Sean Tyrone

by Mark Ryan

  ‘It was now that I became aware of a terrible pain in my left leg. I lifted the blanket and there it was.’

  ‘There was what?’

  He paused, leaving me in great suspense.

  ‘Nothing. The leg had gone, disappeared, vanished into the ether. It was immediately obvious what had happened. Lazarus Jones had been operated on for my ingrowing toenail and my leg had been amputated in place of his.’

  ‘But that’s terrrible. Couldn’t they have sewn it back on once the mistake was discovered?’

  ‘Perhaps. But the missing limb had been sent to the anatomical department for dissection. Some medical students had appropriated the leg and taken it to a party with the drunken intention of using it to frighten some young nurses. In the course of the evening it was subjected to various indignities and was in no state for reattachment to be considered when it was eventually returned to the hospital. There is however one good thing to have come from the whole sorry incident. I found a man whose right leg is missing and came to an arrangement whereby we share a pair of shoes between us. This has represented a considerable saving on the cost of footwear over the years.’‘Pull the other one,’ said Maria.

  ‘It’s easy for you to say that,’ said Jimmy. ‘If only I could. Now. A word or two about the man you say is your father. Seán Tyrone.’

  He hopped forward and cleared his throat.

  He came here from over the water

  And he banged up the landlord’s daughter

  The landlord of the Deryn Du

  Haunted now by the landlord’s daughter

  With the memory of her father’s slaughter

  Hanged in the backroom of the Deryn Du

  By the man who crossed from over the water

  Banged up the daughter of the Deryn Du

  Whose father wouldn’t have him

  As a member of the family.

  And from the depths of his demon-ridden mind

  Came the thought of murder

  Couldn’t be turned away

  So he took his knife

  And his pistol in his hand

  A rope across his shoulders

  And he hanged a man.

  Jimmy bowed and the other two applauded.

  ‘But that was only the beginning of his bastard sins wasn’t it, Dewi?’ said Maria.

  ‘Only the beginning.’

  ‘Have you tried to buy a drink in the Deryn Du?’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s as dry as the old landlord’s bones.’

  ‘And what has that to do with my father?’

  ‘He claimed ownership of the place.’

  ‘Have you seen the graveyard and wondered why there’s no minister to keep it in order?’ said Maria.

  ‘So what? There’s no priest.’

  ‘Seán Tyrone saw to that.’

  ‘Or considered why this pit might have gone to rack and ruin?’

  ‘How is that my father’s fault?’

  ‘He starved it of money and men.’

  ‘Or found it strange that even the police won’t come near the place?’ said Maria.

  ‘It’s lies. A pack of lies.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my boy. Every word of it is true. Isn’t that so, Dewi?’

  ‘The gospel truth.’

  ‘And it’s all down to your bastard father.’

  ‘No.’‘Maria’s right. Your father is to blame for the death of Aberuffern.’

  ‘You’re liars. All liars.’

  ‘You have to face up to it, boy. Your father, Seán Tyrone, was probably the most evil man to walk this Earth.’

  ‘No.’

  A terrible rage overwhelmed me and took control of my actions. I grasped the one-legged man by the throat and shook him like a dog would a rat. The woman pummelled my back and kicked at my legs, screeching like a harpie.

  ‘Let him go. Dewi, do something.’

  The other man bit at my fingers in an attempt to release my grip on his friend’s windpipe and the woman redoubled her efforts but I was oblivious to their violence. All I desired was this man’s death and all my determination was to that end. His body limpened in my hold and his empty trouser leg waved in pathetic surrender.

  Then I was aware of the woman’s hand in my jacket pocket. The pistol was in her hand and she held it to my head.

  ‘Now will you let go?’

  I let go and Jimmy fell to the ground.

  ‘My God. What have I done?’

  ‘You’ve proved yourself to be the son of Seán Tyrone, that’s what you’ve done. Now I’m going to finish you with your father’s own pistol.’

