Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick

by James Kilcullen

  ‘Mr. President, (Ulick was always so addressed in public) can you tell us what you saw on the lake today?’

  He appeared doubtful, even a bit puzzled.

  ‘Well. Nick, it all happened so quickly, I’m still a bit puzzled myself. We were being pursued by Crat’s boat at the time; it was scary, his troops were shooting at us. He was trying to ram our boat. Anyway, there was great commotion below the surface, followed by powerful spurts of water cascading down on both boats. In all that confusion I was convinced I saw a monster.’

  ‘Could it be a phenomenon of nature?’

  He looked doubtful and spoke slowly.

  ‘I suppose it could, but, at the time, I had no doubt at all. Like I say it was all very sudden and confusing; we feared for our lives.’

  ‘Mr. President, where would this creature have come from?’

  ‘If such a monster exists, it must live in the lake.’ He paused for a moment.

  ‘I remember hearing rumors as a child. The old people believed that a monster lived in the lake, but we never took them seriously.’

  The journalist turned to Paulo.

  ‘What do you recall, Mr. Kelly?’

  Paulo looked directly at the camera and tried to keep a straight face.

  ‘It was just as the President says, Nick.’

  Nick turned to the camera. ‘There you are folks. Could it be that a monster lives in Lough Corrib? Time will tell. I’ve fished in these waters for many years and never saw anything unusual.’ He paused. ‘I’m greatly concerned that an attempt has been made on the life of our President and Paulo Kelly; this is a matter for the authorities.’

  Recording completed, he told his cameraman to take the tape back to the studio for the six o’clock news.

  Afterwards Ulick invited Nick to join him for a drink. The worthy journalist sank his pint and turned to the other customers.

  ‘With due respect to our President; I haven’t seen such a load of crap since the big fair day in Maam Cross.’

  *

  Derek Walden-Smyth and Georgio Caplio met privately for dinner after a successful meeting of Prime Ministers at the Imperial Hotel in Lisbon. Georgio planned an early night; his beautiful secretary was waiting for him at the Esteril Hotel. Derek was flying back to London immediately afterwards in his executive jet, where a certain young lady was waiting for him at a Heathrow hotel.

  The DG said little until they reached desert.

  ‘Georgio,’ he announced with great pleasure, ‘I have been offered a knighthood by His Majesty; I will be going to Buckingham Palace to receive it next month.’

  Georgio leapt up. ‘That is fantastico. Many congratulations my friend. This calls for Champagne.’ He raised his voice. ‘Waiter.’

  ‘It must remain our secret for the present,’ Derek reminded him.

  ‘Of course, of course, but is fantastico.’

  As they finished the Champagne, Georgio suddenly remembered.

  ‘De Laka wants to give the Dublin airport contract to Sandys Construction PLC.’

  The DG responded angrily.

  ‘He can’t do that; I promised it to Zack Dela Rosa.’

  Georgio pursed his lips. He understood and wondered how much Zack Dela Rosa had offered the DG.

  ‘We have to be careful with De Laka, my friend; he is looking very carefully at all new contracts. It seems Sandy’s price is lowest; he did a very good job of the Inverness airport.’

  The DG insisted.

  ‘I can’t go back on my promise to Zack. Get De Laka to defer a final decision for a week or two. Then send one of your journalist friends to Inverness; find something wrong with that damn airport, write a scathing article about it and high light it in the media.’

  ‘What if nothing wrong?’

  ‘There’s always something wrong with new developments; it’s all a matter of presentation.’

  Georgio stood up. ‘As you say something always wrong. Leave it to me.’

  They shook hands and parted.

  *

  Madame, anxiously awaiting the new Directives, decided to carry out further checks. Going first to Matt Reilly’s she found that apples were 15c each—she bought one and got a receipt; in Shona Murray’s they were also 15c—she asked for one. Shona smiled sweetly at her.

  ‘I’m sorry Madame, we don’t sell apples.’

