‘I shall immediately stop then.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Well I shall. You see. You are so utterly indifferent to the requirements of my life. I am not saying I am not quite glad you have given me five pounds. Please don’t misunderstand me. But it is so simple for you to find another outlet for the erection I may have given you. And if you remember I haven’t completed your portrait yet. It’s there in my studio gathering dust. Of course if you can manage another payment on account, I shall prepare another sitting for you and get a bag of coal for my stove.’
More arrivals up the stairs. Gas meter readers. Stars of stage and radio. Deafening noise of voices. All the louder now that Lois’s tongue is no longer plunging deep in one’s ear. At least it did shut up her complaining. My god, what a mob. The floor is quaking with the weight. Whole damn building could fall Georgian faced flat down into the street. The poet smirking across there in the corner. And goodness. How sad. Clara the poetess. With about four macintoshed, battered trilby hatted, criminal looking, doting men in tow. Poor Mr Arland. It was at such a party as this he first met Clarissa. She laughed at his jokes. Now not another inch to stand in this room. Smoke smarting one’s eyes as the grinning face of Rashers comes near. And Lois with a haughty sneer and snake like lick around her lips, turning away. As one recalls Rashers’s remark about her paintings. The insane ravings of an alley cat in heat. Now of course they’ll be the wild deliriums of one in celibacy.
‘My dear Darcy. Please. Just allow me to contemplate you a moment. Just to see you is like music reigning in the bright key of E major. Come spring. Come Ascot. Tea at the Paddock Bar. Gentle goosings up the best arses in the Royal Enclosure. But meanwhile of course, you will, won’t you, join me in my pilgrimage. Back to the sacred evil confines of the catacombs. From whence I have finally escaped. The stench. The gurriers. I hid my best cufflinks in the wall. And must retrieve them. Well dear Darcy, I see Lois has your trousers sticking out. Most women pretend they’re mad. And I think perhaps the only charming thing about Lois, is that she really is mad.’
‘I just heard what you said, you awful man. And you’re not, Darcy Kildare, leaving me for that dreadful fortune hunting philistine person are you. Well go then and don’t you ever speak to me again.’
One did think sadly as one departed with Rashers that a piece of arse in the hand in the Count’s dancing institution might be worth two in the rumoured underground tunnels of where one was going. However, hardly a moment to dwell on such problems as other matters were quickly afoot. Just as one was coming down the last flight of stairs of the MacBuzuranti School of Ballet. An almighty sound of a crash. Screams coming up from the front hallway. Where the poet had just landed showered in plaster and rotted lumps of wood, prick in his hands and peeing right upon the hysterical legs of two of the Count’s refined female ballet patrons who must have been loitering too shy to advance up the stairs into the thick of things.
‘How dare you do that upon us.’
The poet continuing to indiscriminately piss on them. Puffing on a cigarette still hanging out of his mouth with a look of only slight amazement on his face. Having just two floors above in a water closet, his pockets weighted down, suddenly gone straight through the lavish and constantly pissed upon purple thick carpet covering the totally disguised rotted floor and the force of his descent taking him through the next rotted floor to deposit him where the ballet patrons stood now brushing themselves off as they looked up at the hole the poet had just come through and underneath which he was now trying to hold his water and get his penis back in his fly as the ladies were, with their patent leather handbags, taking swipes at his face. Rashers shouting from the front door.
‘That’s it, dear ladies. Smite him. He is a well known disgusting pervert.’
The jarvey leaping down to open the horse cab door. Tipping his cap as he slammed it shut. Rashers taking a flask from his coat pocket. Filling the cap with brandy.
‘Let justice triumph. Of course your man’s only a minor poet. Clearly Darcy the entire building is suspect. At least in the catacombs my dear fellow, if one goes downwards, it’s only on the way to hell.’
Hoofs clip clopping through the empty Dublin streets. Shiny and wet under the glowing pale light of the gas lamps. The mist and fog along St Stephen’s Green. Bells over the city tolling midnight. We go, mid the shadows passing. By the gloomy great old skulls of these houses. The musky dampness inside this unhandsome cab. Ancient broken leather cushions covered in old rugs and remnants of an overcoat. Awful reek of stale cat smells. Rashers, eyes burning like coals in his head. As he lowers his flask, his teeth smiling out his lips. Hands planted upon each of his stripe trousered knees. Cuffs of his coat sleeves drawn back. Veins standing out on his wrists.
