SLOOT

by Ian MacPherson

  He braced himself and opened up. What the hell did they want at this hour?

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite your old aunties in?’

  ‘It’s very dark out here. We could be abducted, Hayding.’

  Hayden examined his wrist pointedly.

  ‘One tirty, Hayding. On the dot.’

  ‘We’ll just squeeze past.’

  Hayden ushered them in with the long-suffering sigh he reserved for his three beloved aunts and global catastrophes, and followed them into the living room. He assumed they’d come for a reason, but you never knew. They lit on the tape box and suddenly went quiet. Not that it stopped them talking.

  ‘What’s this? I tought you filed all Eddie’s tapes away, Dottie.’

  ‘Dodie. And that, as I recall, was your job.’

  Hayden detected a distinct edge to this little exchange. They turned, possibly accusingly, towards him. Something told him to act dumb, so he did. You don’t tell your aunts anything they don’t need to know. Tapes? What tapes? Nothing to do with me, guv. They seemed relieved.

  ‘Well anyway, Hayding, bit of an oversight, we conclude, so back on the shelf it goes.’

  What was all that about? Hayden had no idea. Task completed, however, they seemed to revert to their sweetly batty little selves.

  ‘More Sam, dough. Remember Samuel, ladies?’

  ‘We do indeed.’

  ‘Indeed we do.’

  ‘Swanned off to Paris, Hayding.’

  ‘Done very well for himself.’

  ‘A wonderfully experimental lover as I recall. He was certingly ahead of the curve on gender identity.’

  ‘Happy day, dough. Happy days.’

  ‘Happy Days indeed, Hayding. That’s what he was working on at the time.’

  ‘Metod writing. Asked us to call him Winnie.’

  Hayden raised a hand for silence. This, he felt, could go on all night. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ he asked.

  They seemed relieved to change the subject.

  ‘A very good and apposite question, Hayding. Only we seen the urn being delivered.’

  ‘We didn’t want to intrude on private grief.’

  ‘But we’re here to carry out our dear departed brudder Eddie’s express wishes.’

  ‘To recapitulate, Hayding. The Hellfire Club, deep in the heart of the Dubling Mountings. First full moon. Tree tirty-tree.’

  ‘Beelzebub here I come, quote unquote.’

  ‘Wasn’t he gas, though?’

  ‘A hoot,’ scowled Hayden.

  ‘Tree tirty-tree be the light of the moon.’

  ‘The mooon, Hayding.’

  ‘The moooooon!’

  Rusty may have been about to join in, indeed it might well have contributed to the healing process for the poor dog, but Hayden had had enough.

  ‘Stop it,’ he snapped. ‘You’re unnerving me.’

  ‘Well, come on then.’

  ‘Grab the urn, stick it in this Madden’s bag for life –’

  ‘– which, by the way, we’d like back as we’ve been monitoring its longevity –’

  ‘– and let’s skedaddle. Tempus is fugiting fast.’

  They rattled a set of car keys and cackled happily.

  ‘The broomstick is parked on the roof.’

  * * *

  9 Pre-order your copy of The Annotated Sloot now for the full transcript.

  18

  The broomstick, it turned out, was a pink Mini. 1963 reg. The three aunts drove. Possibly all three at once. It was that kind of drive. For Hayden and Rusty it was a traumatic experience: a bare-knuckle ride surrounded by over-excited ancients. This sort of thing is standard cinematic fare for devotees of Level One10, but not so funny if you have to live through it – which Hayden and Rusty did. They also had to sit through some pretty explicit reminiscences involving long-forgotten pop stars of 1960’s vintage, the three aunts, and the back seat of the Mini. I hope I never succumb to the urge to write them down, but if ever I do, I promise to observe the thirty-year rule.

  Skip this bit if you have no interest in silent cinema, comic genius or early twentieth century left-wing politics. Before you do, however, know this: you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m almost tempted to tell you who – if anyone – killed Eddie, because quite frankly The Inquisitive Bullet narrative deserves a better class of reader. But that would mean spoiling the story for the rest of us, and I’m not prepared to do that.

  In a fit of skittishness, the three aunts stopped the car on the tram tracks at Amiens Street station. Smack in the centre of Dublin.