  She picked one up. ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘That, Madame, is an ubel; can’t you read the sign?’

  ‘That’s an apple, I tell you.’

  ‘And that’s an ubel, I tell you, Madame. How many would you like?’

  Furious, she stalked out of the shop, almost knocking down a customer in the process. Returning to the office, she consulted the list of products sold by a supermarket. There were no ubels. Delighted, she wrote out a summons, returned to the shop in triumph and trust the document into Shona’s hand.

  ‘You are not authorised to sell ubels.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not selling ubels, Madame.’

  She picked up an apple. ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘That, Madame, is an abel—it’s looks like an ubel, and it tastes like an ubel, but it’s an abel.’

  She took 15c from her purse. ‘Give me one and a receipt.’

  She picked up an apple. ‘That will be 20c Madame.’

  She glared at her. ‘A little while ago these were 15c; how dare you now ask for more.’

  She smiled agreeably. ‘That was for the ubels, Madame. The abels are dearer.’

  Her anger and color increasing, she took another 5c from her purse.

  ‘You will be hearing from me when this is analysed in our laboratory.’

  As she departed, Shona muttered to herself. I hope you know what you’re doing, Ulick.

  *

  Ulick stood with Paulo—outside his pub—and watched the convoy of cars drive slowly in the Galway road.

  Paulo grinned. ‘Manamann certainly brought this place to life. Jody rang a while ago; all his boats are chartered for the next month. Turla Lodge and all the other hotels are full. Lurglurg says it’s a miracle.’

  Ulick looked across the road; Crat was standing outside his office looking angrily at the procession. Not even the great Director would dare try to arrest Ulick in public.

  ‘How are we going to get that bastard out of Connemara?’ Paulo asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  *

  Crat decided to consult local GP, Dr Harry Littleton. An elderly man, a keen sportsman, an excellent doctor, his patients called him “Happy” because he was so grumpy—a man’s man who took no nonsense from no one. Crat bounced into his secluded little surgery in a side street near the church, walked past the secretary as if he owned the place, entered the doctor’s room and sat down opposite the doctor.

  Happy looked up. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You know who I am.’

  Of course he did.

  ‘No, are you a patient of mine?’

  He was incensed, but his toe was really painful now.

  ‘I have come to consult you professionally, but before I do so, I need to know your charges.’

  Happy looked surprised: he wasn’t really. He had already received a phone call from his younger colleague, Dr Ruth Jennings. Rising, he went to his secretary’s office. ‘Birney, have you a copy of the Associations charges?’

  She rose and took the list off the notice board. ‘Here you are doctor.’

  Returning to his office, he handed it to Crat, who studied it closely.

  ‘I see here doctor that my visit will cost me 60 euro; the other doctor in this town quoted the same figure. Are you not aware that that’s contrary to the USE’s competition Directives?’

  Happy stayed calm—no easy task for him.

  ‘In your case, Mr. whoever you are, my fee will be 85 euro.’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’ve already wasted ten minutes of my time.’

  ‘That’s extortion,’ Crat thundered.
‘I shall have to consider issuing a summons against you and that other doctor.’

  Happy stood up and towered above the little director.

  ‘You do that. Go to the A&E department in Galway hospital; you’ll have to wait about six hours. They will attend to you and only charge you 80 euro.’

  ‘You can’t refuse to treat me,’ he blustered.

  Happy opened his door and stood holding it.

  ‘Now, get the hell out of here.’

  *

  There were very few phone calls to the Haven; this one was long distance and it was urgent. The Contessa took the call in the library; the caller was using a mobile phone. She listened in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Can’t you buy him off? We’ll discuss it when you’re over at the weekend.’

  She hung up the phone. Ulick was due to arrive shortly. Dare she confide in him?

  *

  When Crat returned to Turla Lodge Hotel—after his visit to the A&E Department in Galway Hospital—he found the car park full to overflowing. Incensed, after a painful lancing of his infected toe, he parked outside reception and marched into the hotel. A delighted Lurglurg greeted him; he wasn’t delighted for long.