  Jimmy raised himself up on one hand and rubbed his neck with the other.

  ‘No, Maria. He’s done me no real harm.’

  ‘Then down the shaft with him. Let him rot with his old man.’

  ‘Let him go. He suffers enough as the son of Seán Tyrone. Wouldn’t you agree, Dewi?’

  ‘I’d go along with you that far.’

  ‘Chuck him down the shaft.’

  ‘The lift still works. I can recommend it as a far more comfortable means of transport than the one Maria suggests.’

  ‘My way was good enough for his father. Why shouldn’t it be good enough for him?’

  ‘Come now, Maria,’ said Jimmy. ‘We don’t want to incriminate ourselves, do we? As the late Reverend John was fond of quoting, let the dead bury their dead. Don’t you agree, Dewi?’

  ‘I almost certainly would if I knew what it meant.’

  ‘Take the lift, my boy. Find your father and go in peace.’

  How James Met His Death

  When James first opened his eyes on the world three women smiled down on him: his mother, his grandmother and the midwife.

  ‘Look at those bright blue eyes,’ said his mother. ‘Whoever did they come from? Not me or his father, that’s for sure.’

  ‘The girls will be at him like flies on a turd,’ said his grandmother.

  ‘He’ll be a devil with the ladies,’ said the midwife. ‘No doubt about that.’

  And they were right. When James grew and stopped thinking of girls as a gaggle of nuisances to be abided and no more, he came to appreciate their soft hair, soft hands and soft lips. But more than these, it was the softening of their eyes when they first met his, the melting away of resistance, that drew James to women.

  James’ parents were successful in a small way of business and took pride in seeing their son leave the house each morning in the newest and smartest of fashions their money could buy, walking through the village with a girl on each arm; everyone seduced by the flash of those bright blue eyes and their promise of perpetual spring.

  One day his grandfather asked him how long he intended leading this carefree life. When did he intend taking a wife and making his mark in the world? James replied as though addressing a backward child.

  ‘You are old, Grandfather. You’ve been old for as long as I’ve known you. But I am young and have plenty of time to settle down and make my mark in the world, as you put it.’

  ‘You’re already going a bit thin on top,’ said his grandfather.

  ‘Nothing a little art with the comb won’t put right,’ said James. ‘And I can always wear a hat.’

  ‘A hat? In bed?’

  ‘Should that eventuality arise, I shall turn off the light.’

  So James carried on as he always had, but now more often than not with only the one girl on his arm and a hat on his head. But he still had his charm and the semblance of youth and of course, those bright blue eyes.

  One day his father took him aside and voiced his concern at James’ feckless ways; surely the time had come to look to the future and make some use of his life. James chuckled and replied with a patronising note in his voice.

  ‘You are old, Father. You have been old for as long as I’ve known you. But I am younger than you and the future is still a distant prospect.’

  ‘You don’t smile as you did,’ said his father. ‘Is there some trouble with your teeth?’

  ‘
There are miracles done in the dentist’s chair these days, Father.’

  ‘If it’s not left for too long.’

  ‘There’s always tomorrow to consider such things,’ said James, adjusting his hat in the mirror as he left.

  Time passed and James buried his grandfather, his father and his mother in succession. He had made no mark in the world nor made any use of his life, but this was of no concern to James. With the benefit of a few drinks, he could approach the mirror without fear. The gouged lines on his forehead, the creased eyelids and crowsfeet, the broken capillaries that embroidered his nose and cheeks with purple, the lizardskin flap that joined his chin to his throat – all these were invisible to James in the dimly lit and fogged glass.

  One evening in autumn, James walked through the village and over the bridge to a club that was there. He had not arranged to meet any of the women of his acquaintance, but felt sure that his luck, charm and bright blue eyes would not find him without company that night. He paused at the entrance to recover his breath a little before going in.