‘Let us Darcy bash on regardless. To the catacombs. The cellars of nae hope. Although the class of people shall not be much improved, they do at least make abject attempts at being odiously revolting which one takes as cautionary as to whom and what one should avoid in life. Darcy we must remain friends. You see before you a man who for a brief but devastating period of his youth was thrust into an institution run by the Irish Christian Brothers. Unchristian would be a better word. In a trice those sadists turned me from a pure stainless spirit into an instant and unhappy reluctant masochist and liar. Slamming rulers down on my pathetic upraised innocent palms. Ridiculing me. Elegant as I was with my nice clothes and brave little British accent. Beating the poor pathetic bejesus out of me. Heroic sanctity one needed in abundance to sustain against their poisoned souls and brutally evil ways. Of course before it was too late, one did escape back to the civilized safety, albeit highly homosexual, world of an English public school. But those brief months of my tender youth in Dublin left their scars. I know I have been upon occasion a very bad boy since. But all done in pursuit of what I desperately require in life. Merely a modest simple detached house with a wee bit of lawn front and back. Perhaps a little garden too. Is that too much to ask for. With a non leaking jade or even pewter pot to piss in. Some decent bloodstock at a nearby training establishment to which I might venture after breakfast to watch them being ridden out of a morning. And my dearly beloved near. You see, I should not want to straight off reside on her very adequate acres until I have some of my very own wherewithal. Although she’s getting on, the dear girl does have a passably resilient pair of decent bosoms. Legs like a refectory table. And nipples not awfully attractive but then, I do find there are variations one can indulge upon them which are adequately exciting in pitch blackness. But Darcy, in what I say to you now, you must dear man believe me. There are many shameful deeds one has done. And I ask please pray accept my contrition. Pray accept. Will you.’
‘But Rashers of course. But I don’t quite know what on earth you’re talking about.’
‘Darcy. It was I. Me. Who is responsible for the theft of your silver.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Find it in your heart to forgive me. Please. You see these tears. Coming out of my eyes. Don’t you. It is simply that I cannot bear to perpetrate the deceit any longer. I beg you. Do have it in your heart to forgive me. I’m so close now to ushering my dear one up the aisle. Do remain silent if you wish. I do understand that you may feel our friendship has been fatally breeched. Darcy there does, in all of us, exist some little semblance of worthiness. Even too, in me. Though I may have at times stooped unbelievably low. And done things which utterly rack me with shame. This silk hanky upon which my tears now fall. I give to you. Take it. Darcy, my dear Darcy. Take it with you. Through your life. Keep warm from the cold of the world. Keep aloof from its brash noise and fashion. Keep safe from its betrayal.’
And
Never forsake
Your sweet
Compassion
18
Up past the little park and terrace of bright doored houses around Fitzwilliam Square, the horse cab stopping in this shadowy street. Soft misty rain falling. A black cat stepping dow
n from the kerb stone. Shaking its paws as it steps in a puddle of water. Rashers alighting, popping on his top hat and sweeping his cloak around him and holding up his hand to Darcy Dancer.
‘We are here, dear boy. And you’d never know it, would you, from this rather presumptuously refined and respectable street. Do follow me. And don’t be appalled.’
The driver, his whip left stuck like a fishing rod over the quarters of his nag, climbing down with his blanket to wrap himself in. A greasy parcel of potato chips tucked under his arm as he steps up into the back of his cab to wait.
‘That’s a good chap my jarvey. We shall be presently back.’
‘Right you are, no hurry your Lordship. Sure catching ten winks or forty winks is all the same to me.’
‘Dear me, Darcy, what do we see over there. A damsel. Perhaps in distress.’
Rashers walking away on the pavement towards an alley, a lone figure of a girl against a wall. Her head hanging down watching a puddle gather between her broken high heeled shoes as she stands peeing down her legs. Rashers putting a pound note in front of her face which she grabs clutching in her fingers.