  ‘Why isn’t there a space to park my car?’ he demanded so loudly that nearby guests looked up to see what the commotion was about.

  The unfortunate abbot sighed—just when he thought things were looking up.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sir, if you will kindly give me the keys I’ll have Brother Sean attend to it immediately.’

  He handed over the keys.

  ‘Mark out a special parking space for my car; make sure no one else uses it. Have the car waxed and polished immediately.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Have your staff serve dinner in twenty minutes.’

  He headed for the stairs, leaving a bewildered Lurglurg behind him.

  *

  When Martin Sandys entered Paulo’s the following evening, he was livid. He slapped a copy of an English daily newspaper on the counter.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t buy English papers.’ Ulick replied.

  ‘The bastards are trying to fit me up, saying there are serious defects in the new Inverness airport.’

  ‘Did they name your company?’

  ‘As good as; an English PLC with an Irish Chairman.’

  ‘Let me have a look at it.’

  Ulick took the paper and perused it slowly.

  ‘All innuendo, no substance. Surely the premises were passed out by the architects?’

  ‘It was; they’re going to sue that rag. I had the Dublin airport job in the bag until this appeared. Now, they tell me they will have to reassess the situation; what the fuck can I do?’

  ‘Send in an independent firm of architects to carry out an emergency inspection. In the meantime tell whoever you’re dealing with in the USE that this is a load of rubbish.’

  ‘I’ve already done that, but De Laka, the man I’m dealing with, has got very nervous.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Frankie in the morning; see if he can do anything.’

  *

  When 6 JCB’s drove in the Galway road, Ulick wondered what Crat was up to now; when they drove out the Rath road, he knew. He rang Paulo, Martin Sandys and Battler Barry. ‘Round up the people and head for Ned’s line.’

  A mile from the Rath, this monstrosity of a painting on the road—ordered by Ulick, painted by Ned McCann—who insisted the work was carried out to the order of Kingpa, the high King of Rath Pallas—was put there to prevent tourists tramping all over the sacred Rath.

  The following sign stood at the side of the road:

  “To pass this crocked line, if thou not a local be,

  Will earn seven long years of bad luck, for thee.”

  It was very effective; people knew better than to tangle with the leprechauns in the Rath.

  By the time Ulick got to Ned’s line, it was being painted over. He approached the foreman, a big awkward looking man from Gort.

  ‘Stop this work immediately, and get the hell out of here.’

  The big man looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry Mr. Joyc, but orders are orders.’

  ‘What orders?’

  ‘To remove the Rath; four hundred trucks are coming to take it away.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ he demanded.

  ‘That foreign fellow in Conna.’

  Paulo, Martin and Battler joined them.

  Ulick got stuck in immediately. ‘Do you not know the Rath is part of our National Heritage?’

  ‘All I know sir, is that I’ve been instructed to carry out the work.’

  He left them and the JCB’s proceeded towards the Rath.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Paulo asked.

  By now a great crowd of people was headed towards them. They gathered around Ulick and the others. He addressed them.

  ‘We’ll form a human chain around the Rath; let’s go.’

  Getting into their cars they drove past the JCB’s and spread out around the perimeter of Rath Pallas. Ulick took out his mobile and rang the Taoiseach; Frankie was livid.

  ‘I’ll ring Moxy; they can’t do this.’

  The JCB’s arrived and lined up in front of the human chain. Seeing the situation, their leader rang his boss for instructions.

  Ulick moved away from the line.

  ‘Where are you lad?’

  Dandaboy was there immediately; only Ulick could see or hear him.

  ‘Why they want to destroy our home?’ Dandaboy asked tearfully.

  ‘I don’t know. We’re trying to stop it. Can you and your people take refuge somewhere else?’

  ‘Yes, but Kingpa say, if we go, we not come back; I not want to leave here. This has been our home for thousands of years.’

  ‘We’ll not let you down, lad.’