  The music was louder, surely louder than usual. James bought a drink at the bar and asked the girl next to him what she’d be having. The girl couldn’t hear him through the noise so he mimed the offer as best he could. The girl laughed and patted his cheek as one would an elderly and inebriate relative at a wedding. She took two drinks from the barmaid (which she paid for herself) and went to join her friend at a table. Pride and the fear of further humiliation prevented James from following.

  In the men’s room, James checked his appearance in the mirror. His hat was in place and he had remembered to clean the false teeth, but the light was cruel in this white-tiled room and he turned away from the glass. Perhaps he was coming down with something. Perhaps he should go home and sweat it out. A young man blocked his way.

  ‘All right, Grandpa?’ said the young man. ‘Isn’t this a bit late for you to be out and about? You should be in bed with your Horlicks.’

  James ignored him and left the men’s room. Holding his hat to his head, he pushed his way through the jostling dancers and out on to the street.

  It had been raining and James could feel the damp in his bones. He wasn’t well. Home, that was the best thing. Home and bed, and tomorrow everything would be all right again. Tomorrow and all the tomorrows that stretched out into that bright and distant future. He pulled up his collar, sank his hands into the depths of his pockets and looked forward to the bed and the bottle that awaited him.

  As he walked he became aware of footsteps behind him; more than one person, perhaps three. He knew that to turn his head would be to invite trouble but increased his pace. The footsteps kept tempo with him. His breath strained at his ribs but he laboured to keep this from his followers; one show of weakness and they would pounce.

  ‘Now, Grandpa,’ came the voice. ‘Do you have a light?’

  There was no point in running; they would be upon him in no time. There was no one to call on for help or to stand witness. There was nothing to do but stand and turn.

  Three young hooligans, two lads and a girl. James said nothing but held out his lighter and snapped up a flame. The lad who had spoken cupped one hand round the flame and steadied James’ wrist with the other.

  ‘Where’s your cigarette?’ said James. ‘You don’t have a cigarette.’

  ‘That’s observant of you, Grandpa,’ said the lad. He turned to the other hooligan. ‘Wouldn’t you say so?’

  ‘For an old coot. Observant, I’d say.’

  The girl blew out the flame.

  ‘Nice hat, Grandpa,’ she said. ‘Let’s give it a try. Look, he’s as bald as a babby’s arse.’

  ‘Please. Give it back,’ said James, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘What do you want? I’ve got a fiver and a few coppers. Not much, but you’re welcome to it.’

  The girl spat on the ground.

  ‘We don’t want your stinking money. How do we know where it’s been? Probably stuffed up your scrawny old arse for safekeeping.’

  ‘I don’t want any trouble. Please let go of my wrist.’

  The first lad released his hold and began to laugh. The other two joined him as they pushed and span James between them. One fetched a blow on his back that made the false teeth fly from his mouth, which action fuelled their derision to greater heights until James collapsed in a pile at their feet. With their boots they rolled him into the ditch at the side of the road and went on their way.

  James lay there, his limbs twitching perhaps in an effort to draw himself up or perhaps convulsing independent of will. Either way the mud sucked him in, filling his nostrils, mouth and lungs and dimming those bright blue eyes. Which is how they found him in the morning.

  Anghenfil

  The Parry family of Cardiff formed the Parry Glamorgan Colliery Company for the sole purpose of sinking the pit at Aberuffern. Their fortune had already been established through various commercial concerns dating back to before the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 which possibly explains the soubriquet given the pater familias: ‘Bryn the Blackbirder’. It should be noted here that this appellation is unconnected with that of the Deryn Du (black bird) public house. An inn of that name has stood on the site since the seventeenth century, possibly earlier, although the house itself has been modified several times in the intervening years and retains little of what must have been its original character. It may be interesting to observe that the inn sign (date and artist unknown) appears to depict a crow, for which the more usual Welsh would be brân.

  Huntley, op.cit.

  I wanted to see Peri again before I went down the shaft; perhaps it was an act of procrastination, fear of what spirits might lurk in that dark and dreadful place. Looking back I cannot say.