  ‘Oh no, Hayding. We’re stuck.’

  ‘Get out and push or we’ll all be deaded.’

  ‘You alone can save us, we being tree wizened little ladies of a certing age and you being a big hairy man.’

  ‘Save us.’

  ‘For pity’s sake save u-u-u-ussss.’

  Hayden stared out the window onto the deserted street, then exchanged long-suffering glances with Rusty, who may have commiserated. He might equally have been nursing his own secret sorrow.

  ‘The car isn’t stuck,’ said Hayden. ‘The first tram is not for another four hours. The driver sets off from about twenty feet away and might be reasonably expected to see us in time. Need I go on?’

  The venerable Mini roared into life and bounced happily off.

  ‘Tanks, Hayding.’

  ‘Hayding saves the day.’

  ‘Our hero.’

  I mention this because it replicates, in a quintessentially modern way, the story arc of Finlay Jameson’s 1917 masterpiece, Tram, in which our intrepid and permanently furious hero chains himself to the tracks only to find that the tram drivers have called a three-day strike for better pay and conditions. The film in question was denied an American release – no drama – but lauded as political cinema of the highest order and compulsory viewing in the nascent USSR, leading to Finlay’s so-called red phase, and the freedom of the city of Minsk. I’ve seen the film, all three days of it, and despite being a lifelong leftie myself, I have to admit political discourse doesn’t always produce the best art. Particularly in silent cinema.

  * * *

  10 Prof. Larry Stern, Laughter and Wealth: The Lowest Common Denominator Theory of Comedy.

  19

  The foothills of the Dublin mountains. Ah, the mem’ries, the mem’ries. I’m reminded of the time… But that will have to wait for the autobiography. This, after all, is not about me.

  The pink Mini bounced to a halt. Lights out. The moon shone like – I’m tempted to say like a pre-energy-saving hundred-watt light bulb. Bit clunky, but you get the drift. With a vintage hundred-watter you could read a 19th century Presbyterian bible sans glasses. Play a cricket match at midnight and keep the fast bowlers on. Make out every detail of the Hellfire Club, that legendary ruin on top of Mount Pelier Hill, from the front window of the three aunts’ ancient car; which is exactly what Hayden did.

  ‘Hmn,’ he said. ‘Bats.’

  The three aunts stared at the dark creatures flitting around the craggy ruins.

  ‘Or are they?’

  ‘This we don’t know, Hayding.’

  ‘Yet.’

  They turned and peered at him, in frightening unison.

  ‘Could be the girls out for a nocturnal fly-about.’

  ‘Around the moon, Hayding.’

  ‘The moooon!’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Hayden. ‘You’re not witches. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘You’re right, Hayding. We’re tree dotty oul wans wit dementia.’

  And they were off again. Giggle giggle giggle, possibly cackle, and they kept it up as Hayden trudged through the bracken and pine tree stumps, up the moonlit hill towards the luminous and looming ruin. He glowered at them for a
while, but soon the levels of concentration needed to negotiate the uneven ground took over. The aunts, on the other hand, seemed to skip lightly on their way, and when Hayden almost disappeared down a concealed bog hole, they hooted.

  ‘Your little face, Hayding.’

  ‘God, if you could do that in a fillum!’

  ‘You’d be mega.’

  ‘It’s the way you keep it serious, Hayding. Priceless. Who’s that fella we’re tinking of?’

  ‘Finlay Jamesing.’

  ‘The very same. I mean look at you, Hayding.’

  ‘You’re wasted on the talkies.’

  Here’s the extraordinary thing: they were absolutely right! Professor Stern has described just such a scene in his ground-breaking study, The Unintentionality of Comic Genius. I wound it back in my head. Hayden struggling through stumps and bracken on his relentless forward march. Dour. Morose. Focussed. Then, out of nowhere, GLUP! Chest high in damp, millennia-old peat. No change in his facial expression if we exclude an added layer of startled humiliation. The hope, expectation and final indignity of all human life encapsulated in seventeen seconds. File under Comedy: Level Five. A remarkably similar scene features in Finlay Jameson’s masterpiece, The Suicide, in which our furious anti-hero decides to end it all but is thwarted at every turn by near death experiences.

