.
"Hi Boss are you taking drink off de people comin in?"
"Yes that’s my job for the day man"
"Where do you keep it?"
"In a safe place" he replied thinking that Mickah looked after that.
"But sure you must have a stash for yourself?"
Horace kicked himself as he shook his head – he would know for the next time.
"You are a daycent man but ya bether wise up" spoke the traveller.
Horace nodded and let the man in.
1992: A lad they knew was working on a burger stand so they had a free burger with all the salad they could carry. Some would argue that taking a full tub of pineapple rings was excessive but you have to think of the future these dark days. They sat on a kerb munching happily.
"Where will we be next year"
"I got the Morrisson so Boston for Me"
"London"
"Me too"
"I got a job off FAS"
"A job!"
"Yeah but you don’t get paid"
"Screw that"
Horace watched people passing with the treasured wristbands that meant they could get into the concerts.
"Wouldn’t it be nice to have money?"
"And a car and a stereo.."
"And a computer"
"What would you want one of those gammy yokes for,for, for your JOB ahaaaaa"
"It will be a while before we can do this again anyway"
This met with an uncomfortable silence.
"We are missing nothing in the stadium anyway, that Adams lad is useless sure his career is over."
"Bryan Adams is a Bollocks anyway!"