  His mobile rang; it was Frankie, even more livid than before. He came straight to the point.

  ‘Moxy says it has nothing to do with him. I told him not to come back here.’

  ‘Can you issue a preservation order on the Rath?’

  ‘I’ll do that and have it delivered to you within the hour.’

  Ulick put away his mobile and turned to Dandaboy, but the little man was gone.

  Crat arrived later in his big Mercedes, accompanied by his troops; Ulick, holding the preservation order, confronted him outside the human chain.

  ‘You can’t destroy the Rath,’ he handed him the document; ‘The Taoiseach has issued this preservation order effective immediately.’

  Crat glanced at the document then proceeded to tear it into little pieces.

  ‘The Prime Minister or government of this country has no jurisdiction in the area under my control. Remove these people immediately before I instruct the guards to clear the site.’

  Ulick raised his voice. ‘We will defend the Rath to the last man and woman here.’

  Crat gave the order, the guards moved in and, after a brief scuffle, carried the protesters away, but did not seek to keep them in custody. They stood a short distance away screaming their objections while the JCB’s dug into the high ditch surrounding Rath Pallas. Crat left immediately. A long line of empty trucks headed towards the site.

  Ulick was dismayed. ‘We’d best go back to town; we’ve let down our friends.’

  *

  For the next five days, trucks laden with Rath Pallas powered through Conna on their way to a massive dump near Moycullen. Afterwards, Ulick and Paulo drove out to what was now an ugly hole in the ground. There was no sign of Ozzy; he didn’t make his usual Thursday night visit to Paulo’s. To the people of Conna this was the end; the Little People of Rath Pallas were gone and they wouldn’t be back. Utterly depressed, Ulick took Setanta for a walk in the woods.

  *

  Elated by the destruction of the Rath, Crat drove slowly through Maam Cross on his way to Turla Lodge. He would now move to complete domination; get that damned animal into custody and hold a public execution. When the new Directives a
rrived he would be in a position to close the two shops, the restaurant and the butchers, but best of all, he could lock up Joyc for as long as he wished.

  A mile from his hotel, he was suddenly stopped by four donkeys being driven along the road. He hooted his horn and waited for the owner to clear his way; that didn’t happen, the farmer ignored him completely. He stopped the car and got out.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he roared. ‘Remove those animals immediately.’

  He was ignored. He couldn’t identify the man; he never looked at any of his subjects anyway. Little did he know that the owner of the donkeys was none other than Charlie Molloy, whose so called stipend he reduced to 135 euro the previous week. He continued to hoot his horn; to no avail. He had no option but to travel at two miles per hour until they came to the hotel entrance.

  *

  Setanta was sitting quietly by the fire in Ulick’s house as the evening closed in. His master and Ella were away a lot these days; doing what, he didn’t know. Suddenly, his ears picked up; there was someone moving around outside. He raced to the window; six guards were closing in on the house.

  ‘Dan, Dan,’ he woofed but Dandaboy didn’t come.

  It was true then, the Little People were gone. He’d have to make a run for it. They burst in the back door; Setanta charged, threw three of them aside and raced into the open where four men were waiting with a net. Trussed up, they put him in the back of a van and drove to the local barracks.

  Sergeant Muldoon was incensed. ‘You can’t bring a dog in here.’

  He was ignored. ‘Our orders are to put this animal in a cell, to be kept there until he is exterminated,’ the big swarthy leader insisted.

  Setanta wasn’t best pleased with these prospects. But what really pissed him off; he wouldn’t be able to keep his date with Woofy.

  Sergeant Mick Muldoon rang Ulick—he was in Galway with the Taoiseach—and gave him the news.

  *

  In the morning, Crat arrived at his office full of the joys of life. He had the animal in custody and the Directives he required would be delivered the following day. Then, he would show them who was in charge. Eight of his guards were lined up outside the office. He was expecting trouble over the animal; curiously, there was none. Joyc didn’t even call to protest. The illiterate people of this desolate area were learning and about time too.