  They reached the summit in ebullient mood. The aunts, that is. As if they’d been spirited down to Earth for this very moment. The ashes in their polished urn. The brooding, satanic ruin. The melancholy soughing of a light, gusting breeze. The moooooon. Hayden trudged up behind them, removing dried bracken and small lumps of peat from his bog-wet clothes. His dour and morose expression had now set into a permanent scowl.

  ‘We know, Hayding. We know. A sad moment in many ways.’

  ‘Yet curiously uplifting withal.’

  ‘Because maybe Eddie would want us rather to rejoice, rejoice, rejoice as we return his ashes to the unhallowed ground from whence they heretofore sprang.’

  ‘We’re making this up as we go along, Hayding. No supplied script.’

  ‘But here. We tink you should do the honours, you being the next generation of huming life and so on and so fort, et ceteri et cetera.’

  ‘Not quite yet dough, Hayding.’

  ‘Tree tirty-tree. He was very particular about that.’

  Hayden felt suddenly sombre. As the sole male McGlynn currently resident in Ireland, he was technically head of the family. If, that is, we accept the patriarchal power structures which have existed in Ireland since the evolution of the penis. Hayden removed the urn from the Madden’s bag for life. As his hand clasped the lid, he heard it. A terrifying primal roar, resounding through the dark, foreboding walls of the ancient ruin.

  The three aunts’ antennae went up.

  ‘Jaykers. What was that?’

  ‘It brought our maternal side up to the surface, Hayding.’

  They looked momentarily startled.

  ‘Not that we’ve had any children, Hayding. As such.’

  Suddenly, close by, an angry human bark. Guttural with pent-up rage.

  ‘What’s that you said, Hayding?’

  ‘Just grab the fucken spade.’

  ‘Oh, very good, Hayding.’

  ‘Perfectamundo I’d say. You’ve got the gift.’

  Hayden lowered his voice to a terrified whisper. ‘That wasn’t me. Now can you please keep your voices down?’

  But they didn’t hear him. They’d suddenly shot off, straight in the direction of the sounds. Into the valley of the shadow of death rode the three aunts. At least it seemed that way to Hayden. Righteous indignation lent them wings. Or it might, for all he knew, have been simple curiosity. He groaned, wiped a buzzard dropping from his lapel and followed, at what he hoped was a safe distance, in their wake.

  20

  As Hayden stepped from the shadows of the ruin into the full glow of the moonlight, he saw his aunts approach a dip in the ground. Hayden tiptoed forward, his path full of dry twigs. He knelt with exaggerated delicacy beside them and peered over the edge. Below in the dell, a dozen or so shadowy figures stood in a circle as if performing some sort of ritual.

  ‘Gwan ya hoor ya! Dig the fucken grave!’

  The three aunts were mesmerised into hushed stage whispers.

  ‘Isn’t that gas, Hayding? It’s like one of those gangster fillums. Remember those?’

  ‘Humperty Go-cart we used to call him.’

  ‘Weenshy little scrut of a ting.’

  ‘But what a lover!’

  ‘No he wasn’t, Dottie. You’re tinking of Marlene Dietrich.’

  ‘Dementia, Hayding. You’ve got to make allowances.’

  ‘Will you please be quiet,’ hissed Hayden.

  ‘Shush, ladies. He wants to hear the scene unfolding.’

  ‘Sorry, Hayding. I suppose you’ll be putting it in your great Irish novel.’

  ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘I’d just prefer it if we didn’t get killed.’

  ‘They’re killing him, Hayding. Not us. Where’s your compashing?’

  ‘They’re about to send him to an early grave, Hayding. And for why?’

  ‘Yor bringin the whole famly into disre-fucken-puhe, Frankie. Yor nor a fucken woman. I mean whar abouh childberth? Periods? Menstru-fucken-ation?’

  Hayden leaned forward. He knew those voices. JP. Benny. The Pope Twins – about to kill Frankie! But surely Frankie was the criminal mastermind? The brains behind the outfit? It didn’t make any sense. And what about the woman thing? That didn’t make any sense either.