  I left the people at the Aberuffern colliery and returned to the Deryn Du. The door was ajar and I walked in. Peri wasn’t there so I sat on a stool and waited. Moments later I heard a voice sobbing in a room above. I went to the foot of the stair.

  ‘Peri? It’s me. Jack. Jack O’Brien, son of Seán Tyrone.’

  She called down to me.

  ‘Go now. I don’t want to see you or you to see me.’

  I climbed the stair. A door stood open but the room was in darkness.

  ‘Turn on the light. What don’t you want me to see?’

  She hesitated before answering.

  ‘Wait. I will light a candle.’

  I could not stop myself from crying out.

  ‘My God. What is that?’

  In her soft white arms she held a creature of pain wrapped in rags, writhing and turning, angles suggesting limbs jutting out like a broken concertina, wheezing and mewling in torment.

  ‘Now here, here is your sister.’

  ‘My sister?’

  ‘Yes, Jack O’Brien son of Seán Tyrone. You may think her a monster but she is my daughter. Her flesh is my flesh and her spirit is my spirit. And Jack – her blood is the blood that also runs through your veins, the blood of that cursed man.

  ‘Look at your sister, Jack. She’s not so pretty as you, is she? Do you want to hold her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hold her. Her name is Anghenfil. Not a pretty name but then neither is she. Take your sister in your arms. Feel the warmth of the life your father brought into the world.’

  She held out the child but I stepped back to the head of the staircase and gripped the rail. Suddenly came the sound of a terrible commotion from the bar. Tables were being turned over, chairs broken, glasses smashed. I drew my pistol and prepared to face the intruders.

  ‘Stop. Don’t go down there.’

  ‘But I must. They’re tearing the place apart.’

  ‘Stay where you are and put away your father’s pistol. There’s no one there.’

  Had she lost her reason? Certainly there were no voices to be heard raised in the lust of carnage or coarse laughter as they went about their work of wilful vandalism. But even so their presence was obvious and evident in that cacophony of demolition
and destruction.

  ‘Can’t you hear them? If I don’t stop them there’ll be nothing left to wreck and then they’ll be up here and at us.’

  ‘I said there’s no one there.’

  ‘Then I am truly mad if I cannot trust what my own ears tell me so clearly.’

  Then the child screeched. It was a sound that filled my head and almost distracted me from the chaos downstairs. The screeching continued in short rhythmic bursts each louder and more piercing than the last.

  ‘Jesus. Please make her stop. Can’t you make her stop?’

  ‘Why would I stop her? She’s laughing and she doesn’t often laugh. She’s laughing at you, Jack.’

  Gradually the screeching subsided until there was only racked breathing punctuated by irregular gasps of pain. Downstairs all was quiet. I went down and saw the wreckage. There was not a soul in the place and the door was closed as I had left it.

  ‘They’re gone. Thank God they’re gone.’

  ‘I told you. There was never anyone here.’

  ‘Look at the place. Look at what they’ve done. How can you say no one’s responsible for this?’

  ‘I didn’t say no one is responsible. I knows who has done this.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your sister, Jack.’

  My mouth gaped.

  ‘Then we are both mad.’

  ‘No. You will find it hard to understand but you must try. My daughter may appear weak and failing in your eyes, but that is because you can’t see beyond the flesh. Her spirit is strong and tireless; stronger than yours and mine, much stronger. And from time to time her spirit grows angry at being fettered in the chains and shackles of the flesh and it must break free of its constraints. That is what you heard and what you see here are the consequences. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, but I will try. You say she is my sister.’

  ‘Her father is your father.’

  ‘How? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘My father was the landlord of the Deryn Du. Seán Tyrone was here every evening and it was plain for all to see that he was not here for drink or comradeship but to steal my heart. I was young and knew nothing of men and your father was charming and handsome and in those days he knew how to make me laugh. I can’t say I has done much laughing since, cariad.