by Mark Ryan
‘He was not a patient man. Once he had set his mind on having something before long it would be his, if not given freely then snatched away. One day he came here to ask my father for his approval of our marriage. When my father refused, Seán Tyrone murdered him.’
‘Was it proved? I have heard my father’s name slandered by others but seen no evidence to support these accusations.’
‘His name? That’s almost funny. Let me tell you something, cariad. Not only did Seán Tyrone murder him but he did so in such a terrible way that my father’s good name was damned for a sin he did not commit. As for proof, I need none. That night when he came to my bed, to steal not my heart but my innocence, he told me what he had done. Not to beg my forgiveness but to laugh and jeer at me. After he had mocked my father with a string of foul and obscene names, he turned on me. And when the words stopped the fists began.
‘I was not always the wreck of a human being you see here, Jack. It was not only your father’s fists and boots pounding my body day after day, week after week, year after year that destroyed me. It was the spiteful, malicious and brutal tongue whose lash I dreaded most. There was no shrinking from that scourge and the weals still weep. Given time the flesh may heal but a spirit once broken carries its pain forever. He was an awful shit, your father. You may find it hard to believe it now, Jack, but once people did call me beautiful.’
Tears sparkled in her eyes. She wiped them away with a golden strand of hair. I felt that if I did not turn my eyes from her glory I would be blinded forever, but I could not.
‘You are beautiful, Peri. You are the most beautiful and wondrous creature any mortal could ever believe existed. Peri, I love you. I want you more than anything in the world. Come with me. We’ll leave this terrible place, this charnel pit of death and dying.’
‘Aberuffern is not a place of death and dying, cariad. It is dead already. Your sister is the only flame of life that burns here and it is my destiny to nurture that flame and ensure that it is never extinguished. That is why I can’t go with you.’
‘Please.’
‘Oh, my poor little love. It’s not possible.’
‘Why? Why not?’
‘I hope you will always remember me with love in your heart. God bless you and keep you, cariad.’
I left the Deryn Du and returned to the pit.
The Detective and His Men
Six coppers came around one night
To try and lock up Seán Tyrone.
Out his pistol came
The six of them were never seen again.
The Ballad of Seán Tyrone
Detective Sergeant Paul Carew pulled off the dual carriageway and drove the mile or two down to Aberuffern. In the station car park he sat with DC Crowther, waiting for the other car to catch up.
‘Been here before, Crowther?’
‘You’re joking,’ said Crowther. ‘Why would I want to do that? Nothing happens in places like this.’
‘You’re wrong there, son,’ said Carew. ‘You’re new on this patch, so best you keep an open mind. If you’d been at the briefing on time this morning you’d know a thing or two about Aberuffern.’
‘Someone said something about two plods going missing.’
‘Kendrick and Morris. Not the sharpest tools in the box, but good to have on your side in a ruck. Last night we had a call-out to the local pub. Run of the mill stuff – a domestic. The barmaid was being knocked about by her ex and one of the customers slipped out to give us a bell.’
‘Couldn’t the local police have handled it?’
‘What local police? Cuts. You used to have a good old-fashioned village bobby sitting on his arse wearing slippers, drinking tea and doing the pools but that was years ago. Tremorgan covers the whole area now.’
‘So what happened last night?’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out, son. They didn’t radio in but that means nothing. The signal can get dodgy in these parts. The alarm bells started ringing when they didn’t report back at the nick. We rang their homes but their wives hadn’t heard a peep from them and still hadn’t when we called again this morning. That’s the set-up so let’s get the job done. Where’s the Dynamic Duo?’
A squad car pulled into the car park and two uniformed officers came over to join Carew and Crowther.
‘Get caught short, did you?’ said Carew.
‘Stuck behind a lorry, sir,’ said the larger of the pair.
‘All right, I didn’t ask for your life story.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ said the other man.
‘Me and Crowther will check out the pub. I want you and Fat Edwards to ask around, see what you can find out from the locals. The usual places – shops, the pit, the chapel and there’s a club somewhere just over the river. Oh and there’s a farm, they might know something there. Shouldn’t take long; you could walk from one end of the place to the other in ten minutes, and that’s if you’re a tortoise on a zimmer frame. Off you go. Rendezvous at the pub two o’clock – plenty of time to buy me a pint and read me the news.’
Crowther watched them leave.
‘Why do you call him Fat Edwards? Doesn’t he mind?’
‘We call him Fat Edwards because he’s a fat bastard and they’re both called Edwards.’
‘So what do you call the other one?’
‘Bald Edwards. No relation. Let’s find this pub.’
As they walked into the unlit bar the first thing that struck them was the stillness and quiet. The second, almost instantaneously and with greater force, was the stench of the place. Stale tobacco, stale beer, stale sweat. The carpet stuck to the soles of their shoes and motes of dust floated in the sunlight that shone cruelly through the unwashed panes, illuminating each stain, each derelict web, each peeling wall. The place appeared deserted until a hacking cough alerted them to the presence of an old man sitting at a table in the corner, hawking phlegm into a crumpled tissue.
‘Afternoon, lads.’