‘Is it a short time you want.’
‘No my dear girl. I simply want you as desirable company. And who knows I may have a promising future for you. Come there’ll be another pound or two later.’
Rashers taking the girl by the elbow. Leading her with him to a gate he opens in the stone railings. Making his steep way down the steps in front of us.
‘Where are you taking me atall.’
‘Dear girl, your mother must have been a sensible lady to have christened you Sheena. Sheena you don’t know your luck, do you. You happen to be momentarily in the refined company of two gentlemen who wish you much profit and no harm. You see, if later we have a moment to talk to you, we would like to put the question for which I was banished when putting it to the Philosophical Society of Trinity College Dublin, that this house moves to find the greater truth in the statements, deep in every woman’s heart is a whore, or deep in every whore’s heart is a woman.’
‘Don’t youse be wasting me time. And how do you know me name. Why is youse dressed like that. Youse is students.’
‘Ah we are Sheena, of a sort, students of fucking, that’s how we know. And down here is the night school of comparative anatomy we attend. For spiritual autopsies on the mind.’
‘Would there be any rashers, eggs and chips.’
‘Quite possibly my dear, quite possibly. A spud or two at least.’
Rashers pressing a button and knocking on the big black door. Piles of empty stout bottles. Rancid smell of cats. Bars on a large window. Light inside and voices shouting and singing. A rat scurrying into a coal cellar under the pavement. The door opening. Behind a whisky bottle, Binky’s face at the end of a long cigarette holder, peeking out the door.
‘Ah it’s you my dear. Welcome back. Even though you still owe me last month’s rent. Come in and bring your nice friends. Whose bodies I’m sure someone will be interested in. And who is this male lovely with you I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere before. And I do love the way you are attired. So many of my tenants go walking out of here in the morning in their pyjamas to return by evening in their opera cloaks. But instead of arias of course, you’ll hear nothing but a lot of choking croaking. Of pricks my dear, down the throats. Ah. That’s very nice. Thank you for the six pounds. And my girl do pardon my nudity.’
Binky’s thin shanks and arse disappearing with a mincing skip. Through another door and out into the light of this large stone paved room. Figures in little groups around the walls. A kettle steaming on a great cooking range. A copper tank in the corner. A table covered in grey parcels full of bottles. Drawn corks and broken crockery strewn everywhere. A man huddled over an egg stained plate stuffing bacon rinds in his mouth.
‘My dears, do make yourselves at home among the other dears. Too many of whom tonight I’m afraid resemble condoms full of custard. Then of course there are so many among us with arse holes like deck quoits that the two can easily fit together.’
A man rearing up out of a corner. Collar up on his coat. Hat pulled down on his head. And waving his arms.
‘Ah you’re making a great attempt at originality you poofta whore, you. But them’s all platitudes and clichés.’
Rashers leading Darcy Dancer aside. A burlap bag of potatoes and one of cabbages. A pile of wet turf stinking of cat shit.
‘Dear boy we stand next to what did keep me alive. And slightly unfrozen for miserable weeks. A sack full of Wicklow potatoes. And these mouldering cabbage leaves. And dear boy, you won’t. In this dungeon of nae hope. Promise me you won’t, Lose your faith in human nature. I do know in the present circumstances that that does sound rather sham coming from me.’
‘And I suppose too Rashers, one should keep the safe locked in which one keeps one’s silver, to prevent the thefts perpetrated by one’s friends.’