  ‘You dissed the famly name when you went legih, Frankie.’ Ah. Hayden understood that one. And there was more. ‘Yor supposed to be launderin the fucken spondulix, noh poncin abouh wih yor bewkes an yor elocution less –’

  ‘Give me a break, lads. I never laundered the money and okay, so I ponce about with books, but I don’t take elocution lessons. I listen to Radio 4. It’s not my fault if it rubs off.’

  ‘Don’t fucken interrupt. Where was I?’

  The other brothers grabbed the chance to join in.

  ‘Yor bewkes, JP.’

  ‘Yor elocution lessons.’

  ‘Spor on. Okay, Frankie. Fine. Fair enough. Your call. Buh wantin to be a fucken bird in – in thah fucken paintin.’ Hayden was rooted to the spot. Painting? Back to JP. ‘Words fucken fail me, Frankie. They fail all of us, righ? We’re – we’re dumbstruck, Frankie.’

  Frankie placed a foot on the graveside verge and rested his elbow on his knee. Hayden was desperate to hear about the painting, but he couldn’t help admiring the way Frankie was handling all this in the face of his own mortality. No teapot, but in many ways, being murdered on a lonely mountainside at dead of night and forced to dig your own grave beforehand was worse.

  ‘You’ll be havin yor bollix cuh off next, am I righ?’ JP was in full impassioned flow, spurred on by his raucous siblings. ‘Jus remembah, Frankie, every mickey is sacred.’

  ‘Sperm, JP. Every sperm is sacred.’

  ‘Eg-fucken-zackly.’

  ‘Look,’ Frankie said. ‘The painting. I can explain it. I just did it because Eddie asked me, okay? He wanted to subvert notions of male and female in the context of –’

  ‘In the context of yor tool,’ growled JP. ‘Thass a slippery slope, Frankie. The thin end of a dangerous fucken wedge. You crossed the line with the lady paintin stuff. Next thing you’ll have yor testicles trussed up in swaddlin clothes til the operation an before you know ih, bang goes yor truncheon an yor a fucken moh.’11

  The Pope clan muttered its collective approval, but Frankie was unrepentant.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t inta-fucken-rupt! It’s a subject we Popes feel very strongly abouh – because here’s why. Yor ah an impressionable age, Frankie.’

  ‘I’m thirty
-five, JP.’

  ‘Exackly. Few years time you’ll change yor mind. No goin back. You’ll be on drugs yor whole fucken life. Sure these pharmaceutical boys have this whole thing sewn up. An you know our thinkin on drugs, Frankie.’

  He clapped his fists on his stumpy thighs and drew a deep, meaningful breath.

  ‘Drugs is for other people,’ said Benny.

  JP turned on him.

  ‘Thah,’ he snarled, ‘was my fucken line. The piece de fucken resistance. I was pausin, ya poxy fucken afterberth ya, for dramahic fucken effect.’ He slapped the side of his head in frustration and spat into the open grave. ‘Clemmie. Take the fucken spade. Finish the fucken hole off. We haven’t gor all fucken nigh.’

  The brothers settled down. This was high drama. Clemmie winced and stepped forward. Frankie bowed theatrically and handed him the spade. Hayden studied Frankie closely. Portrait of a Lady. She, the lady in the painting, was none other than Frankie ‘Francis’ Pope. The intelligent, feminine face. The broad-for-a-woman but definably male shoulders. The imposing woman at Eddie’s funeral; that had been Frankie too.

  The sheer guts for a man of his background to do such a thing. Hayden was about to take his metaphorical hat off to Frankie when – the three aunts were off.

  ‘Will you lookit who it is, girls. It’s little Francis Pope. Hasn’t he got very tall dough?’

  ‘And still the outdoor sporty type, we deduce.’

  ‘Hence, we further deduce, the extreme gardening.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one ting, Francis. You’ll never get spudatoes to grow there.’

  A fit of nonagenarian giggles as they clambered over the dip. The Popes, probably for the first time in their violent, law-disdaining lives, were rooted to the spot. As if they’d just been surprised by the Krays and discovered they were triplets.

  ‘Who the fuck are youse?’

  The three aunts tutted in unison.

  ‘Language, Benedict.’

  ‘It is little Benedict, isn’t it?’

  ‘There are ladies present, if we may make so bold.’

  ‘And besides, what would your mammy tink?’