‘Afternoon,’ said Carew. ‘Who’s behind the bar?’
‘She’s out the back. Tap on one of the pumps.’
Carew took a coin from his pocket and gave a brass handle three brisk raps. A woman answered. A young woman, he thought.
‘I’ll be with you now.’
The two policemen waited silently. A minute passed. Two. Carew rapped on the brass again.
‘I said I’ll be there now.’
The woman came out from a door behind the counter, wiping her hands on a bar towel.
‘Jesus,’ said Crowther.
Carew was not impressed either. The woman was not young as he had thought, but neither was it possible to guess her age. Dirty blonde hair hung in rat-tails around bruised shoulders. The dress had probably been white when new but now showed a greyish hue, patterned with beer and food stains and what to the forensic eye were certainly traces of dried blood. The eyes were red and puffy and the skin was blotched; a vivid contusion marked the left cheek and when she spoke the teeth were chipped and yellow.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Police,’ said Carew, showing his warrant card. ‘We were called out to a disturbance reported here last night. Can you tell us anything about it?’
A tortured cry sounded from somewhere in the house.
‘What the hell was that?’ said Crowther.
‘A cat,’ said the woman.
‘That was no cat.’
‘All right. It’s my daughter.’
‘Hadn’t you better check on her?’
‘She’ll be fine. Now what were you saying? A disturbance? Last night? There was no disturbance last night, was there Kenneth?’
‘Quiet as the grave,’ said the old man.
‘See? I don’t know what you’re on about. There was no cowing disturbance here last night, not in my pub.’
‘Is that right, Grandpa?’ said Carew.
‘No disturbance here, lads. Quiet as the grave it was.’
‘So you didn’t see two policemen in he
re? Two uniformed officers, about ten o’clock it would have been.’
‘Police?’ said the woman. ‘There were no police come last night. He’ll tell you, he was here.’
‘She’s telling you the truth, no word of a lie. There were no coppers in here last night. I would have noticed.’
‘You’re sure about this, are you?’ said Carew. ‘Nothing happened, your ex didn’t have a pop at you and no police showed up. Have we got the right place? Is this the Deryn Du?’
‘You saw the sign outside, didn’t you?’ said the woman.
‘I’d like a word with your ex.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘You surprise me. All right – what’s his name and where can I find him?’
‘His name’s Seán. Seán Tyrone. You might find him up at the hall.
Carew took a card from his wallet and placed it on the bar.
‘If you change your mind or remember anything you haven’t told us, this is my number. Anything you choose to say will be treated with the strictest confidence; you have my personal assurance of that.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell you because there’s nothing to tell.’
‘How about you, Grandpa?’
‘I’ll have a half if you’re buying,’ said the old man.
‘If you do find the cowing scumbag,’ said the woman, ‘lock him up and throw away the bastard key.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Make something up. You’re good at that.’
‘Come on, Crowther. Let’s get some fresh air.’
Outside, Carew lit a cigarette.
‘They’re lying of course,’ said Crowther.
‘Tell me something new. Know any jokes?’
‘Here’s one now.’
He nodded over Carew’s shoulder. Carew turned and saw Fat Edwards coming up the street.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Carew. ‘Two o’clock we said. And where’s Bald Edwards?’
‘Don’t know. I’ve looked all over. I thought he might have come here.’
‘You were supposed to stick together.’
‘I know,’ said Fat Edwards. ‘But we thought we’d get the job done faster if we split up like.’
Carew sighed and threw down his cigarette butt.
‘You’d better wait here and see if he turns up at two. And you’re on Coke, mind. Better make it Diet.’
Carew and Crowther walked up the hill until they came to the top of the village.
‘According to the map,’ said Crowther, ‘Parry Hall is on the other side of this wood.’
As they took the path, tarmac soon gave way to gravel and then to flattened earth. The trees advanced on either side until the two men were forced to walk in single file. Crowther halted.
‘Hang on a minute. I need a waz.’
Carew nodded curtly and Crowther went behind the trees. Carew took out a cigarette. That woman in the pub. How could they let themselves go like that? If she’d bother to take any pride in her appearance she’d probably scrub up quite well. He wouldn’t kick her out of bed.
‘Come on, man. What are you doing in there? Put your dick away and give it the rest of the day off. Crowther?’
Carew entered the wood and followed the trail of flattened fern, calling out his colleague’s name at intervals with increasing irritation. Decaying undergrowth took over from the ferns, leaving no clue as to Crowther’s progress. A crow observed him from an upper branch and croaked its encouragement. Carew swore at the bird and pressed on, thorns tugging at his sleeves.
The crow reappeared in a tree ahead and croaked again before flying a short distance to alight on another branch. It looked at Carew expectantly. For no reason, Carew felt he should follow and went with his instinct. For ten minutes or more he trusted in his guide, even after it occurred to him that he had no sense of the way back to the path. Eventually the crow settled on a bough and cawed with what appeared in Carew’s imagination to be a note of finality. Carew emerged into a clearing.
Five policemen, four in uniform, sat in a circle each with his back to a tree. Crowther, Kendrick, Morris, Fat Edwards, Bald Edwards.