‘I deserve that, dear Darcy. I do. But borrowing is such a better word. Can’t you see looking about you in this place how one was driven to it. All the long months during which one hardly had said to one a single endearing thing. And even now, having managed a new start, when nice things are said to one, one simply does not believe them to be true. Just look at these wretches. From whence I have torn myself. Of course I was led into temptation by that pissing poet chap. Spouting his awful impertinent verse. I mean there he was, an utterly uninvited guest at Andromeda Park. Helping himself greedily to your hospitality. Stuffing his face at your expense. I did give him a piece of my mind. I said to him, I said, how dare you arrive here, creeping sneakily about and eating from my esteemed friend’s table when you have not earned the remotest right to be referred to as a friend. Fuck off out of my sight, I said. Before your arse gets kicked into the shape of your face and makes you less ugly than you are. I really did say that Darcy, you know. Of course the wretched chap paused a microsecond in chomping down his fistful of greasy sausages and glass of brandy, and suddenly turned on me to say the only thing he has ever said that has impressed me. He said, ah jesus now, wouldn’t you at least be letting me be treated as well as the horses that’s out there in the stables of this place. It did make me think Darcy. That all over Ireland, even in the worst stables, horses live better than most of the humans. It was in fact his heartfelt words which incited me to procure him as intermediary in the temporary taking of a loan of your silver. And I absolutely shall return all. Even the leather suitcases I took the liberty of borrowing in which the poet lugged away the less valuable Sheffield plate, spoons and knives. Of course I took the most precious silver back with me on the train.’
‘However, you did Rashers, despite this long elaborate tale behave like a common thief.’
‘Please Darcy, don’t use such language. I mean I have already suffered such spiritual agony over it all. That’s how the wretched poet fell through the floor. Still loaded down with some of your poorer quality cutlery.’
‘Are you bloody well now telling me my silverware is of poor quality.’
‘No. No. Never. And I assure you the better stuff is with the most reputable pawn merchant. Whose ticket I shall be at any moment placing in your hand. You see I did successfully bet the proceeds but I fear previous debt and recent expenditure have been high and I regret that I do not have sufficient funds left to repatriate the silver items back into your hopefully forgiving hands.’
‘Are you now attempting to perpetrate a further spiv con upon me.’
‘Darcy you do take such a poor view of my person. When I shall in only a moment now place in your hands my cufflinks as collateral. Each has a diamond as big as a decent sized petit pois. Also hidden in the wall is the pawn ticket that I shall also give you. I mean your continued friendship is everything to me. Everything. I know I have done the unforgivable. But who but me would have confessed to your face. Here have a nip of brandy. Do you like my flask. I’ve had it emblazoned with the escutcheon of the Earls of Ronald Ronald. You see. T
wo stallions rampant. With crossed erections.’
In this battered Hessian draped cavernous room, Rashers his opera cloak thrown back from his shoulders, its crimson lining blazing in the bleakness as he turns in each direction bowing and smiling to faces he has clearly bowed and smiled to before. Of course one’s compassion was also to the fore, even though between his heart rending profundities, he spoke such utter tripe and onions. But it is I suppose the way one says things which matters. And even if morally fraudulent he does have such a warmly effusive manner.
‘Of course, Darcy that stench you are noticeably recoiling from is the odour of yearly unwashed bodies. Utterly appalling isn’t it. If they didn’t assemble in these little groups, the smell of one big group would simply asphyxiate. Imagine having to face one’s breakfast every morning in such a fume. But such woe happily shall no longer assail me. As you notice by the graphic priapic and testicular designs, my dear Darcy, Lois has done the wall decor. Some of the best known pricks in Dublin. She complains of course that Binky who commissioned her has not paid her. But ah now let me a moment Darcy point out to you the various habitués. Driven by their poverty here. Valentine, that balding chap with the well rounded gut there is from that important provincial town Mullingar on the Grand Canal. You’d never know now would you that he is the former whistling champion of Ireland. Ruddy chap can polish off a stone of raw steak at a sitting. He has an equally fat sister with a pair of tits the size of the Atlantic shelf who is a champion bridge player. Regard him lecherously eyeing Sheena, poor sad whoring girl, her new name is about the only distinctive thing she possesses. I don’t know why on earth I didn’t simply leave her up there on the street pissing in her knickers. Except that I plan to wash and brush her up. Put her back on the road to respectability as a much more highly paid whore. And of course our whistling champion thinks she is free of charge.’
A cauldron of potatoes boiling on a cooking range. Rancid smells fuming variously in the fug of steam and smoke. Children’s eyes peeking in from behind a coal scuttle door. A fearful tiny auburn headed girl standing shrinking back under a water tank in the corner. Perhaps Crooks in his spare time might emulate Binky, the Black Widow’s butler. Binky his fist full of pound and ten shillings notes he collects, nakedly rushing back and forth with drinks for three terrified wide eyed American tourists.
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