‘What the hell’s this? The teddy bears’ bloody picnic? On your feet, the lot of you. Bunch of sodding layabouts. You’re all on a charge. Stand up.’
A noose closed around his neck. As the garotte tightened he was aware of a soft Irish brogue at his ear.
‘I’m sure they’d like to oblige, sir. But they’re all dead.’
Seán Tyrone dragged the corpse across the clearing and carefully positioned it against a tree, closing the circle. Then he made his way home, a policeman’s helmet perched jauntily on his head.
Descent and Ascension
Our heroes stand, hewn out in stone
Alabaster forms their thighs
King David on his marble throne –
Who dares to meet those rock-hard eyes?
We’re told that we should strive to be
Heroic in our little way,
And imitate this statuary
We mortals with our feet of clay.
Lewis ap Bwgan
I stood in the cage gripping the sides for balance. Jimmy had lent me a helmet with a lamp attached. I was grateful for the light but I anticipated the helmet would afford me no more protection from whatever demons I might encounter than the cross that hung around my neck or the pistol that lay in my pocket.
Down down to the depths of the earth, rattling and riddling in the dark dark dark, shaking and shivering until I hit the ground – down to the underground to the depths of the earth no light no air no life shaking and shivering in that black underground.
At pit bottom I left the cage. My legs were unsteady supports but I called out into the darkness.
‘Father? It’s Jack. Your son, Jack. Are you there?’
The lamp on my helmet began to flicker. I tapped it a couple of times and it went out.
But there shining in its own luminosity was a pile of bones. The skull grinned and I saw the glint of a gold tooth. I knew at once this was my father, Seán Tyrone.
Then the skull spoke.
‘So Jack, my old lad. You’ve come to pay me a visit after all these years. How’s your mother? She must be getting on a bit now and I wouldn’t have thought time’s treated her all that kindly.’
Better than it’s treated you by the looks of things, I think, but say nothing. But wait. Can he hear what I’m thinking? If the voice is in my head as it must be, then surely he must be aware of everything else that’s going on in there. Then I’d better be careful of what I’m thinking. But how do you go about doing that? And how can I stop thinking about how to stop thinking about it? Oh, what the hell…
‘I always had it in mind to drop the pair of you a line to let you know how I was doing – maybe even send for you but things kind of got on top of me what with one thing and another and in the end, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t be arsed. You know how it is.’
I do now.
‘And how’s yourself? I see you’ve grown into a fine figure of a young man, a regular chip off the old block. I’ll lay odds you’re a regular devil with the ladies by now, isn’t that the truth? Come on, you can be open with your old man.’
‘I’m not a chip off any old block. I’m my own man. Jack O’Brien. I may be cursed with your blood in my veins but I’ll be damned if I carry any other part of you.’
I took the pistol from my pocket and threw it down among the bones.
‘You can take this stinking tool of death for a start. Life may be cheap and sorry to your way of thinking but the blood of another human creature will never stain these hands. And this locket. Do you know that my mother has worn it around her neck all these years for love of you? For the love of a dirty thief and murderer who never gave a moment’s thought to her or the child he’d left her to bring up alone? But what can you understand about love? All that has driven you has been your loathsome appetite. Tell me about love, father. Pass on your
wisdom. Come on, your son is eager to learn.’
The skull was silent if ever it had spoken. The lamp on my helmet flickered back into life and I leant down to hang my mother’s locket around my father’s neck.
‘Goodbye, Seán Tyrone.’
It was now that I noticed the pool of water in which I stood. It was not still as a puddle is, but appeared to be flowing gently down the tunnel. The lamp could give no clue as to its source but the lapping at my boots grew in intensity and the level was perceptibly rising. Now it was at my ankles. A beam cracked above my head, and I looked up. A shower of earth fell into my eyes and before I could clear them I was aware of water entering the tops of my boots. From further down the tunnel came muffled explosions as timbers buckled and gave way. Now the water was at my knees; I waded through it with painful effort until I reached the cage. Once inside my prison I rang the bell. There was no response so I rang again, panic twisting in my guts and rising in my throat as I rang again and again and again. I saw the props bend and crack, the earth spill from the roof, the debris smash at the cage and all the time the water was rising, rising.
Through all that hellish noise I became aware of the machinery struggling to life above my head. I begged with all my will for its success and was rewarded as the cage begain to lift from the ground and suck itself from the infernal mire. Once free it began to accelerate, shaking and shuddering in rage and anger, but such was my relief at having been rescued I felt only gratitude to this machine and its eccentricities. At last I was belched on to land but this was no terra firma. The ground rolled and rumbled beneath my sodden feet. In the row of houses across the street, windows splintered and burst as the walls pitched on their uncertain foundations. Cracks shot up in the brickwork and chimneys crashed on to the pavement. At the top of the village I saw houses swallowed up by the ground two and three at a time and a river of slag began to course down the main throughway gathering everything in its path. Now the walls opposite fell and patterned wallpapers hung with pictures in frames were revealed to me briefly before they too fell into the wreckage.
